López continued from page 5 a little bit in Chicago, worked in Houston, but I didn’t jump on a plane until I was well into college. My dad is a janitor. My mom was a teacher. She was a bilingual teacher. She taught in the community we grew up in, by choice. Teachers don’t make anything; they didn’t make anything back then, either. My parents struggled. There was a lot that we were dealing with at home. I moved, I think I’ve counted 27 times in my life. My dad, his company would get replaced at one of these buildings downtown, and we would have to move. I was having a conversation with somebody about commodities, and they didn’t know what commodity foods were, but anybody who’s had the peanut butter or the canned pork or the farina or the powdered milk, they would know. My parents, it was a little chaotic at home. I’m not trying to create a sob story, but it was really hard, and I left very early. So you lived on your own? I bounced back and forth from my grand- mother’s house to my house. In a nutshell, worked since I was fourteen years old, bussing tables, washing dishes, cleaning concourses at Mile High Stadium. I was a janitor. I needed to buy my own clothes and pay for my own haircuts, and I learned how to do that at an early age. There was one point where I was sleeping in a tent in my grandmother’s back- yard. My parents went to go live in a Motel 6, and there was just no room for me. I didn’t want to tell that story when I fi rst ran, because I didn’t want people to think badly about my mom or my dad. But now my mom’s passed, and her story...the thing is, my story is not unique at all. It’s not. I was a representation of what a lot of us have gone through. But we lived all over the Westside. I went to four dif- ferent elementary schools. Let me see: Ruby Hill, Russell, Newlon, Knapp. Four different elementary schools. I got held back in fi rst grade. My teacher had ridiculed me in front of my class. She was reading about Rabbit in the Southwest, Cone-joe, she called it. And I was a little fi rst-grader, and I said, Miss, I think his name is Conejo. She said, Only clowns speak Spanish. We don’t speak Spanish in here, do we, Mr. López? You’re not a clown, are you? So I got held back, because my mom plucked me out of the class. And as a Chicano kid growing up, I wasn’t Mexican enough, and then I was obviously not white. To be Chicano and Mexican, you have this duality, right? Just to clarify for others, you are a U.S. citizen who identifi es... As Mexican. Or I’ll say Chicano, that’s great. But I say Mexicano. How long has your family been living in this part of the U.S.? When we start talking about Colorado and New Mexico and the notch area...the U.S. border has moved, and the state border has moved, so it’s like, how do we count generations in this part of the country? Six. A lot of us were ashamed to call our- 6 selves Mexicans because there was always something in front of it [lists slurs], to the point where my grandmother didn’t teach my mother Spanish on purpose so they could assimilate. And my grandmother’s family is from northern New Mexico and northern Colorado. They sold veggies, they upholstered furniture. So the gardening, and my grand- mother would always reupholster furniture instead of buying things new. Her handwrit- ing was impeccable. She left school when she was little to take care of the rest of the family. Their family goes back like six generations. I’ve traced it; I’ve done my homework. I used to argue with my grandmother. I would say, you’re from Mexico somewhere, right, Grandma? And she was like, No, we’re from here. My grandmother, she was born in Love- land and raised in Timnath — they moved to Timnath after living in New Mexico — and then Greeley and northern Colorado, Weld County. She picked sugar beets — that was the crop up there. She met my grandfather; She says, Get over here. She says, Paulie, my brothers all went to war. My friends in New Mexico went to war, and some didn’t come back. My grandfather was there, and he was like, You need to go to school. My grandfather served with Joe P. Mar- tínez, the Congressional Medal of Honor winner. He came back hurt, my grandfather. And that meant something to me, for him to say it, ’cause I really wanted to [enlist]. Ended up going to CU Denver. I worked as a bar- tender, as a busboy; I worked as a cook. I had three jobs. I almost failed my fi rst semester. I wasn’t ready for it. Nobody taught me about email, anything like that. And I paid my way, through the whole fi ve years. And if it wasn’t for joining MEChA, the Chicano student movement, and UMAS, [United Mexican-American Students] — now exists, and Courthouse Square still exists. Not a bunch of posh, high-rise, trendy little apartments. It’s for people who really need to live downtown. How did you go from organizing to becom- ing an elected offi cial? I was thirteen years old when I registered people to vote for the fi rst time, in Westwood. And the goal was to register people to vote so we could change the name of the school. Westwood Elementary was one of the oldest