“You mess with one, you mess with all!”  

A Testimonio 

Raphael Ivan Reyes Juarez, 
The University of Texas at El Paso    

 

Abstract: The following testimonio discusses the impact of immigration on a neighborhood in Puebla, Mexico. The author reflects on his personal experiences witnessing the transformation of his community from a peaceful, clean, quiet, and nature-filled area to a gang-dominated, loud, polluted urban environment. The sudden return of neighbors whose identity changed to deported migrants after living in the United States influenced the poorest neighbors to adopt a foreign street culture that resulted in violence, addiction, and destruction of the local environment. However, as time passed, the gangs dissipated, and the community began to heal and rebuild their lives. Today, the neighborhood is a vibrant and safe community that has found appreciation for its new local identity. This testimonio explores the ethical implications of immigration and its impact on a local community while acknowledging the importance of healing and growth. 

Keywords: immigration, importation, post-deportation, social transformation, street culture.  

*** 

In a graduate class about immigration at New Mexico State University, we discussed the book Border Rhetorics: Citizenship and Identity on the US-Mexico Border by Robert DeChaine. At some point during the class, we focused on DeChaine’s words, “Undocumented people living, breathing, and traveling within the United States are constantly reminded that they have crossed a border, even if that border is far away from where they are headed or ultimately arrive.”1 And, I felt I had already lived those words because I connected my past in my hometown, Puebla, Mexico with my present as an immigrant taking a class at an American university in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I remembered how I grew up seeing a radical social transformation that started with the return of neighbors who lived undocumented in the U.S. Something that later turned into gangs, addictions, and violence. I remembered the walls and spikes that we built around our houses to protect ourselves from a new lifestyle that came back in the minds of our migrants. 

The colonia or suburb Independencia is located around five miles away from Puebla’s downtown to the West, close to the town of San Pedro Cholula. Since “Puebla was conceived as an exclusive site for Spaniards”2 in the fifteenth century, several communities named colonias and barrios were built surrounding downtown. Most of them were occupied by local natives who were often discriminated against for being poor, unskilled, and uneducated.3 The old barrios have been restored and belong to the historic downtown, and modern colonias exist in the city’s boundaries, where people from all social strata coexist daily. I grew up in one of these colonias without a father during my first ten years. However, my grandparents and aunts gave me the support I needed to feel comfortable. In those days, mom used to work from 7 to 4 as a secretary in another town, and I barely saw her. However, grandma took my mom’s role, and I always considered myself her son. I had enough money in my pockets, friends and cousins to play with, an education in a private school, and warm food waiting for me at my grandma’s table. As a kid, I knew I had all my needs taken care of, and thanks to the relative peace we enjoyed at the colonia, I grew up with a sensation of comfort, support, security, and stability. 

One day, around 1994, I was hanging out with my neighborhood friends: Oscar, Toño, Jaime, and Neto. When my friend Jorge came over saying, “¿que onda? ¡watafá!” (What’s up? What the ****!) He sounded challenging and brave as he extended his right hand to us. My friends and I said, “¡qué onda! Oye, ¿pero que es eso de watafá?” (“What’s up? But what’s that ‘What the **** expression?’”) Jorge replied, “Ya sé inglés carnal. Así es como un amigo de mi papá que acaba de regresar del gabacho me dijo que dijera. ¡Watafá! Por si alguien me molesta, y también sirve pa´ saludar.” (I know English, bro. That’s how a friend of my dad that just came back from the U.S. told me to say. “What the ****!” In case somebody bothers me. Also, it works to say ”Hi”). I replied, “ah órale, que chido. Pero se escucha medio ridículo ¿No?” (Oh, okay, nice, but it sounds kind of ridiculous, no?) Jorge said, “¡pues no sé! El amigo de mi papá dice que así hablan los gringos.” (Then, I don’t know! My dad’s friend says that that’s how Americans talk.) In the colonia, we call any American citizen “gringo”, and this is not considered an insult, only a general description. 

