Her Name Was Rosa, She Was a Chola
I returned to school with few noticeable bruises. The majority of the hits were blows to my head delivered from the heels of the cheap hard-soled shoes worn by the Mexican girls who beat me up.
I didn’t know many people at the high school but I had gained overnight fame. I guess girl fights were big news in Burbank. I had also been schooled on Mexican chola culture by my new friend Joanne via my hospital bed.
“Why did you even talk to them?” she asked.
I wanted to tell her that I never had the chance to talk to them; that they began hitting me before I got a word in.
My father took me to and from school on Tuesday, my first day back, and every day that followed that school year. The halls were unusually quiet and people were overly nice. I was offered everything from friendship to donuts.
But dad didn’t wait until Tuesday to pay a visit to the school. On Monday, while I was getting a final scan and a doctor’s clearance note, my father barged in to see the principal.
From the way I was treated by the principal the following day, I can only guess that he had put the fear of God into him. I know there were threats involved; I got that much from the high school grapevine. I also knew that dad never trusted authority figures, especially ones who had bad comb-overs and wore wrinkled white button down shirts and brown shoes.
Dad needed to go to the top, and at this high school, the top was Rosa Maria. She was the biggest and the baddest Mexican in Burbank. She may have even been the biggest and baddest Mexican in Los Angeles. She stood about 5 foot 9 and weighed around 190 pounds.
She wore cuffed dark blue jeans, a flannel shirt and a red bandana over her long black hair. Her eyebrows were drawn with a pencil which gave her an even scarier look. She had gang associations and drove a 1950s black primered Ford Pickup lowered to the ground with hydraulics that made the car jump up and down. I’d never seen anything like it.
And she was now my bodyguard.
Dad had asked around that Monday. He knew who to talk to if he wanted to find protection, and he was willing to pay.
It would have been nice if my father told me beforehand that he had hired a very large Latina to serve as my bodyguard. Considering the beating I’d taken, I was a bit on edge. Actually, I was a wreck.
I ate in the cafeteria that day and at least three strangers offered to buy me lunch. After putting my empty tray back on the rack, I left Joanne to go to class, walked into the hallway and was approached by Rosa Maria.
“Toni…” she called. “TONI.”
My first instinct was to run for my life.
“Toni! I’m Rosa Maria. Anyone fuck with you today?”
I wasn’t sure who this was or why she was talking to me.
“Um, no, not yet…” I stammered.
“Well let me know if anyone fucks with you and I’ll take care of it,” she said. “I work for your father.”
I would have this same conversation with Rosa Maria every day that school year. And while it was nice having protection, it didn’t help with making friends. Students gave awkward smiles but avoided me like a fungus. Except for Joanne.
Like me, Joanne came from an Italian family and she knew the ropes. She became my best friend and my father’s trusted confidant. Dad not only checked in with Rosa when he paid her each week, but also checked in with Joanne. I think he knew if anyone was bothering me, I might hesitate to tell him, or Rosa Maria, in fear of what they might do.
As for the two cholas who beat me up, they were never seen again, at least in Burbank and the greater Los Angeles area. I would later learn that my father took the cholas for a drive in my cousin’s black Cadillac. He and my cousin held guns to both of their heads and told them if they ever came near me, or if they were ever seen in Burbank again, “they’d have their fucking brains blown out all over the sidewalk.”
