Santana and Saúl: A Dual Memoir

By Santana Acuña and Saul Diskin

The book has two related themes. The first is a story of an improbable friendship between a rural, semi-literate, violent, heroin addicted Chicano and a Brooklyn bred Jew, who bonded almost immediately. Life drew them apart for almost half a century and when the friendship resumed, both Santana and Saul realized, to their satisfaction, that their feelings for the other had remained strong.

In the intervening years, however, their circumstances had changed radically. Santana, after spending much of his life in California prisons for violent crimes, had become a devout Christian and church pastor. Saul had become a successful businessman and remained an atheist.

The book shows how the strong bond survives the difference both in life circumstances and belief and suggests a way for others to follow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477204214

Santana Acuña

Saul Diskin, a retired businessman, lives in Arizona with his wife, Arline. They have three children and six grandchildren. A lifelong private writer, this is his second non-fiction book. A novel is nearing completion. The friendship between he and Santana spans more than half a century. Santana Acuña is the co-pastor, with his wife, Julie, of Special Forces Discipleship Curch in Rancho Cucamonga, California Their congregation and those touched by their outreach programs, consists of those like Santana used to be: troubled, violent youths, drug abusers, criminals and ex-convicts and others discarded by society.

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© 2012 Saul Diskin. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 6/15/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0423-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0422-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0421-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012909014

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

PREFACE

1 .SANTANA

2

3

4

5

6

7

8 .SAUL

9 .SANTANA

10 .SAÚL

11 .SANTANA

12

13 .SAÚL

14 .SANTANA

15 .SAÚL

16 .SANTANA

17

18

19 .SAÚL

20 .SANTANA

21 .SAÚL

22 .SANTANA

23 .SAÚL

24 .SANTANA

25 .SAÚL

26 .SAÚL ARGUMENTS ABOUT FAITH

27 .SANTANA AND SAÚL

PREFACE

Santana Acuña and Saul Diskin became, and are, improbably, friends. They met as young men when Santana was incarcerated for a short term in a California mental hospital and Saul, by an accident of fate, was a psychiatric technician in the same institution.

The book describes their friendship, the circumstances that led to many years of separation and its intense renewal. Their lives are followed during the interim years.

Besides being sons of immigrants and having been born in the midst of the Depression, Santana and Saul’s lives differed greatly. Santana’s Catholic parents fled the devastation wrought by the contesting sides in the Mexican revolution and settled in a community in Southern California more resembling the land they fled from than their new home. Saul’s Jewish parents, from Lithuania and Russia, fled the institutional persecution they suffered and landed in New York.

The book’s focus is the life of Santana because it is his life that took the most dramatic turn. A heroin addict and violent criminal, he spent much of his adulthood in California prisons.

While the framework of the book describes the lives of the two, the social milieus in which they developed and the events that shaped them, it is also a rumination on faith; what it means, how it occurs and its effect on contemporary life. Santana became a Christian later in his life, before the friendship resumed, leading Saul, an atheist, to consider a subject he thought had long been settled. The narrative illustrates a middle ground between the camps of faith and non-belief and suggests a way for each to understand the other.

Saul did the actual writing of the book. Santana’s life, encyclopedically recalled by him, often wrote itself. Each voice faithfully represents the thoughts of the speaker. While they differ on fundamental matters and probably always will, they are sure they will always remain the brothers they have become.

Santana Acuña

Saul Diskin

1

SANTANA

I thought it would be an evening like most other evenings. I was through with work, had a fast dinner and was preparing to spend the evening on the corner with my carnales, friends as close as brothers. I lived in the Cucamonga barrio with my nine brothers and sisters, my mother and stepfather, don Pancho. At almost sixteen, I was out of school for almost three years. I made my own money, sometimes honestly and sometimes not so honestly. I was a full blooded Pachuco. Even though I was just going to the corner, tonight I put on the full outfit.