In those days, Jorge’s parents used to have a little tiendita, a small convenience store that started as a great family business. They had a bit of everything: fresh fruit and vegetables, snacks, canned food, pet food, bottled water, sodas, alcohol, and even an arcade where my friends and I used to play for hours after school. Then, from one day to the next, I had to stop going. First, because there was one intoxicated man talking to Jorge’s dad. Second, because in less than a week, more intoxicated men joined, that was when the El Escuadrón de la Muerte—The Death Squad—took over the tiendita. The neighbors gave them that nickname because they were a group of men who were always spending their time in the surrounding areas dealing with their addictions 24/7. My friends and I could not get in the tiendita anymore because of the marijuana smoke, needles, and the strong smell of alcohol and urine on the walls. 

Fig. 1. The Isabel la Catolica Street was the scenario where all the social changes started in the ‘90s. On the left, the tiny houses that replaced the green fields, on the right, Jorge’s tiendita. Google Maps, Accessed March 2, 2024, https://www.google.com/maps 

As time passed, they started asking for money from anyone passing in front of them, and it was common to see them fighting and disturbing the peace of the area, firearms included. Soon, I discovered that one of these men had taught Jorge to say “¡watafá!” The man shared with Jorge some American street strategies to defend himself from strangers as well as how to defend the territory from other gangs. As a kid, I wondered, “Why was Jorge learning English to defend himself? Also, defend himself from whom? We are the only ones living here and have no problems with anybody.” 

I remember Jorge was around six when he started saying “¡watafá!” for everything. Like a greeting to his friends, an expression of surprise, a sign of victory or frustration. I even heard him saying “¡watafá!” to his mom. He had no idea that the friend of his dad wanted him to express “What the ****!”, an expression in English commonly used as a surprise or cursing. ”¡Watafá!” sounded fancy to Jorge, and it was a relief and a sign of bravery, too. 

As kids, the only knowledge we had about the U.S. was that gringos did not want Mexican people and that the U.S. was pretty far from us. Also, it is essential to mention that we did not have previous gangs in the colonia. Then, we did not even know what a gang was because we were almost isolated; our colonia was a small community with only a few houses, and transportation was scarce. The Death Squad talked about defending the street from possible enemies, however we did not know what this meant because there were no streets; there were only green fields to play, trees, sunflowers, and a pond to see fish and frogs. Also, there were no enemies to defend ourselves from because a few families lived there, and we all knew each other very well; thinking about “defending the street” was meaningless and did not make sense to us. Still, my friends and I were curious about the idea of the street because it was something new, and in the beginning, we thought we could adapt it to our environment since it came from the U.S. The place where people are richer, more modern, and more “civilized” than us. 

As I mentioned, the colonia was small, and most neighbors knew about each other’s lives; from mouth to mouth, we found out that after their deportation, many members of The Death Squad found relief in their addictions. They did not find social or health support when they returned to the colonia because most of the neighbors were equally poor, and medical or psychological treatments meant money few families had. Also, these services were only available if a car was available; the closest hospital was 30 minutes away, and there was no direct transportation. In the colonia, getting sick was a luxury few could afford. Then, without such communal support, The Death Squad expanded its influence and ideas with the less fortunate neighbors. Jorge’s dad was the first neighbor who began consuming drugs, and his wife could not do anything more than observe; violence in their relationship was usual. 

The recently deported migrants were addicted to a variety of drugs like alcohol, stone, marijuana, cocaine, or industrial solvents. As a kid, I remember asking myself, “How can they abuse their bodies that way? How is it fun to sit all day at the tiendita, drink, get high, and talk?” I could tell that for Jorge, sitting, smoking, drinking, and gambling with them became something special because he stopped hanging out with us, his friends. Meanwhile, my friends and I kept looking at him from the other side of the street. It was like an invisible wall had risen between us, and our friend was trapped on the other side. I remember trying to get him to return to us, but he could not understand me or speak correctly. I found him engaged in the same drugs his father and his brother were using; he was just a kid. 

