The Beat of My Own Drum (4 page)

When I look back at his art when we were growing up, I’m surprised by how dark a lot of it is. I think he must have felt weighed down by the worry of having to support us all. Not that he ever let on. Our homes may have been small, but they had soul, and, most important, they were full of warmth.

Even during the worst times, Pops never sold or hocked his musical instruments. He refused to give up on his dream as so many musicians are forced to. He and his brothers always kept the faith that one day they’d make it. The tools of his trade may have been all beat-up, but they were cherished, and he took great care of them. He wiped them down after each performance or jam session, then put the drums back into their cases or the cowbells back into their little bag as if they were pure gold.

I don’t know how they managed it, but Moms and Pops also
somehow provided for anyone who knocked on our door. Musicians would drop in to eat, drink, and smoke until late. We kids learned to sleep through every kind of noise while they jammed. We’d wake for school the next morning and pick our way through a colorful patchwork of strangers sleeping on the floor.

My parents also found ways to keep us entertained despite their persistent lack of funds. We never had a so-called family vacation, but in the summer they’d drive somewhere like Fresno or King City in Monterey County, where it was especially hot. They’d book us into a cheap motel—all five of us in one room for the night—just so we could enjoy the luxury of swimming in the motel pool. That was us living the glamorous life. We were kings in King City!

To save us having to eat out, Moms would always pack the car full of food, and—now that I think about it—not much has changed. Even when we travel together these days, I can count on her to either knock on my hotel door or call my room each morning to offer me fruit or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.

“It’s okay, I was just going to order room service,” I tell her.

“Oh no, Heart!” she insists (using a nickname she sometimes gives me). “Why waste your money when I packed so much?”

Free food has always excited her. I’ve lost count of the sophisticated venues and pimped-out green rooms I’ve had to usher her out of once her eyes fall on the buffet. If I can’t get her out, I have to convince her not to sneak food into her purse. “Moms,” I plead under my breath. “Put that down! You don’t need those sandwiches! We just ate and there’ll be more food after the show!”

Taking her to an all-you-can-eat buffet is a nightmare. She’ll pack five containers in her purse, and I have to tell her, “Moms! They mean all you can eat
here,
not at home as well!” She just laughs and Pops, ever the dignified one, shakes his head (although he still enjoys eating everything she brings home).

Back in the day, drive-in movies were a favorite family destination.
There was one near the Oakland Coliseum that we went to, always late at night in an old Buick or Chevy or whatever Pops could afford. As we neared the entrance, he’d pull over and we kids would pile into the trunk, leaving it slightly ajar because it was dark and stank of tires. We’d lie there in our pajamas until we’d been successfully sneaked past the booth without paying more than the one-dollar fee for two adults.

Pops would park somewhere we couldn’t be seen, open the trunk, and we’d clamber onto the backseat. We’d snuggle together under blankets or in our coats if it was really cold, eating the popcorn, candy, and other snacks Moms had packed. On summer nights, we’d risk being caught by lying on the roof to watch the movie. Once in a great while Pops would give us some money to buy something from the snack bar, although my mother always resented the expense and complained she could make something for a fraction of the price.

Moms still sneaks food into movie theaters, by the way, even though the hot dogs for senior citizens are only a dollar. In her seventies she looks pregnant because her pockets are so stuffed with popcorn, candy, and soda. If anyone ever asks to check her purse she suddenly pretends that she’s forgotten her medicine and rushes back to the car to hide even more food in her coat.

I especially loved going to my grandparents’ house as a child, even though my grandmother had a strangely mean streak. As soon as we arrived, we had to stand in line from the back porch and greet her one at a time for an obligatory ritual no one ever seemed to question. She’d be in her rocking chair with a sly grin on her face. One by one we had to peel off our shoes and socks, sit in her lap, and let her pull on our toes until they cracked. It must have been a Creole thing. The more we cried out, the more she laughed. Mama was a tough cookie, and you couldn’t tell her no—she was a Gardere, after all.