Carefully, I put on my powder blue slacks, high in the waist and strongly pegged at the cuffs. I tucked the white shirt deep in my slacks and hunched forward, so that when I straightened up the shirt lay tight against my body. I tied the skinny tie twice before it lay like I wanted it to. I took my wing-tip Staceys out of the paper bag in the back of the closet, dusted them off with an old undershirt and put them on, lacing them up carefully. I didn’t wear a jacket that night because I decided to wear my topcoat, which was small enough to fit tightly without anything underneath. I looked good. Standing before a mirror, I put on the finishing touch, my tanda, my wide brimmed hat. I smiled at the mirror and slipped quietly out of the house so that my mother or don Pancho couldn’t argue with me about my clothes or where I was going. I wasn’t looking for trouble that night. Tomorrow was a work day. My plan was to hang out and stay in the barrio, so I left my gun at home.

It was cold on the corner, with a wind whipping dust in our faces. We huddled around a burning tractor tire near the cantina, passing a bottle of wine around. The two men we knew as Cowboys, always looking for trouble, were in the doorway of the cantina. They considered us peewees and insulted us as a joke. This night it was no joke. They threw strong insults at me. After a while I answered and before I knew it I was knocked down by a punch in the mouth.

The fight lasted maybe five minutes. It was no contest. The Cowboy was ten or twelve years older than me and fifty pounds heavier. Every time we squared off he hit me twice to the one time I hit him. He knocked me down over and over again. I barely landed a hard punch. I finally got up and showed him my palms, the sign that I knew I was whipped and didn’t want to fight any more. I was sore all over, my lip was cut and my whole head hurt. I had taken many beatings before so I wasn’t very upset. My carnales were standing by with long faces. I walked over to them and picked up the half empty wine bottle. I was going to go home and finish the bottle along the way. Suddenly, the Cowboy pushed me from behind into the fire. My topcoat started burning and I tore it off to keep the rest of my clothes from catching on fire.

Santana, trae filero! (He’s got a knife.) I was starting to leave the corner the loser and forget about it. Now I had no choice. The Cowboy wasn’t going to let me walk away. But in that instant, with the Cowboy charging at me with his knife, as I knew what was going to happen, a cold, almost happy feeling came over me. The Cowboy was five feet away and swung his knife hand. I dodged and broke the wine bottle on the side of the building. While he was off balance I stepped in and cut his hand. That stopped him for a second and I cut his hand again until he dropped the knife and grabbed his cut hand with the good one. I cut that hand too. He gave me a sick, surprised look. I pushed him down and jumped on him, trying to cut or stab his face and head. Two of the grown men from the cantina, Temo and Vacha, dragged me off. I knew them both and respected them so I didn’t fight when they stopped me. They stood close to me to stop me from cutting the Cowboy again while his brother helped him to his feet to take him to the hospital.

My carnales congratulated me. They saw it as a win for the peewees, the next in line for respect from the bigger guys. I cleaned the Cowboy’s blood off my hands and looked at my topcoat ruined by the fire, all the time thinking about what had happened. When the bottle of wine was finished I started walking home. I sat on a pile of stacked bricks outside the house and looked into the cloudless night sky, going over what happened. I believed that I had done more than win a fight; that in that night El Santana was born, that one day I would lead the Cucamonga barrio and barrios from L. A. to San Bernardino would know who I was and respect and fear me.

A few days later the Cowboy came up to me in the evening outside the cantina, his hands and face all bandaged. He waved his hands near my face and, trying to act tough, said to me, You did this to me. Now you’re going to pay for it. The hospital wanted sixty dollars to fix me up and I want the money from you, understand?

Yeah, I understand. You wait right here for me. I’m going home to get the money. I’ll be right back. Wait for me right here, understand?

I ran back home as fast as I could and got my thirty-eight and loaded it. I was going to pay him on the spot. He was gone when I got back. Temo told me he left in a hurry. I told Temo to tell the Cowboy that I didn’t want to see him or his brother in the barrio or I would pay my debt to them both. Temo laughed. He understood me well. I didn’t see the Cowboy brothers for almost two years.

2

I worked in the vineyards for the Virginia Dare Winery and gave most of the money I earned to my mother. Don Pancho, my stepfather had prostate cancer and was getting weaker and weaker.