Soon, other neighbors and friends became addicted to drugs. It was so fast that from one day to the next, I started seeing them drugged, pierced, tattooed, and wearing baggy clothes. It was surprising when they told me they were cholos, and gang members. A cholo is defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as “a Mexican American youth who belongs to a street gang.”4 I saw how they had tattoos, most of them related to Catholic beliefs, gang affiliation, girlfriends, children, parents, dreams, street anecdotes, or lost beloved ones. Seeing cholos talking, smoking, drinking, listening to loud hip-hop music, protecting, and respecting the nonexistent street became common. I could tell they felt untouchable and powerful because there were no local police. Our community was so small and far away that the government used to send one patrol twice a month from downtown; the police always passed in front of the tiendita and always greeted the gang members. Also, the police rarely interfered when there were problems in the colonia because they had agreements with the gangs. Also, I must mention that few houses had phone service and communication with the authorities was difficult.

 

Fig. 2. A member of the Death Squad in front of the tiendita. Google Maps, Accessed March 2, 2024, https://www.google.com/maps 

The new streets—which looked more like empty rivers with stones—were now “owned” by the new local gangs: Los Mikis, Los Budas, or Los Colorados, among others I heard about but never met. I remember feeling disappointed when I saw some of my friends hanging out with the gangs. My friend Oscar is the one who keeps breaking my heart because since the 2000, he has remained in prison for killing a member of a rival gang in a street fight. Oscar smashed the head of the gang member against the floor and killed him with a heavy stone. Also, I remember how one of his friends from the gang taught him how to ask for money using the Bible. The last time I saw him free, I was riding a bus, and he was asking for money from the passengers with the bible in his hands. When he saw me sitting among the passengers, he immediately left the bus and ran away; I can say he was ashamed. 

At this point, the gangs changed our communication and introduced words such as ese, esos, vato, bro, barrio, pocho, gang, crew, hood, blood, homie, or homs. Initially, there was resistance from some neighbors, gradually these words became common and were slowly incorporated into our Spanish. Words commonly used in Black or Latino neighborhoods in the U.S. were now used in a colonia in the center of Mexico. 

Additionally, the gangs introduced the culture of graffiti. I remember walking back from school and seeing graffiti everywhere: on walls, roofs, steel bars, doors, public restrooms, buses, trashcans, and even cars. The graffiti was everywhere! Then, to avoid it on their walls, some neighbors discovered that graffiteros respected the local church and the catholic altars dedicated to the Virgin of Guadalupe since they were believers and had faith too. As a result, some neighbors made and put altars outside their houses in the streets to prevent graffiti on their walls. 

The clickas appeared, too, signs that gang members did with their hands to represent a variety of messages, from the gang to which they belonged to secret codes. The personalized clickas used to separate the local gangs from other gangs or potential enemies. Even knocking at the door of a house required a specific type of sound to identify the person outside. Also, apart from the clickas, I could hear loud whistles that substituted words at any time of the day. The gangs used different types of whistles to express identity, support, complicated situations, or greetings. For example, if a gang member had an emergency, he only had to use the proper whistle, and many other gang members would show up. I remember listening to the whistles and expecting to hear noises from the street or gossip about somebody dead or hurt the next day. 

Breakdance was another expression brought by the gangs. I saw my brother and the most agile neighbors trying to learn to break dance on a piece of cardboard in front of grandma’s home. Someone had an old radio with cassettes of music in English, and that inspired the younger ones to breikear, as they called to their break dance practice. Every afternoon was about break dancing and marijuana for some gang members. However, sometimes rain ruined their practice because rain easily transformed the streets into rivers. Last, these new street expressions involved men exclusively since the few young women around were always kept inside their homes to avoid any contact with our changing reality. I believe the fascination for this street lifestyle opened an alternative of how the colonia could be: more underground, more rebellious, more modern, more American street! 

