There’s something so uniquely LA about Old School Cholas. They’ve always represented supreme bad-assness to me. Maybe because in public school, they came to my defense on several occasions when I was having the shit kicked out of me by a gargantuan 8th grader named Rozina. Maybe because I’ve seen “American Me” too many times. Cholas are strong, feminine and unpredictable. At any moment, they could pull a razor blade out of that perfect hair and shank a bitch for real.
Now that’s respect.
My only fond memory of public school in LA is smoking cigarettes with this Chola girl in the bathroom. They called her “La Diabla” and we were in the same English class. I was supposed to be in Advanced English (the one subject I actually did well in), but the school felt it better to put me with ESL kids so I could help teach them English. Idiotic logic, I know. But I was hardcore goth at the time and had an intense curiosity of Cholas. And it meant I didn’t have to do shit for homework, so it was a win win. La Diabla sat next to me in class. Being as I was the only fluent English speaker, the teacher often forced me to read out loud for the class. This particular day I was given the humiliating chore of reading the end of “Flowers for Algernon”. The teacher was so moved by the ending of the book that she started crying. It was then that I heard Diabla snicker to herself “Crazy white bitch”. Her cynicism was as pure as the white powder on both of our faces. I knew we’d be friends.
We’d lock ourselves in this tiny two stall bathroom (yes, the bathroom actually locked back then) and smoke cigarettes and talk about boys. She told me how she and her friends listened to oldies, “you like oldies”? I would lie and say yes. This surprised me that such tough kids liked this sentimental music. I would picture her violent Cholo boyfriend punching the shit out of some other guy while singing along to “Rock Around the Clock”. It added a sweetness to her whole scene. She’d tell me how they’d all go parking somewhere and listen to oldies and make out. Goth kids didn’t do that. We avoided each other in dark clubs or skulked around malls. The central tenant to Gothdom is isolation. The more of a loner you are, the cooler. The only goth girls getting any action were the heavier chicks who wore the not so porous, but super sexy vinyl gear. So Diabla’s information was welcomed.
She told me all about sex (we were only 14 at the time) and how it was no big deal. How getting fingerblasted wasn’t anything to be afraid of. I totally played it cool, like “yeah I know…” But I didn’t know. While I was an angry teenager, I wasn’t promiscuous. She was my oracle of sexual knowledge. We were the same age, but she had a real maturity about her that I enjoyed. Like those balls on her tiny socks gave her special knowledge my witchboots and cape could not. She knew about real life and I knew about the afterlife. We shared the same shade of Brick Red “Wet n’ Wild” lipstick and agreed upon proper eyeliner application technique. And it was La Diabla who came to my defense in the locker room during P.E. when this bitch Rozina was kicking my ass. It’s not like I enjoyed fighting, believe me. I was horrible at it and I think La Diabla knew that. I will forever be grateful to Cholas for saving this former Goth girl.
…And it looks like somebody STILL loves Chola style…