For extra money me and my carnáles sometimes jumped braceros, the imported Mexican field workers that we called chuntaros, and spend the money on wine and whiskey and yesca (marijuana). Other times I traveled outside the barrio with other friends. We stole from cars parked outside of restaurants in the area and as far away as Long Beach. Sometimes we just went looking for trouble in other barrios and usually found it.

By now I was known in many of the other barrios. I had friends in some of them and some enemies, but in every one I went, for the first few minutes, I was considered a stranger that had to be introduced, a sort of test that I had to pass so I wouldn’t be attacked by the local vatos (guys, one of the boys) who would defend their turf. The question was always asked, Where are you from? I usually just answered flatly, without smiling, From Cucamonga, doing what we called, playing the part; pretending I was just a citizen minding my own business and not looking for trouble. I was secretly hoping someone would start up with us. If it was too peaceful I would sometimes start the fight. I carried a gun. When it started, after the punches, guns were pulled out and the bullets started flying. People seldom got killed in those fights but many men of my generation carry holes in their arms or legs and other parts of their body where they were shot as youngsters. Unless there was a killing the police almost never came. The white world didn’t care what happened to us, especially if we killed each other. I was never shot or stabbed, except once, by accident.

A busload of chuntaros drove into the barrio early one evening. Me and my carnales saw about twenty of them got off the bus. They were in clean clothes and happy to be going to the Spanish language movie showing that night or drinking and looking for women. Like hawks looking for a rabbit, we saw a young one, maybe in his early twenties, dressed like a norteño; high heeled cowboy boots, sharply creased Levis and a neatly pressed cowboy shirt, walked alone toward a dark part of the barrio. He was ours. Three of us went around the block to meet him and the other three ran up behind him.

When he saw us he knew what was coming. Before I could hit him he said, Don’t hit me. I’ve got money. I’ll buy you what you want. We walked with him to the liquor store and told him what we wanted. In a few minutes he came out of the store with a couple of six packs of beer and a couple of bottles of whiskey. We all walked together, passing a bottle around, a common sight in the barrio. The chuntaro asked us about life in the U. S. and he told us about his life in Sonora. He laughed at our use of Pachuco slang, and we made fun of the sing-song way he spoke. To someone watching us, we appeared a group of slightly drunk kids, all friends, laughing together, getting sillier and sillier. When the last of the alcohol was gone told him we wanted more. The chuntaro said he had spent the last of his money buying the whiskey and beer earlier.

The happy mood changed. We grabbed him, right in the middle of the dark street. What do you mean you have no more money? Why are you lying to us?

I’m telling you the truth, so help me, he said, frightened. Pelaquillo pulled out his knife. "Please, I swear by the Virgin of Mapimí, I don’t have any more money. I grabbed Pelaquillo’s knife arm.

Wait a minute, I said, Calm yourself. Just stay here with him and I’ll go home for something. I’ll be back in a few minutes and then we’ll find out if he has any more money. My carnales knew that I meant I’d get my gun. When I started running toward my house I realized how drunk I was. I couldn’t go in a straight line. I slowed down and walked the rest of the way home. Instead of the five minutes, I came back in fifteen. My carnales were about a block away from where I left them, talking in a huddle. What happened?

Pelaquillo nailed him.

The chuntaro was on his back, his eyes open. His front was all covered in blood, his shirt split in several places by the knife blade. We got sober and kind of excited about what happened. We went over it again and again. You would have to say there was a certain amount of bragging about the stabbing, each of us wanting some share of the credit. The cops got there right away. An eyewitness must have called them. Pelaquillo was picked up and confessed right away. It was part of our code; that one accepted the blame for what he did without involving their carnales. If you didn’t, you could never again be trusted.

It was still fairly early in the night, maybe nine O’clock. The rest of us went to the corner. The news had spread. I was a little nervous, thinking the older guys like Temo and Vacha would think we had brought heat to the barrio. I looked up to Temo. His style was cool. He never seemed to get excited, but his reputation was that he took care of business. A feared bar fighter, he had been to San Quentin.