At this point, the colonia became known as el barrio. In Puebla, a colonia is a community integrated of low and middle-class people who cannot live downtown due to the high cost of living, and a barrio is a “purpose-built settlement for the Indians,”5 a description that the gangs felt more identified with. In el barrio, the families were further divided because of the new terms, arguing that they were harmful and not part of the traditional poblano identity. The families in the colonia were mainly obsessed with the traditional Europeanness6 brought by the Spanish colonizers: whiter skin color for social acceptance and chances of success, perfect and pure Spanish, Catholic traditions, and rejection of any native or foreign ideas that could potentially transform the community. Meanwhile, some lower-class families accepted the social changes the gangs were importing because they always felt discriminated against for being poor; this new lifestyle made them believe they had a voice that was always denied by the rest of the neighbors, even if that meant harming, robbing, or killing others. 

The discussion about the colonia or barrio ended up splitting my mother’s family. I belonged to the middle-class part of her family, while my aunts and cousins belonged to low-income families. For me, my parents, and siblings, the colonia was invaded by gangs, and for many years we classified them as lazy people that did not want to work. As for my aunts and cousins, the gangs represented a fresh perspective of life, an opportunity, an identity, and a voice. We had several discussions about how we should call our home. Was it still a colonia, or was it el barrio? My parents’ economic stability separated us from el barrio and made us simple spectators of the social changes. Still, in those days, I kept asking myself, “Where do I belong? I am not white, I do not speak English as the gangs do, and my family do not have a car. Still, my private school uniform tells me I do not belong to the gangs.” 

Finally, in 1996, the new music genre called hip-hop reached el barrio, and the music of Control Machete, a hip-hop group from Monterrey, Mexico, could be heard out loud all over the streets. Hip-hop was the sound for the local gangs to represent their identities, beliefs, and voices. I remember seeing some of my cousins practicing rhymes close to the gang members. They did not have money to buy a computer, so someone would always bring cassettes with beats that someone bought so they would improvise. Afterward, the music in the street was so loud that it bothered many neighbors to the point of starting fights. 

Around 1998, a new generation of gang members transformed into local hip-hop artists who wanted to make music and speak about their experiences in el barrio. For example, DulceHOdio is one of the last hip-hop groups born during this era. As part of their song, ”Fue,” they describe our life when we were kids, how they grew up hanging out with the gangs, and how they began making music. 

Noche eternas, días largos han pasado  

Aún recuerdo a esa bola de chamacos  

jugando en ese patio.  

Yo en una esquina sentado,  

ponchando un tabaco,  

apenas alcanzaba los 13 o 14 años. 

Desde ese entonces ya me agradaba lo malo,  

nunca pensé que pasar un balón formaría un legado.  

Pasaron días y noches enteras en el barrio  

donde se vivía la delincuencia a diario, vamos.  

Tomando y escuchando música en un viejo radio  

donde relataban lo que se vivía en el mundo bajo.  

Esos fueron los inicios de estos que te están hablando.  

Así empezamos, nada de rap en ingles  

Puro R A P de Mex.  

En lo que arranco bajo con triple X  

Control Machete es el traje también y así fue…  

Con una compu vieja en un cuarto seguimos grabando  

con el mismo micro de hace 7 anos.  

Canciones tras canciones y todo lo que decimos  

es porque lo hemos pasado.  

DulceHOdio en el medio  

sigue caminando.  

A veces altibajos 

pero seguimos sonando.  

No buscamos Grammys,  

Ni discos de oro en los Latis.  

Hacemos música para que nos escuches gratis.  

Esta es mi vida, mi banda y mi familia.  

Por ellos pido a Dios,  

a ver si me los cuida.7  

 

Translation to English from the song Fue, by DulceHOdio. 

  

Eternal nights, long days have passed  

I still remember that group of kids  

playing on the patio.  

Myself sitting in a corner  

smoking,  

I was barely 13 or 14  

From then on, I already liked the bad  

I never thought that passing a ball would form a legacy  

Entire days and nights passed in the neighborhood  

where crime was experienced daily, let’s go.  

