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with an original Jim Hummel illustration |
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Even a cultural melting pot
can have an ethnic boilover
By Gina Gallo
of TheColumnists.com
RAOUL GONZALES thinks it
started as a crazy rumor. Others are certain it was the natural
consequence of the yuppie invasion of an ethnic community. But
all agree that while change is usually inevitable, it’s
supposed to make some kind of sense, even in Pilsen.
Historically a blue-collar neighborhood on the near South side,
Chicago’s Pilsen community began as an offshoot of the German
breweries built there after World War I. Tiny brick bungalows
were constructed to house the German immigrant employees who
formed a tidy enclave often called “Little Deutschland.”
When the demographics shifted in the early ‘60's, Pilsen
became a community of Mexican-Americans. The old breweries closed,
Viennese pastry shops gave way to Mexican panederias, and instead
of Oktoberfest, Pilsen’s street festivals celebrated Cinco
de Mayo and Fiesta del Sol.
Scheduled each July for a week-long fair along Blue Island Avenue,
Fiesta del Sol is the biggest event of the year. Chicagoans and
tourists alike pack the streets to feast, sing, and dance to
mariachi bands. This is the place to bring an appetite. Revelers
eat their way through a half mile of Mexican cuisine, haggle
with local artisans who ply their wares and enjoy a South-of-the-Border
experience that doesn’t require a passport. Even the local
gangs take a day off from ‘banging to enjoy the spirit of
Fiesta. It’s an event that celebrates the joyous melding
of culture, cuisine and brotherhood.
Which may have been why the bikinis confused Raoul Gonzales.
Not that he had anything against swimsuits. In fact, he’d
never seen any this dazzling, so skimpy he’d seen eye patches
and adhesive bandages that covered more--something any man could
appreciate. It was just very unusual to see a parade of them--scanty
bikinis with young women barely stuffed inside, all armed with
towels, sun tan oil,
and boom boxes blasting music so loud it gave him arrhythmias.
Dios, this was Fiesta, not the beach! Didn’t these yuppettes
know the lake was three miles to the east? Like sleek white eels,
they slithered through the crowds, past the barbecue grills,
the straw hat concession, the strolling nun who rolled her eyes
and crossed herself when she saw them.
As point babe in the lead bikini, Amber turned to her companions.
“What’s up with the costumes?” she asked. “I
thought these people came here to catch some rays. Everyone else
is so overdressed!” Her lips settled into a glossily sunscreened
pout.
“Maybe we’re too early.” Bambi in the silver thong
shrugged. A dim recollection of high school Spanish told her
Fiesta del Sol had something to do with the sun. The newspapers
had billed this as a cultural event, so why not soak up some
sun along with the culture? She was certainly cultured. Wasn’t
that why she’d moved to Pilsen?
The other girls nodded. Tiffany in the lime spandex didn’t
care that people were gawking at her. After shelling out all
that money for the boob job, hair streaks and herbal wrap, they’d
better be checking her out! Since most of the local women seemed
to have starter mustaches or a unibrow, she was surely the hottest
babe there.
Noelle in the tangerine string bikini was more demure. She didn’t
want to offend anyone, least of all her new neighbors. She’d
moved to Pilsen because it was a newly hip area where rents were
still cheap enough to open her own business. And while it hadn’t
quite caught on with the locals yet, her combo oxygen bar and
meditation deli was bound to be successful. All it took was a
savvy business sense and a willingness to respect the traditions
of her neighbors.
The man behind the burrito grill seemed fixated on her tattoo.
The pentagram over her right ovary probably reminded him of the
Aztec calendar, she guessed--a convenient way to bridge the cultural
gap. She offered him her best international smile to ask for
directions.
“Hola Estados Unidos?” she inquired. “Soy bean
tu castle?” Perhaps there was a designated tanning section,
somewhere between the shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe and the
churros vendor who sold pastries that resembled rainbow phalluses.
“Don diego con carne?”
