The Historian

I’m greeted by a stocky Latino driver wearing a high-collared quarter-zip sweatshirt and a driver’s cap. He proceeds to point out all of the amenities inside his vehicle as I fumble with the seatbelt. His tone carries an air of unshakeable politeness, and he ends nearly every answer to my questions with a formal “good sir” or “my good man.” He announces my estimated trip length, time of arrival, and asks if I’m buckled in before putting his foot on the gas.

He knows a lot of Los Angeles history, more specifically: the old railways and Red Car trolley systems that used to crisscross the city. He volunteers in his free time at a train and trolley museum 70 miles east and relays transportation trivia relevant to some of the streets we pass. I ask if he’d like to work in public transit one day; he replies “God, no.”

His current occupation requires him to audit women’s factories globally to ensure they’re up to safety standards and aren’t utilizing child labor. He loves his job, which has taken him to over 30 countries. He drives Uber for a bit of extra income, allowing him to vacation three times a year with his five-year-old son, Martin.

The name Martin has been in his family for over 100 years. One notable Martin was his great-great-grandfather, who was unintentionally made a martyr in Guadalajara. Martin took his cows out to graze during a time of civil war and was accused by government forces of being a rebel. Even though he wasn’t, great-great-grandfather Martin still faced death by a firing squad later that day. He became a symbol of the resistance in the days that followed.

My driver’s grandmother used to travel back and forth between Guadalajara and Los Angeles in the 1940’s. His parents arrived here in the 70’s. “Times were different,” he says. “It’s not that easy anymore.” I can’t help but agree. As we arrive in front of my home, I thank him for the conversation before closing the car door behind me.