Drinking and listening to music on an old radio  

where it told what was lived in the underworld.  

Those were the beginnings of those who are talking to you.  

That’s how we started, no rap in English  

Pure R A P from Mexico  

Where I under started with triple X  

Control Machete was there too and that’s how it was…  

With an old computer in a room we keep recording  

with the same 7-year-old microphone.  

Songs after songs and everything we say  

is because we pass through it.  

DulceHOdio in the middle  

keeps walking.  

Sometimes ups and downs  

but we keep sounding  

We don’t search for Grammys  

nor gold discs in the Latis. 

We make music for you to listen to for free.  

This is my life, my gang, my family  

For them I pray to God to see if he will take care of them.  

 

DulceHodios’ lyrics describe el barrio, not the colonia anymore. Today, DulceHodio still grab their ideas, experiences, and expectations and transform them into music. Also, their hip-hop is being played in several houses across el barrio because many neighbors identify themselves with their music. 

Ultimately, it was not only the influence and the fascination for the American street culture that affected el barrio. There was also an “excessive urban growth of the metropolitan area in Puebla city”8 that marginalized the gangs even more and added new members. Thanks to this urbanization, the green fields covered with sunflowers where I used to play turned into tiny houses where industry workers started living with their families. The new houses were so tiny that the neighbors were forced to extend their properties vertically, and this created misunderstandings with other neighbors due to the lack of space and privacy; it was even worse and dangerous if a gang member was involved. Also, the pond where I could hear the frogs croak dried up and was covered with more tiny houses, and the tall camphor trees that used to talk with the wind were cut to open the space for new streets. It became common to see garbage bags, old furniture and abandoned dogs and cats that sometimes bit the neighbors walking down the street.  

 

 

Fig. 3. There is a private property close to el barrio that reminds me of the fields where I used to play on Forjadores Boulevard. Google Maps, Accessed March 2, 2024, https://www.google.com/maps 

As time passed, I saw more neighbors lost in their realities, hallucinating on the sidewalks, sleeping on the floor at the little plaza, asking for money from pedestrians, or hurting themselves in front of everybody. Some were so lost in their minds that they could not recognize me anymore. I remember one time when a gang member was about to rob me in the street. Luckily, Jorge recognized me, greeted me, and told the guy, “Ese! El Rafa es del barrio” (hey! Rafa is from el barrio). The guy just said “Sorry,” shook my hand, and returned to sit with the rest of the gang. I tried not to look scared in front of them; I said goodbye to Jorge and kept walking and shaking nervously.  I also remember el Bolas, another friend I played soccer with on the green fields. He was a little older than me and the rest of my friends; he was fast and one of the humblest people I ever met. His father became part of The Death Squad too and used to beat El Bolas very violently in front of his mom. Years later, el Bolas followed his dad’s path and became blind due to his addiction to industrial solvents. The last time I saw him, he was dirty, randomly walking the streets and mumbling, “¡Oiga! ¿Me puede guiar?” (Hey! Can you guide me?) to anyone who might come close to him. He was always asking for money, food, or company from the person helping him. He died in 2019 from an overdose. 

 

 

Fig. 4. Most of the gangs members are gone, however a few neighbors still deal with their addictions in the streets. Google Maps, Accessed March 2, 2024, https://www.google.com/maps 

*** 

I never imagined that a border could have so much influence in a place as far away as my colonia. Talking about borders or migration was never a relevant topic because few neighbors dared to go to the U. S. and usually did not return. When I read about the “frustration that centers around anxieties and fears about educational quality, increased crime, disorderliness, housing, culture, economics, health services, and language.”9 Immediately, I started thinking about the migrants who changed everything in my colonia. After all, how not to feel frustrated if returning to the colonia meant failure? They asked for support, but they realized that their family, neighbors, and friends lived with limited money as well. They thought about education, but it was something they were not going to be able to afford. They even tried to get jobs and soon realized that they were never going to earn enough money to make their dreams real. Then, they met other deported migrants with whom they felt identified and found alternative solutions: consuming drugs, stealing from others, dominating the territory, and gaining respect from the community by force. 