The burrito man said nothing. This gringa babe had nice hooters,
but she’d obviously just escaped from the puzzle palace.
Or maybe her head had been used as a pinata once too often. Why
else was she babbling about United States soy beans and Zorro?
In lieu of a reply, he simply pointed in the direction of 19th
Street. When they were this loco, it was best to get them moving
in the opposite direction.
Raoul Gonzales watched the girls slink off. That made seven so
far today. Was it a trend, or just more misguided yuppie culture
groupies? And if they were so intent on absorbing culture, why
hadn’t they bothered to find out that Fiesta Del Sol had
nothing to do with beach parties or tanning beds?
Before he could decide, the crowds parted for the sign-waving
picket line which marched down the street chanting about whale
saving, global warming and ozone holes. Clad in earth shoes and
organic cotton, they held their signs high and their fists higher,
confusing the crowd. They couldn’t be a rival gang, since
no self-respecting banger wore such frumpy clothes. But why were
they making such a fuss? Didn’t they know the only bad thing
about Fiesta was supposed to be the heartburn and the hangovers?
“Down with El Nino!” one of them shouted. A local gang
member lolling on the corner stiffened immediately. If anyone
was going to start trouble, it was supposed to be his gang that
did it, not some pathetic moth eaten band of yuppie weirdos.
And now they had the nerve to scream about El Nino? Political
manifestos were one thing, but when they starting dissing kids,
it was time to kick ass.
“Your MAMA!” he shouted, lobbing a strawberry snow
cone in the demonstrator’s face. “Talk about your own
damn family!”
“You said it, homies!” Jaime the taco vendor let fly.
He wasn’t exactly sure what kind of gang called themselves
environmentalists, but when the Fiesta hit the fan, he was ready
to rumble. Shredded chicken, lettuce and tomato chunks went airborne,
splatting against the bearded guy in the Greenpeace T-shirt who
ducked behind the mariachi band. When the second barrage slammed
against the trumpet player’s velvet suit, things got ugly.
Marcos Escalante paid fifty bucks for his suit rental, and now
they’d charge him extra for dry cleaning. Thanks to these
damn outside agitators, his embroidered jacket was covered in
chicken grease. Even though he had nothing personal against whales,
it was now a matter of respect. Diving behind a nearby fruit
stand, he started lobbing mangos with a vengeance.
At first the crowds were appreciative. They figured this impromptu
food fight was just another form of staged street theater for
their entertainment.. But when beer bottles replaced mangos and
blood mixed with the strawberry ice, it was time to take cover.
By now most of the vendors had joined in, pelting the picket
line with whatever they could grab.
Under siege, the whale lovers and green peaceniks stampeded off
with the others, down the street, around the food tables, over
the bodies of less nimble revelers.
Only the sirens shrieking toward them managed to clear a path
through the messy battlefield. Dressed in full riot gear, the
first cops on the scene simply waited in their car. Since most
of the crowd had already dispersed, there wasn’t that much
to do. Maybe practice a few catch phrases for the media news
people who’d investigate, and then report ‘a vicious
gang-related incident’ at Fiesta on the evening news.
Only Raoul Gonzales the ice cream vendor lingered at the scene,
enjoying what remained of the Festival sites on 19th Street..
In the true spirit of Fiesta brotherhood, he passed dreamsicles
to the cops who joined him. Slurping companionably, the men focused
on the line of bikinied bodies sunbathing atop some parked low
riders.
Oblivious to the recent fracas, Amber, Tiffany and friends lay
inert like gilded bon-bons, sucking up those festival rays. Occasionally
one would ease down a skimpy strap just enough to gauge their
tan lines. The cops noted that they were young and gorgeous with
not a single starter mustache or a unibrow among them. A definite
sign that Fiesta was changing....and that sometimes, change can
be a good thing.
© 2001 by Gina Gallo.
Illustration © 2001 by Jim Hummel.
You can comment on this column or contact Gina Gallo with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
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