A late summer evening and some of my Mexican neighbors over on the next block, on Damen Avenue, are having a party.
They live in a red brick 4-flat with a two-car garage attached. The garage door is thrown up and a soft yellow light glows from within. Blue and white balloons dangle from the ceiling; blue and white banners hang from the walls. Two long folding tables, each covered with a white paper tablecloth, stand beneath the balloons, surrounded by folding chairs. Children huddle in the chairs, shoveling hunks of pastel de tres leches into their tiny mouths with plastic forks. Adult women move among them. The men are gathered outside, either seated on more folding chairs or leaning against the sides of pickup trucks.
Behind the long tables, near the back wall, stand three musicians. They wear white ruffled shirts and formal black vests. Two strum guitars. Another pumps an accordian. They play rancheras, nortenas, patriotic songs honoring fallen heroes of the Mexican revolution. Their music begins before sundown and continues after dark. Mexcian songs from the garage drift through the neighborhood, and are audible many blocks away. Everyone at the party, everyone passing by on the street, everyone save the musicians, is strangely silent. Listening.
It suddenly occurs to me how fortunate they might be--how fortunate we all might be--that this particular garage stands in Chicago, Illinois and not in Arizona.