I always thought that the life perspectives they brought from the U.S. were something natural, that “the line between inclusion and exclusion”10 that divided us needed to happen. After all, the popular thought in the colonia was that if they returned “ill, dangerous and socially deviant,”11 was because of their own choices since those neighbors who always lived in the colonia did not have their health or mental issues. As a community, we did not know how to confront these problems; a few of us had high school education, and our government always ignored us. As a result, our prejudices and fear dominated many of us.  

I believe what Kent A. Ono mentions, “As both a side and product of anxiety and a means by which expulsion is made possible, the border helps to understand the boundary not only in geographical terms but also in terms of both effect and affect: how borders affect lives, both materially and spiritually.”12 In other words, the border is an entity that generates diverse feelings that transform the lives of those who dare to cross it, but I wonder if the border is the cause of illegal crossings or if the border walks with the migrants. For instance, I only imagined the border as a long wall across the desert that prevented poor people from crossing into the U.S. However, I had to live in the borderlands to educate myself and realize that what the migrants lived through? did not need to happen; in our ignorance, at the colonia, we excluded them too. The colonia functioned as a mechanism for “control, elimination, and/or rejection,”13 in the same way that the border works. Most of the adults did not talk to the gang members and kept themselves and their children away, deepening the rejection. For example, when one of the Colorados gang died in the street, his body was not removed until three days later because the neighbors thought he was sleeping or too drugged to move. 

In those days, rejecting anything that represented change was seen as resistance and preservation of our traditional ideas. However, Yolanda Valencia mentions that “Mexican immigrants build and maintain community bonds, “14 and I wonder about it because I have been in Mexican communities in the U.S., and Mexicans preserve their identities through their language, experiences, and traditions. However, this was not the case in the colonia because our migrants spoke, dressed, and behaved differently, and this caused absolute rejection by the neighbors. Further, I consider what Ralph Citron mentions, “Mexicanos live a good part of their everyday lives in relative isolation from one another.”15 In the colonia, any social change or external ideas were simply rejected without any type of discussion. For example, for us, using words in English in the 90s was offensive because no one understood it and it was a symbol of whiteness. Tradition told us that white people always go to communities seeking their own benefit at our expense, and in this case, we thought that white people lived in the minds of the gangs. 

Next, the members of the Death Squad talked a lot about the hatred that gringos had for them for being illegal Mexicans. However, what made them think they were illegals? The immigration agents, police, neighbors, gringos in general, the colonia? Also, we did not know what an illegal was either, and Josue David Cisneros mentions that an illegal is an individual in violation of the law due to his illegal actions (border crossing, illegal residence).16 In the colonia, we knew that the actions of the Death Squad were illegal, but we never thought that they perceived themselves as illegals. For us, they were strangers already, but not illegals because they were born and raised next to us. 

As time passed, the colonia became more violent when more gangs appeared, and their members identified themselves as cholos. As Gilberto Rosas mentions, “Once limited to certain regions of the United States Southwest and major cities such as Los Angeles and Chicago, cholos, and the anxious, circulating imaginaries about them, now reach Mexico City, New York, Puebla, and Central America.”17 The cholos were in the colonia now, and they called it el barrio. How was it possible that the cholos had come into our lives from so far away? Where did they come from? Why did they speak differently? Who tattooed them? Where did they get their baggy clothes? How did they get firearms? What was the point of fighting over territory with other gangs if we all lived together, each family in their own house? Why did they ask us for respect when they did not give it to us? It was as if respect was an intrinsic part of their masculinity and manhood.18 Then, were they resisting their inherited identities and traditions? Several neighbors had so many questions about the cholos, and we never had answers. I only knew we were afraid enough to ask them questions because they could attack or rob us anytime, and we preferred to live in peace inside our homes. 

