A Stranger’s Album Yields Sketchy Portrait of Innocence Lost

The photo album is fat and dressed up in frilly lace. Once, the cloth must have been as white as the billowy gown worn by the teenage girl kneeling before a priest in the photograph framed on the cover. Now the lace is gray with grime, and as for the girl, it seems that she has gone through some changes as well.

Her name is Claudia, that much is clear. Beneath the cellophane on the first page is an invitation to her quinceanera, the traditional Mexican celebration for a daughter’s 15th birthday. Her parents, Rayo and America, did not scrimp. Images of the church service and party fill the next 20 pages: teenagers in tuxedos and formal gowns, a cake as tall as the beaming birthday girl. Preserved on one page is a souvenir birth certificate from Long Beach Memorial Hospital, complete with tiny footprints. Claudia was born at 7:14 a.m. on Feb. 9, 1978, measuring 21 inches and weighing 8 pounds, 8 ounces.

Certainly Claudia is the album’s rightful owner, yet somehow it wound up at a swap meet in the Cypress College parking lot. A man with no emotional attachment to what he was selling had placed it in a row of goods priced at $1 apiece. My sister wondered how something so personal, so precious, could end up there. The mystery deepened as she turned the pages and got to the first newspaper clipping:

SP gangs exchange fire; 2 die

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And from that page on, innocence seems left behind,

traded in for la vida loca, the crazy life of gang culture. Claudia’s life happens to be centered in Long Beach and San Pedro, but her kindred spirits are scattered far and wide. There are scores of photos showing homeboys and homegirls proudly flashing gang signs; of shirtless men showing off tattoos and muscles that suggest prison life; of a young man in a wheelchair with a baby in his arms.

There are more news accounts of homicides, robberies and other crimes, as well as programs from five funerals between June ’93 and July ’96. The causes of the deaths are not readily apparent, but four were buried while still in their 20s. Among them was a woman who shares Claudia’s last name. A sister? A cousin? Pressed inside the pages are two flowers that may have been saved from the funerals.

There are letters from young men behind bars who sometimes address Claudia as “Pebbles.” Three or perhaps four were sent from an inmate named Jimmy who skillfully decorates his correspondence with pencil drawings of women, a couple embracing, hearts. Jimmy’s full name also appears in the first newspaper clipping; he was arrested in connection with gang conflict that left two dead. In signing one letter, he adds “A.K.A. Danger.” A valentine a few months later appears to be his handiwork but is signed: “Lonely.”

There are miscellaneous mementos--a Disneyland pass, photos of a friend’s baby, labels from 40-ounce bottles of Mickey’s Fine Malt Liquor, two pressed marijuana leaves. There are images of Christ and the Virgin Mary, plus a copy of the Lord’s Prayer: . . . lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil . . .

Guns are brandished. In one photo, three husky young women strike a menacing pose. The one who vaguely resembles the girl in the quinceanera celebration hoists a pump-action shotgun. A note is found on the back:

To my carnalia “Pebbles,”

Well mija here’s how the photo came out of us. . . . Well carnalia hope you liked it cause i sure think it came out firme. Yupp we’re just living the vida loca y firme tambien. Take real good care of it. . . .

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Sorting through the artifacts of a stranger’s life creates a certain voyeuristic intrigue. My sister spent $1, thinking her brother the newspaperman might be able to find Claudia.

The album’s most recent mail reached Claudia in Long Beach two Decembers ago. There is no phone listing for her. The Department of Motor Vehicles no longer releases addresses to the media, but a clerk could tell me that a woman with Claudia’s name and date of birth had her license revoked 2 1/2 years ago after she failed to appear on a warrant in juvenile court. What the original charges were, the clerk didn’t know.

I don’t know if Claudia will call and ask for her scrapbook (she’s welcome to it), and I’m not sure what the moral of this story is.

But perhaps Claudia and kindred spirits would accept some friendly advice: Don’t just take real good care of your photos and keepsakes. Take care of yourselves.

‘There are more news accounts of homicides, robberies and other crimes.’