10 Mexican Days

One of my colleagues at work asked me if I had fun while in Mexico City a few weeks   ago. I felt my brows furrow as I thought about it and answered a plaintive no. It's notthat I didn't enjoy visiting the world class city. I went to Mexico City for the first time as an   adult and in the context of an artistic exchange where the bulk of the conversations with  artists, writers, cultural producers and journalists centered on the myriad of ways we  understand violence and the blood economies from where it originates. Preparing for these conversations compelled me to be versed in diverse narratives of violence, such as books by Charles Bowden, films by María Novaro and Luis Estrada, and of course music by Los Tigres Del Norte (the latter being the source of many teenage tantrums after losing control of the tape deck on family trips to Tijuana to see the dentist). It is a range of narratives that explore violence with both a heavy hand and a tongue in cheek. I hadn't spent this much time with intense brutality since my days reading about the civil wars in El Salvador and Guatemala while minoring in Central American Studies at Cal State Northridge. 

These particular ethnic studies were a way to study myself, to contemplate where I came from as a child born in Los Angeles to a Salvadoran mother. My mom, one of nine kids (originally 12, but 3 died before the age of 3) grew up in a small hamlet on the border between El Salvador and Honduras, became a registered nurse who worked in San Salvador and ended fleeing not a civil war but an abusive husband who kept my older brother away from her for over six years. My mother fled one type of violence and arrived to encounter another kind in the U.S.—poverty. She was one of fourteen living in a house on Coronado Street in Echo Park—una arrimada, she called herself, or someone “leaning” on others for a few weeks without paying rent until an opportunity arose.

Being eye-deep in the grisly accounts of the kinds of border violence that happens to Central American migrants passing through Mexico gave me pause. I’m thankful my mother didn’t encounter deadly train robbers or Zetas terror, the kind that coerces  migrants into dark economies or mass graves. Instead, my mom won a visa lottery that enabled her to get to Las Vegas to take care of children, clean homes and hotel rooms before arriving to Los Angeles in 1969.

All of our lives are a series of choices—left or right, east or west, stay or go. I think about my parents’ choices to leave their countries and wonder if I would do the same. Here is a hypothetical situation—what if I was born in Mexico? The idea comes up while I am getting into a fair amount of gender trouble while traveling around the Mexican capital. I wonder if the psychic toll would propel me forward to try my hand at being in a country that was more “tolerant” of my gender non-conformity.  It’s not like being told I was in the wrong bathroom was hardly a point of contention with the  country from where my father emigrated from; it's not the first time and certainly won't be the last time I get caballero'ed during dinner or joven'ed on an Aeromexico flight back to Los Angeles. These are only just a sample of the kinds of passive, or soft, violence that gender non-conforming people survive every day on both sides of the border. If and when luck is on our side we hear the nagging voice—maybe it’s intuition telling you to move out of harm’s way.

Lots of queers living in large metropolitan areas get harassed, bullied, assaulted and murdered. I have been spared heretofore the rod of homophobes glowering at me and my thug-dandy ways. However, it isn’t always the case for my queer brothers and sisters, many of whom self-medicate when the burden of challenging society’s narrow gender norms becomes too much to bear. The scythe sweeps down or comes close; another gender renegade’s life gets cut short whether it’s a bullet or a hypodermic needle. The rest of us are left mourning or wanting immediate escapist gratification.

So I wasn't surprised when I came home from Mexico City with a bout of low-grade humming depression. The analog kind; knowing that violence is always playing in the background, like a radio with a fuzzy signal at the lowest volume possible that allows you to know it is still there. Even when you see violence negotiated through the lens of  artistic production, you are saddled with a particular type of compassion and empathy in your critical viewing that has to be balanced out with both grief and fatigue in order to keep it from totally consuming you. Because that is what the violence portends—that you will be consumed.

Consumption. Like a Victorian novel way of meeting your maker, or at least experiencing the symbolic death that artists in privileged spaces get to while the extreme poor suffer horrible conditions, like the 165 U.S.-bound migrants, mostly Central Americans, that were_held against their will in Tamaulipas near the border town of Laredo, Texas by drug traffickers and liberated on June 5, 2013.

But I don’t escape to shirk the duty to listen anymore, to bear witness for other witnesses. 

At least, not with drugs.

La Guerra De Los Dos Lados/The War On Both Sides explores the representations of violence through conversations with groups of artists throughout the week we were there. Every morning over black bean breakfast tamales and mud_thick coffee Rubén, Rafa and anticipated conversations that might focus on the political, or the aesthetic or the social implications of violence, or the violence we render in our work. It was exciting and of  course, anxiety-producing, wondering what grab bag of artists and thinkers we'd be  paired with each day and if there would be any chemistry around our mission or if we  would be burdened with identity politics about being Chicanos and Pochos and the concomitant nopal on our foreheads with surfer cadences to our English that operate like broken traffic signals and slow down our attempts to connect.

