Donuts in the Back Seat of our ’96 Ford Aerostar
In 1957, motivated by her American dream, my grandma left the comfort of small-town Tamazula, Jalisco behind her. Cherished pieces of her childhood — the family ranch, the room packed with freshly made cheese, enormous vats of honey, evenings of dancing at the zócalo, elaborate dresses filled with life, and all else — would soon become stories she would tell her children, little snippets of time, and fading memories.
Fake papers got my grandma and grandpa across the US-Mexican border. “It was easy back then,” Grandma used to tell me, with a shrug and a smile. It’s a different story now, she and I both knew. Her first destination in this foreign country was Los Angeles. There she gave birth to my Uncle Frank, her first son. A year later she made the trek up north to the city where she would live out the rest of her life: San Francisco, CA. My dad was born in 1958, into a city vastly different than what it is today.
1958 was the same year my grandpa went back to Mexico for good. He was abusive — a reality my dad only knows from his mom. He’s never looked his own father in the eyes. He tried to, once. But that’s a story you’d have to ask him to tell.
Anyway, picture my grandma in the early 1960s, living in San Francisco with her two young kids. She was an outsider, but she learned to play the game. Like many before and after her, she adopted a name so white it could nearly fool you: Nancy. That is until you either read the Carrillo that trailed it, or heard her speak. Nancy Carrillo.
She spent most of her days working for Fantasia Confections, a renowned bakery of baby-booming San Francisco. Opened by a Jewish immigrant, Ernest Weil, who had fled Nazi Germany, this mom-and-pop bakery quickly became an early chapter in my family’s American story.
My grandma worked 10 hour days decorating elegant pastries and cakes. She topped freshly baked goods with delicate icing flowers and laced ribbons and elaborate bows around petite pastry boxes. On occasions my Dad refers to as “the good old days,” she brought decadent leftover treats for his brother and him to enjoy back home. But it was hard work for my grandma, my dad always says. There was never an easy day, but there was also never any other option. My grandma was wholly dedicated to giving her children the best future she could possibly offer them.
Growing up on a ranch taught my grandma to be incredibly resourceful. She made sure to meticulously save, always steadfast in her determination to do so.
Her thriftiness was a force no one could reckon with. It put her kids through Mission Dolores Academy and Riordan High. To this day I’m baffled by how she did this as a single mom, but she made it work with what she had. She made sure to pass along this resourcefulness to her children.
One time as a kid, my Dad found a quarter on the street. With his newfound wealth he bought the first toy he could find and proudly showed it to his mom. She immediately scorned him for his stupidity, told him to walk right back into the store, return the toy, and get his quarter back. My dad is a quarter richer and a quarter wiser.
It was this kind of dedication to her family’s financial success that made my father’s accomplishments and soon my own accomplishments possible — something I never really understood as a kid.
I did know a few things for sure as a kid, though. I knew trips to my grandma’s meant donuts for breakfast. There’d always have to be some convincing, but we’d end up stopping by our Sunshine, our local Brentwood donut shop, before the hour-long trek from the far East Bay to San Francisco. My younger brother and I enjoyed our toasty breakfasts in the back seats of my Dad’s beige ’96 Ford Aerostar. Raspberry jelly donut in one hand, and a glazed cruller in a bag waiting for me at my feet, I revelled in sweet indulgence. Donuts to me were simply a treat, nothing more, nothing less.
At my grandma’s, we’d be stuffed with more goodies, in typical abuela fashion. Our bellies, already satiated with deep fried dough and Nesquick, were tempted with pan dulce, ice cream, and literally the entire Trader Joe’s sweets aisle. As we laid back her recliners and dealt with our food comas, we listened to my grandma’s stories of Mexico, of Fantasia, of the latest game shows she kept up with. It was in these moments that I learned my family history.
During the 2nd semester of my Junior year in undergrad, in the months that followed my grandma’s death, I reflected on what it means for the gatekeeper of my family’s history to no longer be with us. Reflected on how stories like hers don’t make the newspaper obituaries. I thought about how I could tell her story, how I could even come close to capturing who she was as a person and how significant she remains, even when she is not here anymore.
A moment of cross-cultural reflection hit me unexpectedly when I attended a talk on UC Berkeley’s campus. I learned that somewhere between 80 to 90 percent of California donut shops are owned and operated by Cambodian immigrants. In a story that rang with familiarity, I learned of families new to this country that laid everything on the line to survive and build a future for their kids through the simple act of selling my childhood breakfast cravings.
I believe these stories, like my grandma’s, have immense value. Have lessons of resilience in the face of obstacles, of building community despite discrimination, of fighting even when the odds are stacked against you. They push those of us born in the US to recognize and respect the journeys and lives of immigrants.
As a kid, I knew trips to my grandma’s house meant donuts, but I had no idea that every donut from my hometown donut shop, very well may have come with a story behind the shop that made it. A story that was not so different from my grandma’s. A story of arriving to the United States with nothing but family, if even that. A story of hard work. A story of setbacks and obstacles and hoops to jump through and mouths to feed and language barriers. A story that is seldom told with the honor it deserves. An immigrant story.
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