How Tio Ernesto Came Face to Face with la Rata

Chicano Love Letters #3

Tio,

I wish I could talk to you more about Manuel Ortiz, the boxer that you and all the locos in El Centro called la Rata. The story about how you came to know him never fails to surprise me, especially because he went on to become what some call one of the great bantamweight fighters ever. Unfortunately, he has mostly been forgotten.

Since you left, I’ve heard a thousand stories about Manuel Ortiz and my Tío Carlos, the kind of stories that Mexican people tell over and over again. Those two men were not only bound by the blood of ancestors, they knew the blood and bruises of boxing. They were about the same age, they came from the same situation, and they emerged from the same barrio. My uncle never climbed to the heights that Ortiz did, but the friendship lasted for years, even though the sorrow and pain they faced later in life.

I’v been digging up information about Ortiz over the last year. It’s hard to understand how such a legendary fighter can be forgotten with time. He defended his title 15 times in a row between ‘42 and ’47, traveling around the globe, knocking down top contenders one by one. Had the world not been drowning in the blood of war he would surely be remembered as one of the all-time greats. Knowing the stories you told me, Ortiz deserves to be memorialized on the silver screen. Still, I can’t imagine the indignities he suffered. The slurs, slammed doors, the swindling of his prize money. The LA Times wrote about his epic, upcoming championship fight at the Olympic Auditorium in 1947 calling him a simple Mexican farmer. Maybe they were only trying to highlight his humble origins, but that is a pretty shallow illustration of a world-class athlete like Ortiz.

I’m writing to you because I’d like to piece together the story of how you first crossed paths with Ortiz. But first, I still have many questions about you! There were so many sides to you, so many emotions, so many beliefs you held that set you apart from your siblings. I can’t figure out where to begin. You made the best out of whatever life handed you. You found joy in an old book, a black and white movie that you watched a thousand times, and even a simple conversation. But you also experienced tragedy that most men wouldn’t survive. You were there on that blood-stained beach on D-Day, 1944. Bombs, bullets, fallen comrades. The kind of nightmare that lingers on long after you awaken. You may have walked away from that beach but the ghosts followed you until the end.

You and my father were children of the desert, as our ancestors had been for a thousand generations. You spent your youth drifting between Yuma, Arizona and El Centro, California, a strip of the borderlands between Tucson and San Diego that only people native to that land can tolerate. What was it like growing up in a place like that during the Depression? My father said that El Centro was split right down the middle, with white people on one side of the tracks and everyone else on the other. To me it seems like torture. But El Centro somehow continued to grow. The sun came first, caressing our ancestors with its merciless heat. Then the border rose from the sand, a line in the Earth that left a scar in the memory of two nations. After that green fields were carved out of the dry Earth, making some people rich and breaking the backs of others.

With all of that desperation, with the wandering spirits of starved and stubborn souls, they somehow created a place where the lost came looking. And when the Depression hit, everyone from Mexico to Oklahoma came with a shovel and hands full of hope. But the desert was all you knew. You took the heat and the chaos like a gust of cool wind. You were there, the sun hammering down on your brow, dust covered boots, strolling down a desert path happy as a humming bird.

It was your town. I can see you walking around with an unmatched swagger, wearing your finest second-hand trousers, a tight, slim-fit shirt, and a pair of spit-shined leather shoes. Like me your skin was the color of the red earth. Your chiseled face and high cheekbones were cut from stone. Your tall, thin and muscular frame made you stand out. Tia Lola told me that your black eyes pierced the heart of every young woman in town.

But when you found Gabriela the noise of the world went away. She appeared like a mirage in the desert. You stopped smiling at every pretty face you passed. You took her on long walks, bought her ice cream on hot days, and sat with her in the park under the shade of a giant magnolia tree. You were spell bound. You loved her braided hair, her beautiful eyes, and her soft voice. She was from Mexicali, just across the border, and you thought she was the most beautiful girl in town. At just 17, you had one more year of school left, but you dreamed of taking Gabriela with you to see the ocean in San Diego. It was the kind of dream the desert offers up before teaching you how to lose.

But what did you know about Gabriela? She grew up in Mexico, she was new to the area, and had no family anyone could name. She appeared like a desert storm, out of place, bringing dormant flowers to life, and gone in the blink of an eye. The other ladies in town didn’t trust her. They called her names and made faces behind her back. Perhaps they were jealous. But maybe they knew something you didn’t. It angered you that your relationship was the talk of the town. It was nobody’s business!

Then your old flame Esmeralda showed up like a bad omen. “Hey, guapo,” she said. “You’re playing with fire.”

A couple of days later you were walking the streets proudly with Gabriela at your side. “I’ll show them”, you thought. You wanted everyone in town to know that you and Gabriela would be together forever. Just then, José Camarena, an old friend whose family was also from Yuma, tapped you on the shoulder. “José, long time no see. What’s going on?” José asked if he could speak to you in private. “Hey, no problem.” You left Gabriela on a bench and stepped away to talk with José.

“What’s up? I’m with my girl,” you told him.

“Ernesto, what are you doing? Don’t you know who that is? That’s la Rata’s girl.”

“What? La Rata, who the hell is that?”

“He’s a tough kid. And Gabriela is his girl. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave Gabriela alone and never look back” said José.”

“La Rata? Are you kidding me?” you said. “If this Rata want’s Gabriela, tell him he can come and try to take her from me.” You walked away feeling brave, declaring to the world that Gabriela was your lady!”

Soon after that Gabriela returned to Mexico to visit a relative. You had been without her for a week. You were lonely and missed her soft smile. You drifted through the streets, gazing at the sky, wondering when she would return. Maybe you would buy her flowers or chocolates. Maybe you would run away together. You were love struck. Walking and wandering, you didn’t know which way to go.

Suddenly, a gust of hot air blew sand in your face. You rushed to the water fountain to clear your eyes. You felt someone looking. You looked up and saw a beautiful face smiling at you — and you smiled back.

Just then you heard the ruckus of a small crowd that had gathered in the park. You ran to see what all the commotion was about. You broke your way through the crowd. In the middle of it all was a Mexican kid, small and muscular, like a stick of dynamite, about 5 foot 4 inches tall, trading blows with a 6 foot white man. The giant was a young man, athletic, powerful and determined. But he was doomed from the start. The kid was moving in and out, dodging, ducking, and jabbing his way around the giant. You had never seen someone with his speed. The giant was helpless. His face was bloodied and he began to cower at the might of this little warrior.

You couldn’t believe it. It was the most exciting fight you had ever witnessed. Two more blows and finally the giant fell. The crowd went wild. You were shaking your head in disbelief. You had a smile on your face and your heart surged with pride. This little Mexican scraper had the heart of kings. You had momentarily forgotten all about Gabriela, the spell was broken.

You asked the guy next to you, “who is that kid?”

“That’s la Rata” he said.

What a moment of surprise that must have been. It shook you out of your love struck state. You told me that you stopped seeing Gabriela that day and you and Ortiz laughed about the story once or twice over the years. Ortiz never did have much luck with love. You once told me that you saw him many years later in the late 1960s. You were in a bar in Tijuana. He was already sick and broke, the fire in his heart gone.

It’s a damn shame what happens to our great ones. They rise like the rarest of desert flowers, only to be forgotten before it even blooms.