But that was never the case on this journey, where other classed anxieties were present; I'm a child of economic migrants who came to Los Angeles from Mexico and El Salvador in the late 1960s, finding each other--my father and mother--in an East Los Angeles dancehall one fateful Valentine's eve. Now my parents are U.S. citizens and their experience is so different from the migratory patterns of the impoverished men and women and children that travel out of the countries of my parents’ origin. Or those that don’t, like the 72 people massacred by los Zetas in a village called El Huizachal in the municipality of San Fernando, Tamaulipas in 2010; their names, ages, genders and nationalities and humanity restored with great care in the poem Los Muertos, written by María Rivera of Mexico City and read out in pure oratory power on April 6, 2011 during the National March for Peace that Javier Sicilia galvanized less than two weeks after his son Juan Francisco was murdered by cartel-affiliated assassins.

Violence happens every day that we talk about violence. The time we spend meditating about how we negotiate impotence while we stand in front of your or my generation’s Guernica and The Third of May 1808, is a privileged yet fraught space. Every day we talked about violence in our Mexico City ateliers, real violence occurred in parts of Chihuahua City, Reynosa, and Ciudad Juarez. As cultural workers, we consider violence in the works of pulp novelist Elmer Mendoza or visual artist Teresa Margolles (both from Culiacan, Sinaloa, where the Sinaloa Cartel is centered) in order to complete the task of holding critical spaces, which is a lot like holding your breath. It becomes necessary to deeply consider the scope and foreclosing limitations brought about by representations of violence but it is difficult. It feels like self-harm. These works become a reference we necessarily make about violence in order to talk about healing, which is kind of like needing to step over the  bodies to make room for the living.

In our first conversation that week, we spent time with Gabriela Jauregui's and her poem Oasis of power/Oasis of horror. The authoritative voice in this piece creates an already negotiated position in an account of violence that is not necessarily culled from an archive of personal agency or trauma but of a constructed witnessing. Nevertheless, these invented perspectives make it into Gabriela’s work as a way to imagine hearing the elusive voice of assasins in a complex web of mercenary marketability. She provides our need to understand the darkness enfleshed in the men who make predators and the possiblity that we could dare to empathize with them.

The following are excerpted stanzas from Gabriela’s poem.


Juaristán is my playground,

Juareztine is my home,

King of my mono-metal reign of bullets

Here we celebrate more deaths than births every day

I make bullets rain over the border on the other side of the river

So El Paso sees me shine seems me fly through its skies in a flash

I am the fastest golden sun

I blow up cars I blow up homes I blow I blow I blow

Silvertip, Semispitzer, Hollow Point, Teflon-covered, Very Low Drag, Total

Metal Jacket, Lead Bullet, Full Metal Case, Speer Gold Dot, Remington

Core-Lokt, Armor-Piercing, Gold Sabre


I’ll take you to Salón Río Bravo but first to El Herradero where it’s all about

meat meat meat so you can meet my team of killer flesh fresh-shaved-headcholos (long

shorts long socks long barrel) and my python-tipped cowboys:

we are all gold-chained

and after and always we go to taquería Iris then sex at the oxxo in excess

chica cachonda busca chico en Chihuahua


As is. So: pare down this rape

pare down and peel and cut open and trim and carve and skin and scalp and

flay and decorticate

AK47 I own you now woman

We hear from the woman in the second part Oasis of horror:

On my way to work I see the children outside my house play sicarios, narcos

and policemen with sticks and stones

they know the caliber of every gun, of every bullet they carve

in stone and gavel and play-doh

they know bones and they’re dead wrong

now they’re dead

and still wrong


while I am forced to listen to Juan Gabriel’s greatest hits

smothered and


is my throat

my slit

filled with silt

a river dries

my hair

Irene   Silvia   Mercedes         saints in the desert



flow nowhere

no place for slits

and lipstick lips

mujer muerta

and what you hear now is the sand that buries me telling my story to

the wind


Gabriela creates a counter-narrative to the feminine position in Juarez. The feminine has become ossified with fatigue after too many escorted trips to the local OXXOs in Ciudad Juarez, a perspective produced during a writer’s residency in Juárez that lodged her deep in the deadly reality. The threat of rape is real, actual rape is always a looming specter if you are female-bodied in any part of the world, so just because it didn’t happen to you—that you are still alive as far as you can tell—does not preclude the obligation to make work about it about in fast-moving cinematic language.

Or maybe it does? In the poetic inventions contingent on la memoria ajena (the other’s memory) where implications are embedded in different feminine voices urging the reader to keep seeing the city named after Benito Juarez drenched in blood; pulling gendered violence out from the ether and imploring us to see the slits filled with silt and not be at all comfortable in the reproducing of the same narco sensationalist discourse its intending to criticize. In Gabriela’s poem even Juan Gabriel is implicated.

Artistic interrogations made in comfortable art spaces produce ambivalence about the cushy and inaccessible place art inhabits amongst the general populace, at least back home in California where each year, art education becomes the first to go in dwindling school budgets which makes art appreciation a relic. So who is art for  and why the need for these conversations when we don’t have the tools to forge the next generation of art lovers that emerge from communities of color?

