When Ricky was about 20, he narrowly escaped a prison sentence on a drug charge. A public defender in Northern California--struck by the same qualities of intelligence, charm, and promise that struck me when I tutored Ricky in high school--persuaded a judge to sentence him to probation. Ricky was given fair warning that if he violated probation, the full sentence would be reinstated.
Alas, he did violate the probation. He came home to L.A., took a job as a salesman in an auto showroom, and excelled at it. The last time I saw him as a free man, he was nattily dressed, entertaining and photographing the guests at his brother's wedding. Not long after that, though, he was stopped for a minor traffic violation. A routine license check identified him as a probation violator. In short order he was locked up, serving his suspended sentence.
After his release, several years later, Ricky, now a convicted criminal with no right to a green card, was deported to Mexico. But how was he to live? When his mother entered this country illegally in the mid-1970s, bringing three of her children with her, Ricky was only 11. Everyone who means anything to him, everyone who might help him make a new life for himself, is here. Looking and sounding like millions of native Californians of Latin descent, he slipped back across the border without any difficulty.
Ricky is now 33. At the time of his most recent arrest, he was living with his married brother, Victor, working, and, according to Victor (who has never hesitated to criticize Ricky), never even going out in the evening. When I heard this, I told Victor, whom I see fairly often, that I wanted to have a reunion with Ricky. As a surprise gift, I bought a toolbox and started assembly a set of tools from the two sets of tools (and half of another) I have inherited from relatives. Ricky's high school ambition had been to be a contractor, then an architect. With a set of tools, I thought, Ricky could pick up work as a handyman.
As bad luck would have it, the reunion never came about. Once again, a traffic violation--an expired license on a motor scooter he had borrowed--was Ricky's undoing. Once again he is serving a prison sentence. Some months from now, he will complete his sentence and be deported again. Some days or weeks after that, he will turn up unannounced in the only city that feels like home.
And then, maybe, he and I will have our reunion after all.
Perhaps, but his response to the news that I wanted to see him was the letter mentioned above, which included the following:
I will always remember carrying your daughter on my back when we went to search for the waterfall.
But before we meet again, let me let you in on a few things that I've learned:
I've learned that you cannot make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved, the rest is up to them.
I've learned that no matter how much I care, some people just don't care back.
I've learned that it takes years to build up trust, and only seconds to destroy it.
I've learned that it's not what you have in life, but who you have in your life that counts.
I've learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes, after that, you'd better know something.
I've learned that you can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.
I've learned that it's taking me a long time to become the person I want to be.
I've learned that you should always leave loved ones with loving words, it may be the last time you see them.
I've learned that you can keep going long after you think you can't.
I've learned that there are a few people who love you dearly, but just don't know how to show it.
And last but not least, I've learned that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.