schools in the district, and that thing was probably built out of lead and asbestos. They were going to build a new school there any- way, and we decided in the community, my mother and others, to name it after Richard Castro — Rich Castro being a champion of bilingual education. So I went door-to-door with a clipboard, with my mom and others, and registered people to vote. Here I was in middle school, thirteen years old, awkward, squeaky voice, knocking on the prettiest girl in my school’s door, scared to death, and registering her family to vote. Change happens. But it doesn’t happen just because you’re holding up a picket sign. If that doesn’t translate into power at the bal- lot box, then change is not going to happen. I grew up in the U.S. carrying a green card and then became a citizen at age 21 so that I could vote in a presidential election. I feel that having the right to vote is essential to having a voice in a democracy. Absolutely. But that’s not the only thing to a democracy. Voting is one piece of a democracy. If you’re eighteen, you can register to Paul López with fellow Broncos fan Mayor Michael Hancock. he was doing the same thing. And that was the short-handled hoe. [Points to farm implement on a shelf in his offi ce.] They were both farm laborers. The short-handled hoe was banned through the UFW, the farmworkers’ union, because you had to bend over and it hurt your back. It was not a good tool, you know? And just last year, we passed the Farmworkers’ Bill of Rights here in Colorado. We were talking about the Westside, back in the day. Went to West. Wasn’t the best student in the world, but I wasn’t the worst. I was bored at the time. Played baseball, got hurt playing baseball. Was going to go to the Army, or the Marines. I placed really high on the ASVAB [Armed Services Vocational Aptitute Battery] test — districtwide, I was one of the highest placements. And man, I had every recruiter at my door. They were going to make me an offi cer right out of the gate ’cause of that score. My grandmother intercepted a call one day, and he introduced himself as Gunnery Sergeant James. And she was like, What? What? Army — Marines? Looking for my Paul? No, no, no, no. You got me? And I heard it. I was like, Oh crap. What did you major in? Political science. Business. It was boring, and I didn’t like the culture. Then it was biology, and that only lasted a little while. Then philosophy and then political science. I loved it. I loved it because I had some great teachers, particularly Dr. Tony Robinson. He was solid, and involved in MEChA and doing his stuff — organizing. And he was like, I’ll pay you to do that. We had the Westside Outreach Center, and we organized folks who were living in Section 8. And we marched right into Mayor Wellington Webb’s offi ce. We sat in. The good thing was, we had a mayor at the time who was willing to listen, and the city moved to save East Village, and now East Village still my chosen family, my dearest friends — I would never have lasted. My fi rst Fs and Ds were in college. In sociology, for crying out loud. Who gets a D in sociology? Me. Right? ’Cause I didn’t take it serious, and I didn’t see myself in a classroom. We got involved in the Chicano student movement, and it just made sense to me after that. And I saw myself as belonging and realized I should be in this classroom. vote and be a voter. What about all those kids who have to do the let’s-hide-behind- the-door drills? They have a voice. Just because they can’t vote doesn’t mean they can’t participate. We have student election judges who are not old enough to vote, yet they are participating. We have young people that know how to go door-to-door, and I’ve seen them do it. It’s that kind of stuff, right? It’s a culture of participation. Talk about the climate of bullying in general that has taken hold again in American society. What’s the right way to stand one’s ground? Don’t be a bully. Do not be in the position of a bully. To be the bully is to be an authoritar- ian and to have unjust power over somebody. The only way to defeat a bully in a union is to organize against them. Only way to do it in class is to do the same thing. The only way to do it as a society, as a democracy, is to stand up and participate. Your vote is powerful, but your participation is even more. To be in a democ- racy requires everyday intent. What you do every day. How do you participate? If you are undocumented, in an election, you can’t vote, but that doesn’t mean you can’t fl ier, it doesn’t mean you can’t go door-to-door or put a yard sign on your property. And that’s powerful. You were the youngest person elected to Denver City Council. At 28. Dang, I feel like one of the Jacksons! My childhood is gone, right? I didn’t have the chance to be a young man. But for me, the organizer’s paycheck is in your heart. This has been my life. When you’ve done something in the com- munity and you have continued on page 8 AUGUST 4-10, 2022 WESTWORD | MUSIC | CAFE | CULTURE | NIGHT+DAY | NEWS | LETTERS | CONTENTS | westword.com EVAN SEMÓN