Temo and Vacha and a couple of other men in their twenties were the leaders of the barrio. They didn’t have to tell anyone that, it was well understood. If they didn’t like what Pelaquillo had done, the rest of us would have to face his anger. That would be tough for me. The way I was then, I wouldn’t have listened to them if say, they tried to kick me out of the barrio, but if they had become my enemies, especially if there was bloodshed between us, it would have been hard for me to be at home in the barrio. When they heard all the details of the story about Pelaquillo, they let me know it was all right.

From the citizens; the merchants in the barrio, or the friends of the parents of my carnales, there was silence because the man who died was not of the barrio, not one of us. There was also fear in that silence. From that day on, they looked at me and my carnales in a different way.

Pelaquillo was sentenced to a juvenile camp. He served about eighteen months and was released. He and his family moved away and I lost track of him.

3

Grillo, (Cricket), didn’t live in the Cucamonga barrio, although he was there all the time. He came from Guasti, a few miles away. He saw himself as a leader in the barrio, although he never said that to any of the older guys like Temo. They would have laughed at him or made him prove it with his blood. Instead he hung around with the younger kids, his Cuca gang members, who looked up to him. He was a small man in his early twenties, with black, kinky hair and a very dark complexion. He worked out with weights and he was proud of his body. He had his shirt off a lot so he could show off his muscles. He was vicious and a bully and had a reputation as a knife fighter. It was said that he cut five guys in one night. Someone told me that he grabbed my carnal, Nico and poured beer on his head to humiliate him. I didn’t have anything to do with Grillo, but he knew by the way I looked at him that I didn’t want him as a friend. I didn’t know it then but Grillo put me down as his enemy.

A friend from the barrio, Marcelo, asked me to help him. A gabacho (Anglo, white), Dickie Clanton, was hitting on a girl Marcelo was in love with and he was afraid he’d lose her. The Clanton’s lived in Dogpatch, a no man’s land between Cucamonga and Upland. They had Chicano friends in the barrios that would fight for them. A few of us went to Clanton’s house to scare him off or to mess him up if he didn’t stay away from Marcelo’s girl. We threw rocks at his windows when he wouldn’t come out. He still wouldn’t show his face so we ruined his car. We fouled up his motor, broke all the windows and sliced the upholstery. We thought that was the end of it.

A week later I was walking with a friend, Manuel, and a car drove up and cut us off. Grillo, with his knife out, and a couple of other guys came flying out of the car screaming at me. Suddenly, before I had a chance to do anything, Manuel jumped in front of me and stabbed Grillo in the chest. His friends dragged him away and took off. I knew I didn’t have to fear the Clantons, but now I knew that Grillo was my blood enemy.

A few days later the cops picked me and Marcelo up because of what we did to Dickie Clanton’s car. They kept me in the County jail for a couple of days before they moved me to Juvenile Hall. I was a little nervous at first but at the same time I was a little proud at being there like so many men of the barrio. I had heard stories about what older guys did to a young prisoner but I sized up the other men there and I wasn’t worried that any of them could take me. Pelaquillo’s older brother was there. We called him Chanate, the name of a little black bird, because he was so dark. He said to me, "Santana, all those crazy things you do, for what? I know you do that for respect, and you got that now. You should do some of those things for feria (money)". I didn’t exactly know what he was talking about then, but it got me thinking.

As soon as they put me over in Juvy Hall the guards grabbed me and cut my hair short. I fought to get free but there were too many of them. Every Pachuco was proud of his hair, combed into a ducktail. It was the worst thing they could do to me. I went crazy when they let me loose. I tried to hit the guards. For that, they threw me into the hole – a small room for solitary confinement. They gave me probation because it was my first offence. I was so ashamed of the way I looked without my hair I didn’t care if I left jail or not. I told my mother to bring me a watch cap, what I called a beanie, to cover my head. I thought if anyone calls me pelón (baldy), I’ll kill him. I looked like a lame.

One day I was drinking with a few friends, sitting in a car just outside of the barrio. I was half passed out, in the back seat. Someone called my name and without thinking I opened the door to get out. Grillo was there with three guys behind him, swinging a two-by-four, hitting me over the head. He didn’t knock me unconscious and I tried to protect myself as I cleared my head. I didn’t have a weapon but I let out a huge roar and came at him. He dropped the two-by-four and ran down the nearby arroyo. His boys scattered. I chased him down the arroyo but he was much faster than I was in my drunken condition. He climbed the bank, looking down at me.

