Blog #3: Street Food Vendor Wars

“If a man is called a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of Heaven and Earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well.”
-Dr. Martin Luther King Jr

The frequent walk my mother and I took to our local supermarket was an eclectic frenzy of sights, sounds and especially smells. It was a short walk, about one city block roundtrip, but one that felt like an expedition through several worlds, all wrapped up into one tiny insignificant neighborhood. A neighborhood that boomed with as much cultural diversity as it reeked! Oh yes, good ol’ Jons Market on 8th St. and Irolo St. We’ve come a long way, friend...we’ve come a long way...

It began with a journey through our Koreatown apartment on the South 800 block of Ardmore Ave. The long unventilated hallway through two closed doors allowed the boiling kimchi to fester and linger. There was a Korean Kimchi Cook-Off Festival and we were ALL invited, like it or not! There was an orange tint in the air as we swam through the thick of it. I remember my mothers expression distinctly. It soured her face as she puckered up her lips and wrinkled her nose in a feeble attempt to seal her nostrils. The old Korean lady with a baby wrapped on her back simply looked at us and laughed. We escaped out through the lobby and into fresher air. My mother held my hand, as mother’s do, and we walked briskly towards 8th St. Catcalls from drunken winos (aka: ‘paisas’) were a norm.
(I remember fantasizing about drop-kicking them one by one, with the help of The Ultimate Warrior & Hacksaw Jim Dugan, of course. My fantasy starred Me, bouncing off the ropes and drop-kicking multiple paisas. With their bodies scattered around the ring, The Ultimate Warrior violently jerked the ropes up and down in celebration of my victory while Hacksaw Jim Dugan gave me one thumb up and held a 4X4 on his left shoulder...HOOOOOO!!!!)
POOF! The smell of a sharp Budweiser-urine medley, vomit and half eaten burritos wrapped in aluminum foil quickly slapped me back into reality. These paisas weren’t studying for the Bar or the MCAT-exam anytime soon, and as quickly as I was ready to escape the kimchi corridors, I was ready to step up my pace and leave paisa-country far behind as well!

We cut through the Jons Market parking lot as usual. Larry in the orange work shirt and bottle cap glasses fed bread to scores of pigeons as he always did. He didn’t look my way. The skinny 26-waist sized MS-er normally rocking a size 44-waist pair of perfectly creased tan Dickie pants passed by my mother and I. He was with HIS mother. But this time he wore 26-waist sized pants. He didn’t look my way either. Nor did he sport my Swatch Watch. One of my best friends, Pablo, passed by us too. He wore the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shorts that my other best friend, Henry, and I always made fun of him about. He had a patch on his left eye from a rock that hit him during horseplay. Pablo said hello to my mother in Spanish and “what’s up” to me. My mother was fond of Pablo and ordered him to get home quickly. She wondered why he was out by himself. I was more interested in the elote (corn) he had in his hand. Slathered in mayonnaise, parmesan cheese, hot butter and chili....my mouth watered.

We exited the parking lot for the last stretch before making it to the market and were met by a fresh plume of dark black smog which engulfed us, compliments of an RTD bus with so much undecipherable graffiti on it you could barely make out the Marie-Lu Cookie advertisement on the side of it. As it loudly sped away to it’s next stop, I could make out the all too familiar “Chaka” tagged on the Chupa-Chups advertisement on the backside of the bus. The smog ascended and cleared as we were then teleported to a whole new part of the block. We were now in what I like to call, Little Central America. El Salvadoran and Guatemalan restaurants, bearing their country’s flags proudly, could be seen up and down the street. The distinct slang of Salvadoran and Guatemalan chatter penetrated my ears, but it was the food that really caught my attention.

Steaming silver buckets of tamales in boiling water inside of shopping carts. Yellow water jugs filled white styrofoam cups with hot champurado to willing customers. Buckets of corn-on-the-cob laid under hot damp towels. Pupusas were being prepared from scratch, the maize being sharply slapped from hand to hand, as a few already sizzled on the tin tray with a bunsen burner below it. Propane tanks, market produce baskets, shopping carts, colorful umbrellas and bowls of uncooked foods were all set up in a make shift food court along the sidewalk. The smells were delicious. Familiar feel-good-foods like tamales reminded me of Christmas dinners at home and home-cooked meals in the motherland of Guatemala.

I looked up at my mother with hungry eyes. She knew exactly what I wanted and quickly snapped back in Spanish, “You’re not eating that disgusting food! They don’t even wash their hands! Look at the streets they are serving from. There are roaches and rats all over the sidewalk where they keep their surplus food! They’re two feet from that sewer! Are you crazy?!” With a hard tug of my arm we were finally in our destination, Jons Market, only to once again retrace our steps back on that expedition to the safety of our apartment on Ardmore Ave.

**Time Warp Five Years Into the Future**

As I entered my early teens, my mother no longer held my hand when we walked around. As a matter of factuality, she even sent me to those Jons Market Expeditions on my own! Despite her best effort to ward me off from the sidewalk food vendors, I used my paycheck from the part-time job at Clean & Green to fill that curiosity. It was my first job. I cleaned alleys and painted out graffiti while wearing a green shirt and hard hat at a hefty $4.25 an hour. In my mind I was my own man now. I made my own money. And for the next few years I enjoyed the tasty treats that my mother warned me against. Of course, I would never admit it to her.

