This is not it, this is not what I meant at all, she thought as she massaged her temples, eyes closed, trying to ignore the monophonic Mariachi music pounding in her head. But it wasn’t Mariachi music. “No, Mom, it’s called Jarocho, from Vera Cruz.” She remembered her daughter explaining, as if she might one day detect the difference or possibly care. Mariachi, Jarocho, whatever. To her it was noise and it was annoying and it was so hot and the metal chair was sticky and everyone was speaking Spanish and they smiled at her curiously, an elegant, blond, over-perfumed American older woman surrounded by varying shades of brown skin draped in their Sunday best, which looked like mismatched tops and bottoms pulled out of church boxes. She did not want to be there, surrounded by anomalous kids of all ages whining, eating, fidgeting, wearing what they thought were costumes; Disney princesses printed on stained pink polyester dresses accessorized with Mardi Gras-style green and gold necklaces, pink ballet body suits missing tights and tutus. A handful were wearing traditional Mexican dance garb, white off-the-shoulder blouses with flowing red skirts, round halo-looking head pieces that reminded her of braided bread but were made of thick fabric green and red. Some of the children wore a hypnotic gaze, as if intentionally blocking out the deafening, shrieking music, the heat, the loud incomprehensible chatter, the strong smell of carnitas, beans and tamales. Others rocked back and forth and spoke strangely, loudly and jerked their bodies in wacky quick moves.
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