"Grillo, I said, shaking my fist at him, You’ve done things to other guys that I have said nothing about. Now you’re in trouble with me. If I ever see you, you know what will happen". I also vowed never to be so drunk that an enemy could steal up on me.

For the next few days Grillo didn’t come to the barrio. I was thinking about going after him, tracking him down in Guasti or some of the other places I knew he hung in. My carnal, Nico told me that Grillo had threatened him and he fought him and beat him. I didn’t know whether to believe Nico or not. He was the youngest of my carnales, not very big and not a great fighter. He was Grillo’s size but not as muscular.

Within a few days Nico had killed Grillo. I wasn’t there, but the way I heard it was that Grillo started pushing Nico around to provoke him so he could have an excuse to knife him. Nico went to the trunk of a nearby car and took out a twenty two rifle and shot Grillo. When he went down, Nico gave him two more rounds in the head, killing him on the spot.

Nico was picked up and charged and held at Juvy Hall. There was an inquest. Everyone was sure that Nico would go away for a longer time than Pelaquillo even at his young age. From the police investigation it looked like Nico had ambushed Grillo, killing him for no reason. Most of the people in the barrio, knew what a bully Grillo was and how vicious he could be, but getting involved in a police matter was something that folks would not to do. It looked bad for Nico.

Nico did what he had to. He knew just how deadly Grillo was and he had good reason to fear for his life. I now believed he had whipped Grillo as he had said. For Grillo that would have been a humiliation, a stain, that he would have had to wipe clean and the only way to do was to kill Nico and he would have done it sooner or later. What Nico gave Grillo was justice. We in the barrio knew that, but we also knew that the gabacho’s law didn’t operate that way. We were all surprised when, at the inquest, Grillo’s cousin testified that Grillo was a bully with the younger kids, that he had a knife and had threatened Nico with it. The judge must have looked at Nico and seen a scared kid, almost a white boy, and decided that he was no murderer. They found that Nico acted in self defense and dropped the charges. Nico’s father owned a bar in the barrio, La Isla. After the inquest he quickly sold it. He was afraid that Grillo’s carnales would seek revenge and that he couldn’t protect his son. Nico stayed away from us after that. Soon, he and his family moved up north and I never saw him again.

Don Pancho couldn’t get out of bed any more. When I saw him lying in his own mess, I got angry at my mother for not taking better care of him. My poor mother! She worked hard all her life, raised ten kids and was always poor. But that is not how I thought in those days. A man could do anything he wanted, but not a woman. She had to do what a man told her. And yet, a woman, or a girl, is what I wanted more than anything and could not have. My visits to surrounding barrios to go to jamaicas, big, public parties, were to meet girls or to fight and many times fighting was my only choice. I was clumsy and tongue-tied with girls and even though I could see many times that girls were interested in me, I was too shy to pursue them.

I spent as much time out of the barrio as I did in it. Cuca was my home, my base. Everyone there knew that I was one of the guys that ran the barrio. Still less than sixteen, people talked to me about what mattered in the barrio. A guy named Carranza was causing trouble. He had stabbed someone for no reason and we were worried that he would bring the law down on us. I volunteered to run him out. I knew him slightly and from his reputation I didn’t much care for him. I was also a little tickled that the real life general, Venustiana Carranza was defeated by Pancho Villa during the Mexican revolution. History was now going to repeat itself.

I stopped him in the street one evening. I was dressed to go to a fiesta in Pomona and I certainly didn’t want to get my full Pachuco suit dirty. My expression was serious. I said to him, Carranza, get out of the barrio and stay out. You know what you’ve done and I don’t want to see you here any more. You understand me, don’t you?

He looked at me like he couldn’t understand what I just said. He was much older and bigger than I was. I could see that he was stalling to try to decide what kind of move to make. When he looked into my face he was confused. He knew my reputation for violence and I could see the fear in his face. Still, he couldn’t let a youngster push him around. Who the hell do you think you are? What do I care what you think? He made no move but held his ground. He was hoping I would discuss the matter with him.

