The occurence of love is often suprising, precious, random. Some of the loves in my life have been sweet beyond belief, and one of those was Lucio.
Lucio was a little boy who lived down the street from me when I lived in the “hood.” He was Mexican, his status was not quite up to Donald Trump’s idea of “legal.” He lived with his grandma and several animals — also not quite legal in the city limits, ducks, chickens, a small pig, a dog and a cat. His aunt and her little daughters lived next door. I first knew him when he was six or so years old. He came up the street to visit, sometimes with another little kid, sometimes by himself.
He liked to draw and when I was doing art in my garage, he liked to draw his own pictures while I did whatever project engrossed me at the time. Then, of course, he got deported.
A few years later (!) Lucio was back. He was twelve! Almost as tall as I. There had been major changes in my world — my marriage had broken up, and I was teaching a lot more to hold life together. Still, as before, I was doing art work in my garage. Lucio asked about my ex and I said, “It didn’t work out. He left a couple years ago.”
“That’s too bad,” said Lucio. “But you’re still here. You need someone to take care of you.”
“I’m fine this way,” I answered and we both nodded.
The project at the time was “Barbies’ Battle of the Bands Benefit Concert for Cellulite Victims” and involved two stages, instruments and costumes for eight Barbie dolls. I didn’t finish the project; I got to the last part — sewing doll clothes — and realized that wasn’t happening.
Lucio hung out while I was drawing guitars. Then, one day he said, “Aren’t you kind of old to play with Barbies?” I cracked up and tried to explain it was sculpture; I wasn’t playing with Barbies. I gave up the project anyway and starting painting a mountain at Zion National Park. Lucio had no objection to a 42 year old woman painting a mountain.
One day Lucio came up with a brightly painted blue, purple and white wooden push cart, the kind used in Tijuana by street vendors. “My grandpa died and left me this,” he said. It was truly amazing. I believe Lucio saw himself as having inherited the family business and having become a man because the next thing he said was, “I want to take you out for lunch.”
I was mildly dumbfounded (if that’s possible). “Ok,” I said. “Where? Did you ask your grandma?”
There was a new restaurant (Mexican) a few blocks away. Lucio had it all planned out He’d saved his money, too. We walked over to the restaurant, ordered our lunch, talked about art, school, whether there was a ghost in the crawl space of my house. The food was pretty good the usual Baja/Tijuana cuisine that I did, finally, get used to and even miss now that I’m back in the land of hot green chile and sopapillas.
We walked back home and Lucio said, “I’ve wanted to take you out for a long time.”
I said, “Thank you, Lucio, it was fun,” realizing, suddenly, that I’d been on a date with a 12 year old.
Not too long after, Lucio, his grandma, his aunt and his cousins were all deported. I never again saw my young prince or his beautiful cart.
13 thoughts on “Lucio Means Light”
What a beautiful sweet story! But how sad that the family was deported. I hope they are doing well, wherever they may be.
Me too. Lucio would be 40 by now. 🙂
What a lovely story and such a sad ending.
I know. 😦
That was a really sweet story. The things we have to tell the future generations, memories of a fun life, although sad that he was deported.
It got to be kind of a joke. He might have come back. Anyway, I hope he finished his education which was the whole reason he was in the US with his grandma instead of in Mexico with his parents. 😦
Thank you!!! 🙂
A good and poignant story. What a sweet young man. And how kind of you to do art and lunch together. All people, despite the propaganda and stereotyping.
I dunno. Any kid who shows up at my house and wants to draw is not going to be sent away. Lucio was a very smart kid and his parents wanted the best for him. There they were, busting their asses in Mexico so their kid could go to school in San Diego. THEIR money (earned in Mexico) supported their kid and grandma in the US. School was in English, which grandma didn’t speak at all.
When people start talking about immigration and so on I just go ballistic inside. I have to shut down. I can’t even be around those conversations after living where and as I did for so long.
I can only imagine. My experience of immigrants is similar, hard working folks wanting something better for themselves and their families.
I was very touched by your story, Martha. I do hope Lucio got a good education. It sounds like he could teach a few other people a thing or two.
I have the same hopes for him, Tracy. ❤️
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