The Rest of Us Are Already Here

                                                                                 

El Camaguey Market, on the roof, flying the colors of all Latin America

                                                                                               

     I remember some years back, could be five, maybe even ten, seeing a cartoon someone posted on social media. It was a drawing of a large U.S. Navy vessel stopped alongside a rowboat filled with half a dozen Mexicans off the California coast. One of the American sailors called down. “Why are you out here?”

     A Mexican called back, “We’re coming to the U.S. to start a revolution.”

     The American sailors, watching, started laughing. One called down, “Just you?”

     The Mexican answered, “No. The rest of us are already here.”

     I had a good laugh. I mean, there are many ways to interpret the piece, right, depending on where you might live in the U.S.? Those in the East might see it differently from those in the Midwest, the deep South, the Dakotas, the Pacific Northwest or the Southwest. Coming from Los Angeles, home to the largest Mexican population outside of Mexico, I figured the idea of a “revolution” meant a cultural transformation, not an armed insurrection.

     If Mexicans, African Americans, Asians, Arabs, or any other ethnic group had charged towards the capital in Washington D.C., on January 6^th, to start a revolution, they would have been mowed down before they reached the first steps of the building.

     Los Angeles has been my family’s home since 1917, five generations on both maternal and paternal sides, raised in roughly the same general area, Santa Monica, Culver City, Venice, and West Los Angeles. I always remembered a blend of cultures, mostly Mexican, Anglos, Japanese, and some African American, with a smattering of others throughout the years. My grandparents’ generation wasn’t the first generation of Mexicans here.

     Historically, exploration and migration from Mexico into what we know todays as the U.S. has been continuous since Cabeza de Vaca’s adventures in 1526, surviving among Indians, from Florida into Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona, or what we know as the Southwest. In subsequent years, cataclysmic events, on both sides of the border, caused this migration to soar, of course, 1600 to 1700, when Spanish Mexican explorers settled New Mexico and Texas. In California, during the founding of settlements and missions from San Diego to San Francisco. 

     In later years, two major cataclysmic events brought Mexicans north, one the Mexican revolution (1910-1925), and the second, the Cristero War (1926-1929). Mexicans settled in cities and towns from Michigan to Kansas City and across the Southwest, working in mines, agriculture, manufacturing, and the railroads. Captains of industry welcomed the cheap labor with open arms. The U.S. and Mexico cooperated in bracero programs during the two world wars, which opened the doors to thousands more workers from Mexico, some who returned to Mexico, and many who didn’t.

     Then, in the 1980s, the turmoil created by U.S., CIA-supported civil wars in Central America, started the early migrant caravans from El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua. We can't forget the poverty created by U.S. industries in Latin America, like petroleum, mining, and agriculture, ignoring environmental laws, that displaced thousands who also came north, after the destruction of their farms and homes. Most all those folks came, found work, settled in, and have been here for years. However, if we consider our indigenous blood, our roots go back thousands of years, deep, like the redwoods in the Sierras.

     The point is, that’s a lot of Mexicans/Latinos, just in California more than 15 million, 35 percent of the population, and some estimate close to half the population in twenty years, yet the Golden State continues to be one of the more prosperous in the nation, in nearly all categories of industry. In the U.S., Latinos are almost 20 percent of the U.S. population, the largest minority group in the country. So, in the cartoon, when the Mexican in the boat said, “The rest of us are already here,” he wasn’t lying, the irony right in our faces.

     As I walk my Mar Vista neighborhood on L.A.’s, quite expensive, westside, I see the cultural revolution in full swing. In the 1950s, there were, maybe, three or four Mexican restaurants in town. Today, everywhere I look, I see Mexican, Salvadoran and Oaxacan, restaurants, bakeries, and markets, and Latino sections at, even, Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods. Anglos are pulling corn and flour tortillas off the shelf with the same gusto they go after bread. Then, there's the more recent migration from Southeast Asia, the Middle and Far East, a Thai noodle shop at the corner, and on busy Venice Boulevard, Brazilian, Nepalese, Ethiopian, and Cuban food to die for.

     Around the corner from my house, on Venice boulevard, El Camaguey Cuban market, today, caters to all Latin American populations, including Haitians and Dominicans. I stand at the counter, and I see Argentinian “mate” cups on a shelf, alongside, bottles of various Mexican and Latin American concoctions of – who knows what? I think my grandfather used to call them “boticas,” translation, could be a pharmacy or a bottle of medicine.

     Then there’s the old school hair tonic, Tres Flores, which comes in wax or liquid, and I can’t forget, the Mexican favorite, displayed at the counter, Corn Nuts, in the original designed package, or what my Spanish-speaking uncle would call, “Maiz como puerco.”

     The butcher is at the back of the store. One day, I watched a young Anglo converse with him, asking about the best cut of meat for carne asada. The butcher, with a heavy accent, asked, “Marinated or plain.”

     The guy said, “Which tastes better?”

     The butcher recommended the marinated, thinly cut slices of meat. “Easy to cook, and tender. Just needs salsa on it.”

     So, that’s what the guy bought, the marinated cut. I also saw a lot of meat in the case I didn’t recognize, some of it looking back at me. I didn’t even ask. At the counter, two women talked, like they were meeting for the first time, one who said she was from Argentina, the other from Costa Rica, both with light skin, dark eyes, fairly tall, and slim, more Caucasian-looking than Latinas, another dashed stereotype.

     A few stores down from Camaguey, on the other side of a video game store and a hipster bar, $14.00 for a shot of tequila, is the “crunchy” Venice bakery, which serves a fusion of Mexican-Caribbean cuisine, bolillos, pan dulce, blueberry muffins, cakes, and the finest tres leche cakes. The place is always crowded, with young college kids, workers, families, and the obvious out-of-towners. Want a table? Put your name on the list. 

     The soft sounds of Crosby, Stills, and Nash, waft through air (can music waft? Quien sabe?). Tomorrow, it might be Los Tigres del Norte, Bad Bunny, or Kendrick Lamar.

     Close to the curb, la tamalera, has set up shop, under an umbrella, a large container on a table filled with this morning’s freshly cooked steaming tamales, pork, beef, chicken, and green chile with cheese. Her husband drives by a few hours each day to resupply her cache. She sits there eight-to-ten hours a day, almost every day, in her spot for well over two years, now, and a steady stream of customers. That’s not counting the paleta guy who rings his bell at the nearby park, or the taco stands that set up shop each day in front of Vons and CVS at the busy corners of National and Sepulveda. Fruit? The multi-colored umbrella and fruit carts are everywhere.

     It all reminds me of the song "Los Illegales," by Los Tucanes de Tijuana, where they sing, “The illegal is not a terrorist/ the illegal is a laborer/ Why do they want to kill us/ Be careful, we are many and over there come millions more.” Los Tucanes don’t want to scare people, just sing about what’s real, like when they belt out, “Terrorists have passports/ They don’t come in through land but by plane/ That’s why you shouldn’t bother with us/ But recognize we are only here to work.”

     So, I guess it’s true, U.S. culture has already changed, and continues to change, and, it appears, for the better, and not just in food and music but in all aspects of our daily lives, and it doesn’t just go one way. Culture affects everyone, like the kids of immigrants, who not only listen to Mexican rock and the hip, new ranchera sound, but tap into rap, classic rock, and Metal, preferring a cheeseburger over a taco.

     So, there's no doubt, the Mexican character in the cartoon, who calls up from the boat to the American sailors, “The rest of us are already there,” knows something maybe others are missing.

Daniel Cano is the author of the award-winning novel, "Death and the American Dream," the last days of Ricardo Flores Magon and the Magonistas in the U.S.