**Time Warp Thirteen Years Into the Future**

Two years into my career, I found myself assigned to a task force with a specific mission to shut down these makeshift food courts in Da Hood. The team I was assigned was to shut down business on James M Wood St. east of Vermont Ave. Our Bicycle Unit, Senior Lead Officers, Patrol Officers, Vice and monstrous city dump trucks stormed in and shut off escape routes with a letter-of-the-law mentality. My job was merely presence, watching my brother’s backs while they did what they had to do. Food, stoves and supplies chucked into the mouths of hungry massive dump trucks. Ticket after ticket issued to every violator without hesitation. Every municipal code, every business and professions code, every city ordinance & every vehicle code violation imaginable, nothing was out of the question. Proprietors attempted to abandon their business but we were too swift, too organized and too well prepared.

Clientele came from far and wide to get a taste of home from this particular street on the weekends. They slowly walked away from the ruckus and I received dirty looks by people shaking their heads in disgust as they looked at me with abhorrence in their eyes. Comments were thrown out here and there reinforcing their seditious sentiments. “There are gangsters killing people out there”....”We have to make a living too, ya know”....”You are all racist assholes”...the onslaught of opposition weighed heavily on my morals, values and childhood memories. Before this incident I thought I knew exactly what I stood for. But as I watched my fellow officers cite these hard working people with whom I could relate to, I was genuinely conflicted and confused. I had not eaten at these places since I was a teen, but witnessing the project unfold made me question a small part of who I was.

In the following years working patrol in Da Hood, I slowly became exposed to the reality behind street food vendors and how they affect a community as a whole. The different radio calls and personal observations I made slowly made me think twice about this issue.

March 22, 2006. Daywatch in Koreatown. My 26th birthday and I spent it at work. I responded to a call for service at a local mom-and-pop restaurant and met with the owner: Mr. Hernandez. He was in his 60’s. A widower with four children, three of which were in college, also survivors of Da Hood. He had a twelve year old daughter whom he still provided for. He told me of how he worked hard, sacrificing everything for his children to have a better chance at life than he did, despite the challenges of raising four children in this gang and drug infested inner city. He told me of how he saved his money for years and was finally able to open a business and put some away for his children’s education. An American Dream come true.

I listened intently....

He continued his story, lamenting about how he had six months to shut down his business. He said that the street vendors sold the same food he offered and their presence dropped his business by 70% in the last year, sadly not enough to provide for himself and his daughter. He had business-owner taxes to pay, city codes to follow, laws to abide by. The street vendors who were sending him into bankruptcy did not have to follow any of these decrees. They simply abandoned ship when the police drove by. Only to reemerge the following day. They were bold and persistent. The lack of repercussion from the police and the system allowed them to flourish while causing legitimate businesses to fail. The people that followed protocol and ran a lawful business were being ousted by the businesses that defied the law. Mr. Hernandez was frustrated and had a valid point. And so did hundreds of other businesses throughout the LA area.

Dispatcher: 20-Adam-44, respond to a battery-domestic violence investigation at 842 S. Mariposa Ave. Respond Code-2.

Arriving at this radio call I immediately noticed equipment strewn around the tiny apartment: maize, pork chunks, banana leaves, red salsa & large steaming pots told me she sold tamales on the street. As I investigated the crime at hand, all that ran through my mind was the countless cockroaches that roamed freely around and in between her tamale paraphernalia. Goosebumps arose and my mind flashed back to a time when my mother scolded me about the not so well kept habits of these street food vendors. They didn't have to worry about the County Health Department inspector making surprise visits. It was hard to focus on the matter at hand as my personal opinions continued to evolve.

The truth is the city of Los Angeles is flooded by similar arenas of illegal street food vendors in most, if not all, Latino communities. We receive daily radio calls and have the street vendors leave. Seldom do they get cited for their actions, probably because the average cop realizes that this is how people earn a living for their family. But that is simply not fair to others and it cannot be ignored without alienating law abiding community members. The street vendors have grown accustomed to the street cop simply shooing them away for the meantime. Both sides know the vendors will be back to open up shop the very next day, and it’s hurting many legitimate business owners like Mr. Hernandez and his family.

Zero tolerance task forces like the one I participated in are projects called for by the community members THEMSELVES!!! That is what I want my readers to understand. As uniformed police in the streets, we get the middle fingers pointed at us for what we do. So be it, I’m thick skinned and so are my colleagues. However if those who blame the police realized that the ones calling for the removal of street vendors is actually the community and NOT the individual police officers, then maybe they would think twice before shouting out to me “Pinche Chota Racista!” (translated in nicer terms: “Racist Police!”) I will continue to do what I think is right and what current law mandates I do as a police officer. I’m sure my inner conflicts will undoubtedly continue to adjust as I am exposed to more food vendor adventures.

May your next tamale be roach-free and follow local city-ordinances....Until my next blog, dawg!

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY

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Fallen Officers Since Last Blog: 2 Souls

Public Safety Officer Eric Zapata

Kalamazoo Department of Public Safety, MI

End of Watch: Monday, April 18, 2011

Age: 35

Tour of Duty: 10 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire

Survived By: Three Children

Deputy Sheriff Sherri Jones

Bowie County Sheriff's Department, TX

End of Watch: Monday, April 18, 2011

Age: 54

Tour of Duty: 6 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire
, from her own gun
Survived By: unknown