Chapter 34
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route La La Land
November 28, 1992
Los Angeles, CA
Dear Kate,
If someone at the store has been complaining about being hung up on, that’s me. Frida the Big Chicken – afraid that if you hear my voice you’ll be the one who hangs up. Now I’ve been sitting here for an hour staring at my typewriter. Bock bock bock – that’s a Big Chicken sound by the way. Do I tell Kate? Don’t I tell Kate? If I tell Kate that will make it real. If I tell her the real reason I went to Sarajevo then she’ll know I’m a phony on top of being a selfish jerk.
The Santa Anas are even worse tonight – like someone scraping a razor over my skin. I’m procrastinating. Go on Frida – do it – rip off the Band-Aid. Remember how I told you about my sisters Dolores and Carmen? The Pediatric Surgeon and the Public Defender. Ever since I can remember they told me how important it is to make the world a better place. How important it is as a Chicana woman to pave the way for other Chicana women coming after me so we don’t perpetuate toxic cycles. Yes, they talk like that. You think it’s hard for people like us now? They started out in the 1960s. They made sure I didn’t do drugs or “fall in with any hoodlums” – they also talk like that – and when they saw how much I love writing they decided I’d be the first Mexican-American woman to win a Pulitzer Prize in journalism. I didn’t have any better ideas so why not?
After I graduated from college I jumped from job to job until a professor hooked me up with the finance paper. It was no-brainer work because the clients basically wrote the articles for us and the money was great and by the time I’d been doing it a year I had a Jetta and my own apartment in Beachwood Canyon. Then one day my sisters took me out to lunch – Spago – that’s how I knew something was up. $12 duck sausage pizza is for special occasions in our family, not lunch on any old Tuesday. I’m thinking someone’s sick in a way you don’t recover from. I can barely hold down my chopped salad when Dolores gives Carmen a side look and Carmen puts down her fork and says, “You can do better, Frida.” I was sitting there head to toe in Esprit with a Capezio purse and an L.L.Bean bomber jacket hanging off my chair. My Mariah Carey perm cost $65. Dolores and Carmen helped take care of me when Mom traveled for work. They know how much I look up to them. It was a real gut punch. Carmen’s tone of voice said what she really meant. We’re disappointed in you.
What was I supposed to say? I’m not like them. I barely managed to graduate with a B average from college. I genuinely tried to master the inverted pyramid but you know me. Structure isn’t my strong suit. After my sisters confronted me, I thought if I backed myself into a corner, some kind of journalism magic would happen. My inner Edward R. Murrow would kick in, and I’d make them proud of me. I was bluffing and Sarajevo called my bluff. And you know what I discovered? If I’m mediocre at something I don’t care about – no harm, no foul. But if I care – I had no idea how much I was going to care about Sarajevo, Kate. I get what you mean about being drop-kicked out of the Hundred Acre Wood. After Sarajevo I can never go back to my innocence.
I’m going to call my old boss at West Coast Commerce and ask for my McJob back. I’ll ditch my antiquated typewriter and get myself one of those new Macintosh PowerBooks and discuss Mad About You around the water cooler. If I can’t make the world better, at least I’ll have moolah so I can donate to the kind of people I’m not so they can make a difference.
Yours in failure,
Frida