Trolling
Through the Plaza Friday Night
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Last
Friday the Casa de Cultura sponsored a Folklorico performance for the Etzatlan
community. A stage dominated one corner of the square, with rows of folding
chairs for the audience. Dance troups,
some local, some from surrounding towns, others who had traveled great
distances, performed traditional dances.
Ah, the regalia. Miles of calico and
satin, skirts and flounces, blouses and scarves. Herds of cowhides stitched
into vests and pants and boots. The men handsome in elegant sombreros. The
women’s natural grace enhanced with flowers in their hair, lacy fans for
flirting; all part of the dance.
The Plaza is adjacent to the
Cathedral. Generally, after evening Mass, the Plaza fills with families out to
enjoy the evening. Around the perimeter of the tree-lined Plaza, vendors, some
with permanent stands, some more mobile, sell tacos, tamales, gorditos, fruit
drinks and soda, candy, trinkets, toys and such traditional Mexican fare as
pizza.
The Folklorico groups danced on
stage until quite late, for me, though not so late for Mexican people. Once the
crew dismantled the stage, loaded the chairs and sound and light systems, the
real dance began.
Boys strolled in groups one
direction while girls walked the circle counter-wise. Each young person is
hyper-vigilant, while pretending to ignore the opposite sex, aware of every
glance, every nuance of body language. Like birds in the tree branches outside
my windows, the youngsters performed an elaborate mating dance, precursor to
choosing partners.
Grandmothers and grandfathers,
subtle chaperones, sat on the white iron-work benches flanking the “boulevard”,
gossiping, doing needlework or whittling, while keeping a wary eye on the young
people. Couples committed to one another walked the circle with ease,
comfortably holding hands, possibly planning their futures. The very young,
once they were fed, played tag and other games around the feet of the
strollers.
Lani and I sat on one of the white
benches, munched churros hot out of the fat, licked our fingers clean of cinnamon-sugar,
and watched people walk by. For a few moments I felt nostalgia for something we
in our culture never had, a yearning for I knew not what.
Cruising Main Street on Saturday
night in our day was just not the same thing. Crawl up the street five or six
blocks, turn around before the railroad crossing, putt-putt down the street and
turn again before the road turned off into the countryside. I suppose cruising
served a purpose, a primping and showing, fluffing feathers, for those who had
cars. Mostly boys.
Not dances in the high school gym,
not exactly courting. Girls lined one wall, boys the other. It took less
courage for King Arthur’s Knights to slay a dragon, than for a boy to walk the
hundred empty miles across the basketball court to risk rejection by the maiden
fair.
Football games were too cold.
Basketball games might have been a way for girls to meet guys except that
basketball tended to heated rivalry. A Harlem girl wouldn’t dare talk with a
hated Chinook boy. Ewww, Ick.
Difficult as it was, we still
managed to hook up, with or without the watchful eyes of parents.
But I gotta tell you, we missed a
lot. A girl can learn worlds about a guy while watching him saunter a few
circles around the square.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
May 5, 2016
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