My Grandfather, A Killer
On rare occasions, Dad and I would get together for lunch. It was 2014, and I had just started a job at NPR. Dad was retired and lived 60 miles away.
From what I remember, we ate dim sum, which meant driving through the heart of downtown Los Angeles, the massive skyscrapers glistening in the afternoon sun.
It was quiet in the car. I was thinking about how Mom and Dad used to make this commute to LA every day for work. Two hours in the morning, two hours at night.
Dad interrupted my thoughts, pointing to a building on the side of the freeway.
"Did you know that my dad killed somebody in that place?"
"Wait, what?" I responded, almost missing the moment.
I never met my grandfather, Lolo Vicente, but I'd heard stories about him. On our living room wall, there's a picture of him. He was handsome. Dad said he was strict, but he never talked about him coming to America, much less that he killed someone. When I asked Dad why it had taken him so long to tell me, he said it's because I never asked.
A million thoughts raced through my head. Lolo was in America? Why was Lolo in America? Who did he kill? Did he go to prison?
But the main question tugging at me was what this all meant for the story of my family's history in America.
The murder had suddenly shattered my view of the quintessential immigrant narrative —
