Pachuco

Pachuco(Shirley) A Dead Body Never Made Me So Happy

Through the doorway I could see the flies maneuvering across the piles of bodies, as if they were parading through an amusement park. They buzzed from one body to the next mocking my task of identifying the bodies. I took my first step into the room, causing the flies to quickly harbor within the bodies, allowing the smell of death to disperse across the room. I couldn’t get any closer, the idea of seeing my son as just another body decaying on the floor was too horrific for my own sanity. I wanted to picture my Miguel alive and strong before giving his body to God.

Miguel, my one and only son, started to mix with the wrong crowd after his father was killed in a back alley in our barrio. Before his father’s death he always spoke about his dreams of becoming a doctor so he could come back here and help the needy. Those dreams changed and all he talked about was revenge. Two months had passed since his father died and the house had never felt so lonely. Every night at around eleven there is a vehement sound coming across the wall as if the War was happening inside Miguel’s room. Tonight there was no noise, at twelve there was only a knock on my door. It was Miguel’s birthday, and there he was standing inside my door frame with his knuckles beat and bloody, his eyes black and puffy, and tears rolling down my baby’s cheeks. I stood up, looked at him, and with a single step pulled him towards me and squeezed him tightly my arms wrapped around him. He might be taller than me, and in my country considered a man, but at this moment he was my baby and I was his mom. I promised him that night that I would support all of his decisions even that of becoming a Pachuco. The title Pachuco was adopted by the subculture of Hispanics to refer to the zoot suits, but I feared that he would be discriminated against.

On his birthday, with all the money I had collected from cleaning houses, I took my son to become a true Pachuco. The day consisted of buying a blue zoot suit, tattooing a representation of his morals cross on his right hand, and attempting to learn the caló language. The zoot suit consisted of very baggy high waist pants and a coat with wide lapels, shoulder pads, and a length sometimes reaching the knees. Accessories to the zoot suit included a wide-rimmed "pancake" hat, long watch chains, and thick-soled shoes. Those objects were easily purchased in a barrio like ours and therefore the only thing remaining was learning the Mexican American special argot called caló.

At first I was proud of how he had developed a subculture of his own with other Zoot Suitors but the tensions grew wider between whites and minorities... The riots increased causing government leaders, including the police, the press, and the general public, to mistake youthful rebellion for inherent criminality of Mexican American youth. I began to see less of my Miguel, the last time he had come to the house was three days before I had to identify his body. I had overheard him talking about how they were going to start fighting back against the law during the peaceful movement conducted by their suit zoot gang for equal rights. I wanted to drill a hole within his clay wall and mine and prevent him from leaving my home, but I knew he was no longer in my control.

So here I was, standing in the barrio’s morgue alone, encouraging myself to take a step closer to what might be my son’s body. If these next steps lead to my son’s body, these steps would be the last ones I take in this unwelcoming country. I was ready to join my husband and son in heaven. I took a step closer, with my heart escaping from my chest; I looked down at the uncovered body lying on the concrete. It was covered in red cloth that used to be a suit. I was ashamed, but a dead body had never made me so happy.