Instead, I pulled the thirty-eight out of my topcoat pocket and pointed it at his head. His face went white. The hand in his pocket was probably wrapped around his filero, but he knew if he pulled out he was dead. Hey listen, Santana…

I fired, right past his head but close enough so that he probably felt the wind of the bullet. He backed up a little and started to say something else. I fired again. He turned and ran. I fired over and over again, not wanting to hit him, until he was out of sight. Then, I reloaded my gun and went to the fiesta.

I didn’t see Carranza in Cucamonga any more, but I did hear from him a few months later at a jamaica in Paramount, a neighboring town. I met my sister, Graviela there. I was standing on the side of the dance floor, watching her dance. Carranza and a few of his boys came up and started talking bad to me. I made a move toward him and someone said loudly, Take it outside. By now half the people there knew there was going to be trouble and were curious. I walked outside to meet Carranza and his boys. As soon as we got near where the cars were parked Carranza wheeled around and started shooting at me. The crowd scattered quickly. Now it was just Carranza and his boys and me. We were maybe fifty feet apart. I pulled my gun out, and with a loud shout, I charged them, blazing away. They ran for cover, ducking behind a car. I reloaded and approached them slowly. They were not firing any more. When I saw where they were hiding I fired at them, deliberately, taking my time, one shot at a time. I didn’t have much of a chance to hit them but I wanted them to believe that I was not going to rest until I killed them all. I heard one or two of them running away into the darkness and another couple dive under a car, hugging the ground, getting themselves filthy. Laughing to myself, I got Graviela and went home.

4

Throughout the barrios from San Gabriel in the west to Corona and Norco in the east, things were changing. The Pachuco influence was fading. The older vatos (one of the guys) who still wore the full dress looked a little silly. I still wore the pants and shoes and, sometimes, the hat and always the suspenders, but I usually wore suits and ties if I was really dressed up, and my topcoat. Nobody dressed exactly like I did. Nobody was exactly like I was.

Heroin was also spreading like wildfire through the barrios. There were always tecatos, drug addicts, older men that we all knew. They were peaceful and nobody bothered them. A certain brotherhood between them existed throughout all the barrios. If one was sick and didn’t have any carga (heroin), he could call on another addict to help him out, even give him drugs if he couldn’t pay for them on the spot. If a tecato went from Cucamonga to Pomona to score some carga, nobody bothered him, nobody hurt him. Everybody believed that they were no threat to the community.

At the same time the spread of heroin was going on and spreading mellowness, the gangs that were forming in all the barrios became more violent. Tecatos were still given a free pass in all the barrios, but no one else.

Like all kids, I didn’t think about the future. I just wanted to be important in the barrios. If I had lived in another place maybe I’d want to be an athlete or a doctor or a businessman. From the time I was a peewee I could see that the men around me who were admired were men who lived by a code. They were men who took care of their own. The best of these men weren’t cruel to the weak and they never forgot an insult or an injury if it took a lifetime to repay it. They were loyal to those close to them. They were outlaws. They went where they wanted, but always loyal to their barrio. They had what they wanted when they wanted it, whether it was money, alcohol, drugs or women. The price they paid for that life was sometimes an early death or almost always prison. They were looked up to by all but the citizens and some of them secretly admired the outlaw, especially if they took it out on gabachos. My goal was to be the best of them, the most respected, the most admired, the most feared and I was well along on my way before I was seventeen.

Don Pancho died. I didn’t exactly grieve but I didn’t have any bad feelings for his memory either even though he treated me badly when I was a kid. I was grown up enough by now to understand his hard life and feel sympathy for him. He had been my mother’s husband for about fifteen years and she mourned him. I felt sorry for my mother. At the same time he was better off dead, his suffering over. My mother now had only four children at home. She looked old because of her hard life. Still in her forties, she looked sixty. With Don Pancho gone she had no income. There was no life insurance. My three older sisters were now married and between them and my brother, Toribio, we provided the money she needed to live and take care of my step-brothers and sisters. Toribio was in the Air Force. I was the oldest son near my family and, whether I liked it or not, I