The upside was that she was the most incredible cook, so going there meant we could eat meat and fish instead of our staple diet of tortillas, rice, and beans. (I swore that when I grew up I’d never eat rice and beans again.) The best days were either when we went to Mama’s or on a special Sunday when Pops was paid after working in a big club on a Saturday night. Then we’d get pork chops and applesauce after church—small compensation for being in that drafty old St. Anthony’s Church with its boring music that didn’t connect with me at all. Old hymns with no melody never touched my heart, but I endured it because going to church meant something to my parents.

One time when I was still very young, I felt deeply honored when my grandmother asked me to help her make her famous gumbo with chicken, shrimp, and crab. That was, until she insisted I drop the crab into a pot of boiling water. I picked it up—not realizing it was still alive until its claws started snapping at my fingers. I began crying and shaking my head, but Mama wouldn’t let me—or the crab—off the hook. The more I cried, the more she howled with laughter. When I reluctantly did as I was told, peeling the rubber bands off the creature’s claws and carrying out the death sentence as it snapped at me angrily, I could’ve sworn the poor crab let out a scream.

My other grandmother, whom we called Nanny, was an eccentric, fun character. Having fallen on hard times and given up her children when her husband left her, she kept in touch and was later reunited with them. A hairstylist who had her own shop, she was the woman from whom Pops inherited his beautiful hair. Even when they both went white, there was never a hair out of place. She had a lewd sense of humor, and her house was filled with all sorts of rude items featuring naked men. Her apron had a string you could pull on to reveal an erect penis, and even her light switches were naughty. When I introduced her to Lionel
Richie years later, she reached out and cupped him in her hands, balls and all!

Because my mother came from such a big family, there was always a reason to celebrate, and celebrate we did. Everyone took turns hosting family events, which were accompanied by music and dancing. Best of all, there was always good food—with the exception of the stinky sardine sandwiches provided by Papa, which no one but he ate.

Knowing that every little bit helped in our household, we kids became very enterprising and would try to bring in some extra money to help out. One day we sat around brainstorming how we could surprise our parents and contribute. While they did their best to hide their stresses about lack of finances, we’d pick up on it—especially when we heard them talking through our thin walls late at night.

My brother Juan even went through a phase of eating as little as he could and refusing seconds for three weeks straight. He’d glare at me if I dared ask for more.

After ruling out several ideas (it was too cold for a lemonade stand and we didn’t think people would pay to see us dance), we settled on shoe shining. We borrowed Pops’s prized shoe-shining kit—which I still have to this day—and walked over to the Safeway market by Lake Merritt.

My brother Peter Michael was the littlest and the cutest, so we used him to lure customers over. He also didn’t look as black as Juan and me.

“Please, sir? Do you want your shoes shined?” he’d plead. “We’re raising money for charity.” Few could say no to his cherubic face.

We stuck at it all day, and then a helpful supermarket employee walked us through our financial options, aisle by aisle. While we were sorely tempted by the ice cream and candy, we were determined
to stick to our plan. The sun was setting as we made our way home, proudly carrying milk, eggs, and a loaf of bread.

Our efforts weren’t always entirely selfish, either. We raised a lot of money for the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Telethon. Jerry was a big deal in our house, so his telethons were especially important to us. I was deeply moved by the cause and consumed with sadness at the thought of all those innocent children in need of aid. My brothers and I sent away for the fund-raising kit, and when it arrived we eagerly examined its contents, which included information about distributing publicity materials, building booths, and organizing games.

One year we threw a carnival for family, friends, and neighbors, charging them twenty-five cents per ticket to see our show, take a ride, or play a game. We excitedly explained to them that this was their chance to have fun while helping “Jerry’s kids.” Another time, we created a haunted house over the garage of a house we were renting. It was dark in there, and we hung creepy things from the ceiling and had a tape recorder playing screams and other haunted sounds. We jumped out at people who climbed a ladder to get there. We had so much fun!

