Go Iran!

All the news this week about Ahmadinejad's appearance at Columbia University reminds me of a recent dinner I had with an Iranian friend, eating enchiladas and mole at Guelaguetza in Koreatown (L.A. in a nutshell). It was a Tuesday night and the house mariachi was blaring away - not necessarily a pleasantry given that I hadn't seen my friend in months and was hoping to catch up. (I am otherwise a lover of Rancheras.) We spend most of dinner screaming our latest news at each other, grateful for the music breaks. At the end of the night when the mariachi had finally fulfilled its obligations, the violin player strolled by our table. He was stereotypically short, chubby, moreno and at least 50 years old. His mariachi outfit tight, white, and a bit dingy. He was intent on talking to my friend, I might even say he was flirting in some wierd hope of conquering the statuesque beauty of a woman who I knew to be in her twenties. I must admit I was both impressed and appalled by his audacity. He greeted her initially in Spanish. She responded politely but curtly. He continued nonetheless, undeterred by her coolness. She turned to me for help at that point- desirous to have me step in and shoo him away in the nicest of manners, of course. He realized finally she doesn't speak Spanish (I must admit she looks a tad bit Latina) and asked "Where you from?" She answered "From L.A." several times. He didn't understand. In his world, apparently, no one is actually from L.A. "No, where you from?" "From L.A. I'm from here," she insisted. Now he turned to me for help. I refuse to get involved. He got himself into this, he needs to get himself out. "Where you from?" he persisted. She finally gives in, throws him a bone, fully aware of what he wants to know, but seemingly unwilling to limit her identity to a country. She is an Angeleno and proud of it. "Oh, you mean my parents. They are from Iran." Finally, an answer he can more or less understand, or so I thought. "Iraq?" he asked. "No, Iran," she clarified. The confusion was no longer amusing and this bold man has reached the limit of both our patience. I want to pay the bill and get going. It's a Tuesday night, I'm nearing 40, and I have to work tomorrow! He turned to me again and I say in Spanish and slowly "I-R-A-N. " "Iran," he repeats in amazement. I wasn't sure he understood the difference but definitely he has finally sensed our impatience which is why he must have decided to pump his fist in the air and proclaim "GO IRAN." Bush's Axis of Evil be damned, this music man is trying to impress a pretty lady. My friend smiled uncomfortably. He thankfully gave up and left, violin and bow tucked under his arm. I looked at my friend and retorted with perfect timing, "Well, there's something you don't here too often." I love L.A.

Fender Bender This

So an older Latino couple get into a fender-bender of an accident in South Central L.A. They are Hispanic, presumably on their way home from running errands, maybe enjoying a visit to their local senior citizen center, when they are hit from behind by another older lady. The couple exits their car, ready to do the accident thing. You know, check for damage, exchange information, question the driving abilities of the person who has just caused a major headache (figuratively speaking because this was a minor collision). This is when, however, from out of nowhere and much to the surprise of the woman who is calling for my assistance, a witness appears. This presumably neutral bystander has quite an opinion, to say the least. She assumes and so informs the causer of the accident that the couple is Mexican, illegal and, therefore, lying. "Do not give them your information. They come here to take jobs, commit crimes, and get on welfare." "Don't give them your information." The lady who speaks English fluently, by the way, and is a U.S. Citizen was rightfully outraged and deeply offended. I can tell in her voice that she could not believe the accusations made against her simply because she is Brown. She called me because she wanted me to do something. The only information she had about the woman was the number on her license plate, that she was Black, and that she worked at a hospital - a fact revealed to substantiate the woman's claims that all the Mexicans are criminals. "I know because I'm a nurse and I have to deal with them all the time." The lady on the phone tells me that she has already hired a private investigator who will try to find the so-called witness. I wonder how much that will cost her -- a small price I'm sure for the cost of being subjected to such indignities. I tell her that there isn't much I can do to help her. There is my typical response, not enough damages to cover the cost of a lawsuit. She is disappointed. I tell her that there might be other options. She can find out where this woman works and write a letter. Can you imagine how she treats her Latino patients? I can. I tell her to keep me informed. Let me know what the investigator finds out and that I will try to help her as much as I can. I hang up and wonder when we became Enemy No. 1?

"The News"

L.A. Times article published on September 5, 2007. Complete (inaccurate) distortion of my client's case. No meaningful discussion of racial animus between Black management and Latino deputies. Instead, titillating comparison to the Vikings - a group of deputies who abused people of color. The most serious allegation against my client is that he pressured other deputies to make monetary contributions to station-wide fundraisers. Goodness, maybe there should be a probe into the people who call me from law school every year asking for donations to my alma mater. The article is terrible and heartbreaking. But mostly it makes me wonder if I can believe anything I read in "The News."