LOS ANGELES — I met my first jacaranda tree in the spring of 1989. My parents had recently moved us from a granny flat in a rough part of Anaheim to a three-bedroom, two-bath, one-swimming pool American dream in a better part of town.
With a frontyard of their own, my parents did what any good Mexicans would do: They planted colorful flowers and trees. Vibrant roses, flashy birds of paradise. A massive bougainvillea that doubled as a thorny fence to make sure cholos didn't climb over from the apartments next to us. Orange, lemon and mandarin trees that continue to bear fruit all these decades later.
When the jacarandas bloomed, that initial burst of color — tiny, bright flowers seemingly as numerous as the stars — prettied the neighborhood like nothing I had ever seen. One tree towered over the house next door. Another was across the street. More were down the street near the house where my cousins would soon move. For a couple of days, it seemed as if our block floated in a purple cloud.
