Meet me where we can listen to Ramón Ayala

I crashed into my neighbor’s car on Monday morning. Unbeknownst to me, I’d left my car in drive and taken my foot off the brake while reaching for my sun shade in the backseat and listening to a song about starting life over. I only realized I was moving when I hit the car in front of me. My perpetual tiredness aside, the likely explanation for Monday’s chaos is that I was disoriented from (Mexican Independence Day) celebrations over the weekend. 

Saturday around dinner time I arrived at a mezcal tasting on the corner of San Fernando Rd and Division St. I quickly learn that most of the mezcaleros are from Oaxaca but there is a handful from Durango which is where most of my family still lives. 

There’s a band setting up and they start playing norteñas. The lead singer is a man who looks white until he opens his mouth. “No me rajo, me enojo," he says in between songs. I like to think I’m stubborn in the same way: I don’t give up, I get mad. There’s an accordion involved and I remember how my parents tried putting me in accordion lessons as a kid. I wish I had stuck with it because I really think I could have pulled it off as an adult. I start to wonder what else could have been. Had I seen more of my family in Mexico growing up I’m sure someone would have taught me how to dance to these songs. Instead I’m standing here unsure about how to move; I do my best to follow the people around me. There is an awkwardness to my being Latina that I often struggle with. The combination of music and mezcal has the melancholy kicking in so I wander outside to get some air. 

The sun is starting to set and there’s a group of people dressed in goat chaps, suit jackets, scarves and devil masks assembling. An audience is starting to gather and I ask someone “what’s happening?” “Es la danza de los diablos,” the dance of the devils, she says. Another group of musicians, this time with drums and trombones, starts playing and the devils begin to dance. They dance for hours. 

I see the devils dancing and I start to remember a man I met in Chinatown a few months ago. The truth is I’ve been looking for him since I got here. I remember he liked mezcal and I’m convinced he’s around. The problem is I’ve forgotten his face. I remember dancing with him and thinking that he was handsome and charismatic. I remember him saying girls from Durango are always a little odd and I remember us hitting it off over a mutual appreciation of Ramón Ayala. 

Growing up, my mom would tell us stories about the devil and Mexico. One story was about a girl who danced with the devil. The story goes that this girl liked to go out dancing (very frowned upon apparently). One night she meets a handsome man and they’re dancing together when the lights go out. Confusion and chaos ensue. The woman feels a burning sensation on her back. The lights come on, she looks down and the man she’s been dancing with has goat hooves for legs. He escapes and the townspeople unsuccessfully search for him the rest of the night. 

My friend drives us to a bar later that night and I feel out of sorts. I can’t get into the music and I’m done drinking so I give up and head out. When I make it to bed Sunday morning I can’t sleep. I’m thinking about places I’ve never been and people I’ve never met. Everything that could have been may yet come to pass. The thought comforts me and I sleep the day away.