Over 30 years ago, the man who would become my father, then a 21-year-old Chicano, glided through Tustin, where he had recently moved, in his Chevy Super Sport Impala. The bright summer day made his prized ’65 glisten down the scorching asphalt of the street. With four of his friends in tow and in search of food, my father drove to a 7-Eleven. A cop soon began following him. At first, just one cop car signaled my father to pull into the parking …
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