Still, I think the border also represents the necessity we have for overcoming difficult situations and building ourselves. As Gloria Anzaldúa mentions, “The border is like this bridge we call home, that invites us to move beyond separate and easy identification, bridges that cross race and other classifications among different groups via intergenerational dialogue.”19 Even when we went through difficult situations, el barrio was still our home. Despite our separation of ideas and identities, there were good times when we smiled, hugged, and helped each other. In el barrio, we built walls to protect ourselves and preserve our belongings, not to intimidate our neighbors. We just did not realize we were evading a new reality, a reality that was asking us for help and collaboration, not separation. 

*** 

Nearly thirty years later, the new el barrio is sometimes perceived by visitors and authorities as one of the most unsafe areas in Puebla. However, I do not think this is entirely true; my parents, other relatives, and some neighbors who still live there say the situation changed a lot because the gangs that initiated the violent times do not exist anymore. They are either dead, in jail, disappeared, or got old. They do not cause any problems. My aunt Lucy shares her testimonio too, “Ya no ves a las bandas disparando en la noche por diversión, ni hueles la marihuana, el alcohol, o la orina que se metía por la ventana.” (You no longer see the gangs shooting at night for fun, nor do you smell the marijuana, alcohol, or urine that came through the window.) 

When I started writing this testimonio, I wondered if the remaining members of the Death Squad were still hanging out outside the tiendita or the little plaza; the plaza was their second meeting point after Jorge’s mom, tired of them, asked them to leave the main entrance of her home. Then, using Google Maps, I found a couple of the original members in a 3D picture taken in October 2021, hanging out and talking with other men, and one of them appears to be unconscious on the sidewalk. Next, I moved the map to the tiendita, and another member was also unconscious on the sidewalk. In the ’90s, it was widespread to see more than 20 men regularly drugged, extorting, or hitting some of the pedestrians who passed near them if they did not give them money. 

My friend Jorge still lives there, and from what I have heard, he tries to keep running the tiendita with his dad. His mom died recently of a heart attack, and we, the neighbors hope things go better for them. It is hard to think we were friends, played together as kids, and took very different life paths. Even my mom told me she saw him in the local market, and he asked for me. My mom just told him, “Mijo todavía está en el gabacho, Jorge” (my son is still in the U.S., Jorge).” He replied, “Ah, que bueno, ps ay me lo saluda señora” (oh, that’s good, say hello for me to him, ma’am), and he kept walking. As for the rest of my friends from el barrio, Toño lives in Detroit working for the car industry, Jaime still lives somewhere in Puebla, and Neto is lost; nobody knows what happened to him. 

Today, there are small glimmers of hope that motivate some neighbors to continue with the transformation of their lives again. As Sonja K. Foss and Cindy L. Griffin mention, “We may choose to be transformed because we are persuaded by something.”20 For us, the persuasion came from being tired of living in constant fear in the ’90s and part of the 2000s, always hiding behind steel bars, walls, and doors while an unwanted war was happening outside. For example, in my family, we always remember one occasion when a teenager ran into grandma’s home right when she was going out to the plaza. The boy was agitated and trying to hide because one of the gangs had been chasing him to hurt and maybe kill him. My grandma, afraid and angry at the same time, said rude words to the gang members, and they walked away saying, “Amonos! ya salio la abuelita,” (Let’s go! granny is out).” She saved the life of that teenager that day, and it was the last experience we ever had with gangs as a family. 

In 2020, I went back to el barrio to visit my parents and saw several walls decorated with graffiti. However, I noticed that graffiti was now considered art by the neighbors; surprisingly, it was no longer vandalism. The new generations who became graffiti artists use the walls as their canvases in agreement with the neighbors and paint their art in connection with the local native ancestry or traditions we always denied in the 90s; there are even graffiti workshops and events promoted by the local government. Also, somehow, hip-hop integrated its sound into el barrio because this is how new generations express themselves, and it is accepted by the neighbors, too. Back in the 90s, hip-hop was rebellious, wild, and a sign of disrespect; now, it is part of the identity of el barrio. Even there are local producers—like my cousins—who create original hip-hop beats, write lyrics, and collaborate with artists from other barrios or colonias. 