However, these artistic interrogations for the many of us that did emerge from beautiful barrios in and around Los Angeles produce a hope illustrated in the way our new friends and colegas stage an intertexual conversation with one another and with each other’s work about violence.

Narco-mantas (banners) came up a lot throughout the week’s conversations. These banners are the propaganda between warring cartels, hung over bridges or near a pile of deliberately placed dead bodies. Cartels claim responsibility for murders and warn rivals and police to stay away from their territories or to recruit locals into their armies. Narcomantas became a rich site of interrogation for artists, as they can be mixed and re-mixed to produce radically different, darkly humorous or curiously gendered texts and placed in public sites to produce a different set of responses outside or beyond compulsory terror, or to comment on the range of soft violences many of Mexico’s citizens experience daily, as seen in the work of Julio Torres. Julio’s piece En Este Pueblo Ya No Cabemos Los Jotos on the homophobia that saturates his hometown of Mexicali, even though, ironically, he was unaware that his banner media was the favored means of cartel communication.

However difficult it is to revisit work made as President Felipe Calderón entered office in 2006, it was worth it to arrive at a resensitizing about why writing about violence is violent. So our conversation landed on the important question--how to make work that does not revictimize the victims? This question becomes important with each new conversation. John Gibler, who has been in Mexico since the late 1990s, doing solidarity work with the Zapatistas and the late human rights lawyer Digna Ochoa, and who now writes and contributes to news sources such as Pacifica radio station KPFA in Berkeley and publications such as  Z Magazine, Left Turn and Colorlines. John has seen firsthand contemporary Mexico shift from being a country complicated by neoliberal policies like NAFTA to a deadly environment fueled by impunity for the indigenous population, women and human rights activists. As a person, John is open, warm and humble as all get out. Reading his books you will know that he has seen his share of humanity’s worst attributes as well as gun fights. I wonder how does someone who has reported on so much violence—even the sexual violence committed against the 26 women in the wake of riots in San Salvador Atenco in 2006, many of whom are John’s friends—continue to be impelled by a deep well of optimism?

I reach for my copy of John’s book of  poems 20 poemas para ser leídos en una balacera (20 Poems To Be Read During A Shoot-Out). It begins with a series of alerts for the new guy to get down. The reality surrounding him is one where a bullet is followed by a hundred and impunity reigns supreme. The poem’s hardened guide might be an adrenaline junkie as he gleefully tells the new guy that even as you run away from the lead-heavy shower of brutality in a zig-zag formation be sure to guard your disgust against jadedness. You can never forget that this is home for you and thousands of Mexicans who deal with this daily occurrence and every day is worth the risk.

As cultural producers we use words, objects, and intention to create a different world that offsets the traumas of the world we inhabit that’s been riddled by bullets and indifference. Creating these worlds often become a convergence of blessings, curses, risks, burdens and privileges that haunt the daily task of imagining justice.

During one of the week’s first conversations, Jen Hofer referenced Audre Lorde's famous adage: the master's tools can't dismantle the master's house. She called for all of us to adopt the need for new, different tools that expose the relationship between power and language and to be ready to see how they embed in one another to produce an oppressive regime. Jen compels us to be something I imagine John already is--different. We have to be different in order to imagine a just world; to become listeners and inquisitive about human life in other parts of the world. Even John’s assertion that he “receives” art rather than consumes it, reveals a lot in the little ways we can reinscribe our relationship to the world we want to inhabit.

Later in the week I stepped away from these conversations and into Mexico City. I saw art that Mexican-American journalist and author Daniel Hernández wants Americans to witness and be troubled by. Daniel told me about Martha Pacheco’s new exhibition at the Museo de Arte Moderno, Excluidos y Acallados (Excluded and Silenced), curated by Alicia Lozano. This is a series of oil paintings of cadavers that have not been named or claimed by family members that Pacheco photographs and then paints. I was struck by the light in her paintings—the vividness of the fluorescent lighting in her oils eerily accent the red blood of her victims gaping wounds and sloppy post-autopsy sutures.

There’s also a series of people that live in sanatoriums who Pacheco photographs and then paints from the photo she has taken. The pieces, part of a body of work spanning two decades, pose the question, according to the Lozano’s curatorial statement of who do we become when we are forced to confront matters of death and madness? It is strange seeing such grisly depictions of violent death in an art institution, supported generously by the Mexican government, where the curatorial or artist statements not make any mention or gesture to the current social context of drug-related violence. As part of the Guerra De Los Dos Lados, the only commentary I encounter about this show takes place within the four walls of our daily meetings inside the safety of another Mexico City museum, El Museo Del Chopo.

Is it possible to translate the culture of violence into an aesthetic site of healing? If, as Jen states, all literature is translation then perhaps the visual language that Martha Pacheco’s work employs could be considered primal screaming. Martha Pacheco’s images make the language of state silence strange, even when silence underscores the ability for the museum to exhibit her work. And that alone is possibly an extraordinary expression of that strangeness.

After ten days in Mexico, it is only the strange that feels familiar.