Kanan and I take a walk through the barrio every morning and every late afternoon. It’s an enjoyable walk that is peaceful in the early hours and full of energy later in the day. Our morning walk happens around 7:30 A.M when the marine layer hasn’t yet burned off—giving the summer morning a cooler feel. I wear Kanan in a sling to make it a bit cozier. Together we smell the moist, salty air and feel the cool breeze off the shore. The cars in the streets are mostly gone, as their owners have left early to work. We look and smell all the flowers blooming from the random yards of homes not owned by slumlords. These flowers brighten up the neighborhood from the dull appearance it could have if every home looked like the one two doors down from us–Peeling paint, two cars parked on the dry dirt lawn with weeds tearing through the dead grass; rap music blaring through the windows and the coming and going of traffic through the doors from various people of all colors. That is until the cops come again and arrest them or threaten them for dealing drugs and then it is quiet again for a month or so. The neighborhood is rather a checkerboard. Every other square is a prideful palate of garden colors—greens and reds and yellows. Only broken up by the dull, yellow squares brought on not by humility, but by neglect.
On are way down to Division Road, we are about to pass the big house with the beautiful garden of lilies, roses, and bamboo, and hope to get a glimpse of the newborn kittens we saw two mornings prior. But are path is obstructed by our neighbors and my heart beats a little faster. A once hard-core Center Street gang member in his late 20’s is sitting in his wheel chair. His bullet wound scars splatter his body and explain why the rest of him looks the way he does. He has lost both his legs, and is paralyzed from the waist down, so he has to wear a colostomy bag. His gangster friend who pushes him around everywhere is next to him, kneeling down and waving a branch back and forth on the ground underneath the home’s rod iron fence. Once I see this, I know exactly what is going on and breathe a sigh of relief—it is unusual to see any gang member, former or active out at this hour and now it makes sense. I look again at my paralyzed neighbor and see his dark black clothes and arms scarred with prison tattoos juxtaposed by the soft, white and orange calico kitten wrapped snuggly between them. His friend is trying to entice the other kitten that is gleefully jumping from side to side and swatting at the branch. Maybe these guys aren’t as bad as they seem, I think, and break the awkward silence by telling Kanan that even grown men like kittens. They smile and we talk in English about animals and share stories about the pets of our past. Then we say goodbye and Kanan and I continue our walk through the neighborhood. Continue reading
Kanan officially has a mohawk courtesy of his eager father. We have since trimmed it since we took the photos as it flopped over a bit from the length. People our age love it. Grandparents hate it of course. We figure we should jack up his hair now while he is still too young to care.
e woke up once at 230 am but stayed asleep after 
Most days though, Kanan is in a good mood and smiles and coos all day long. He does have his fussy moments but nothing that is difficult to handle. Overall we have decided that he is a sensitive baby and in effect, is easily overstimulated by anything from a new toy to too much light coming through his window when its time to take a nap. So we do have to be careful about this or else his naps are affected. He has Mike’s intense desire to be on the move constantly and his ease at being distracted, and he has my love of color and conversation. As far as looks go, he has my bottom lip and my crooked toe. Thats it and thats all. The rest is Mike Mike Mike.
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