Fig. 5. Graffiti appeared in the ’90s and was generally disapproved by several neighbors. Today, is a popular way of expression. Google Maps, Accessed March 2, 2024, https://www.google.com/maps 

Also, it was surprising to see how local commerce has expanded over the years. In the ’90s, many of the businesses were continually closed due to pressures from the gangs, and they even burned the businesses if the owners did not pay “for protection.” I remember a contrary gang burned Jorge’s car in front of his tiendita, and the remains of the car were left on the street for many years. In addition, food vendors make the streets warm with their cooking and invite families to enjoy a piece of the local flavor at any time of the day, especially on the weekends: tacos, cemitas, carnitas, tortas, tamales, quesadillas, barbacoa, gorditas, atole, pulque, nieves, helados, and more… Next, I saw more local tienditas selling essential products such as groceries and school and construction supplies at affordable prices; some of them have arcades, too! Which reminded me of the old colonia before the gangs. Also, the empty lots taken by the gangs in the 90s were transformed into new green parks with soccer, basketball, and track fields, where neighbors take their children and spend some time enjoying themselves. Still, some of these recreational spaces are behind bars, but only to prevent damage or accidents, not vandalism. 

I felt great when I saw that there is a local police force and private security paid for by the local government and the neighbors. We have a local hospital with free appointments and medicines supported by the government that treats the neighbors in case of emergencies. There is a small building called “La Casa del Abue” (The Home of the Grandparents), where elders enjoy creative activities for free and socialize. And amazingly! A small new museum exhibits archeological pieces from the Cholula culture found by the neighbors while constructing their houses. 

After my last visit, I can say that the el barrio is relatively peaceful and has minor crimes, just like any other community in Puebla. Still, I recognize we must improve some aspects as a community, such as littering, water saving, maintenance of public spaces, animal care, protection of the little remaining flora, and general maintenance of our streets. However, I noticed that many of my neighbors are no longer afraid to go out at night, and some of them sit outside their houses to watch the time go by, talk to others, do recreational activities, take their children to school, or organize to start new local businesses. Then, I confirm there is a slow transformation and a healing process that has strengthened the local identity of el barrio since its inception as a colonia. Also, I hope my family, friends, and neighbors do not forget our history. 

 

Notes 

1. DeChaine, Border Rhetorics, 26.
2. Montero Pantoja, “Los Barrios en la Ciudad de los Ángeles,” 12.
3. Betancur, “The Settlement Experience of Latinos in Chicago,” 1302.
4. Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary, s.v. “cholo,” Merriam-Webster Incorporated, accessed March 1, 2024, https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/cholo.
5. Montero Pantoja, 11.
6. Alexander, “Incendiary Legislation,” 182.
7. DulceHodio, Fue.
8. Herrera Flores and Rojas Cortés, “Notas Sobre un Sapo Momificado y el Impacto de la Urbanización en una Población de Sapos de Caña (Rhinella Horriblis) en Ignacio Romero Vargas, Municipio de Puebla, México,” 200.
9. Dechaine, 27.
10. Noe, “The Corrido: A Border Rhetoric,” 597.
11. Heuman and Gonzalez, “Trump’s Essentialist Border Rhetoric,” 329.
12. Ono, “Borders that Travel,” 21.
13. DeChaine, 21.
14. Valencia, “Lo Que Duele es que la Gente lo Cree,” 184.
15. Guerra, “Close to Home,” 6.
16. Cisneros, “The Border Crossed Us,” 131.
17. Rosas, “Cholos, Chúntaros, and the ‘Criminal’ Abandonments of the New Frontier,” 695.
18. Liang et al., “Perspectives of Respect, Teacher—Student Relationships, and School Climate Among Boys of Color,” 347.
19. Anzaldúa and Keating, This Bridge We Call Home, 2.
20. Foss and Griffin, “Beyond Persuasion,” 06.

 

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