No one had anything like that in our neighborhood, and it was a big deal. Moms made us a little food to sell, of course, and it felt to me like we raised a lot of money—although it was probably only a few bucks.

Those were my first independent philanthropic endeavors as a kid, and they gave me a glimpse of how fulfilling it could be to use what you had to help others in need, however limited your resources.

Because of the dark days of his childhood when he and his brother Coke had been sent to an institution, Pops made a point of visiting children’s homes and detention centers in his spare time. Keen to remind us how lucky we were, he took us along from an
early age. He’d load Moms, my brothers, and me into his crazy purple station wagon along with a bunch of drums and some percussion instruments. “The kids we’re going to see today,” he’d tell us gravely, “are in the system and don’t have families of their own. We need to show them a bit of family love, okay?”

In a chilly room in one of those horrid children’s homes with bars on the windows, scant facilities, and dormitory beds, we’d help him unload the instruments in silence. After Pops introduced us, he’d share how he came from a large family whose father left home and how his mother couldn’t cope with so many children.

“I know what you’re going through, because my kid brother Coke and I were sent to an orphanage for a couple of years,” he’d tell them, always choking up a little at that point before forcing a smile. “But we overcame the odds. It was in the orphanage that I first discovered art and where I developed my love of music. I’ve always drawn and painted, but once I started playing music, I knew that would be my life. So we’re going to play you some music today and see if you like it.”

“What did you say your name was, mister?” one of the children might ask.

“You can call me Pops,” he’d say quietly. “Everybody does.”

Whenever I heard him say that, I realized what a father figure he was to them and to us all. Pops’s heart is huge; he and Moms have more than enough love to go around. It’s like the whole world is their family. His childhood always served to remind us that even though we sometimes thought we had it hard, we didn’t know what real hardship was.

Inspired by his words, we’d gather around and start jamming for the kids and encouraging them to join in. They were a tough crowd. Despite their initial resistance (and the few who refused to have anything to do with us), we managed to get most playing
something. Putting a smile on the faces of those frightened, damaged kids made it all worthwhile.

The worst part was having to pack up and say good-bye. The children, especially the tiny tots and usually the girls, would cling to us—especially Moms, who can’t walk by someone without giving them a hug. “Please take us home with you? Can’t you adopt us?” they’d beg, their arms wrapped around her legs. That part was heartbreaking, especially for Pops, who used to push the cuter Coke to the front whenever prospective parents came to visit their orphanage. Nobody ever picked the Escovedo brothers.

Tearfully, I’d ask Pops, “Can’t we take
one
of them home?”

His eyes moist, he’d shake his head and remind us to smile and wave as we got into the car and left them all behind, with the promise that we’d be back soon. I’ll never forget their faces as we pulled around the corner out of view.

It was an image that would stay with me always.

4
. Pitch

The quality of a sound governed by the rate of vibrations

All that’s left are memories

Of how it used to be

We can’t erase the past

We can’t change our destiny

“FADED PHOTOGRAPHS”

SHEILA E

M
y earliest childhood memories reflect an almost pitch-perfect life, complete with caring parents, close siblings, and an abundance of love and laughter to go around. Music was always at the core of it, and whenever the adults stopped jamming because they couldn’t play anymore and needed to take a break, we kids would rush to the instruments like it was a game of musical chairs.

Sure, there were times when we’d have liked more meat on the table, shoes that weren’t so scuffed, or a real vacation. I remember wanting a Barbie doll so badly but having to wait years until I was
given a secondhand one. I also desperately wanted to be a Girl Scout at my school, but my parents couldn’t afford the uniform. It took me a long time to understand that they really didn’t have the money. Nevertheless, it was hard to see my friends going off in their uniforms, earning their little pins, or talking about the camping trips I couldn’t go on.