Notes from Zacatecas: An epilogue

The man gesturing wildly in the street is shirtless; tattoos stretch across his chest and down his arms. He seems thin, gaunt even; his shoulders are bony and his ribcage pushes against the skin of his torso. He wears baggy, sagging pants and a bright bandana. His name is Nene; he is cousin to Marisela and Oscar; nephew to Edelmira; the son of her sister who lives nearby.

“Soy loco, pero tranquilo,” he insisted the first time we met. “I am crazy, but calm.” He asked if we understood, “Entiendes? Soy loco… pero tranquilo.”

Nene’s situation has changed since we last saw him in January. Marisela reports that her cousin is in jail for stealing a stereo. There is something else there, just below the surface, but she doesn’t elaborate. I don’t push the subject.

When I met Nene, I immediately noticed the tattoo across his chest. “ZACATECAS,” it read, in an Old-English-like script. I made a few photographs of him, but when I made this one I knew I had the shot I wanted. It felt like the tattoo was part of this story. It felt like Nene was a part of the story too.

Walking down the street on Friday night I noticed dozens of teenagers packed into internet cafés; I saw hundreds more lined up outside of clubs. I saw a woman cradling her child as she worked in a Sno-Cone stand, and another, a beggar, sitting on the ground, shielding her infant with a pink tattered shawl. Riding la ruta ocho, the number 8 bus, I passed by colonia after colonia, each with hundreds of homes, more families, more people, more stories.

As I take my leave from Zacatecas, Oscar has found work painting the front of a new restaurant. I find him leaning on a ladder a few blocks from home, sleeves splattered in brown and light yellow. The kids are on break from school; travieso Jesús bounces off walls, gives his mother a headache. Next week is Semana Santa, the Catholic Holy Week; the family plans to make pilgrimage to the shrine at San Juan de los Lagos in Jalisco.

In my prologue I hinted at some broad sense of story, about how Zacatecans might feel happier and less alone than we backward Americans. In hindsight that may have been too bold a generalization. The story of this place is far more complex than that. Yes, it is the story of free bread in Hidalgo street. But it is also the story of Oscar’s new job, the story of Edelmira’s tireless work, the story of the love within the three generations that live under that one roof.

It is also the story of Nene. I do not know Nene’s whole story, and what I do know, I’m not sure I should say. But Nene is struggling, here in Zacatecas, and the story of this place is his story too.

I wouldn’t dare parachute into this town and try to define it. I know that there are stories here I did not tell. I know that through every window, behind every door, in every face I see, there is another Zacatecas.

There is life in this place.

…and that’s about all I’ve got.

- j