The cops had cordoned off the main streets around town. Mexico was playing in the quarterfinals. If they were to win, well watch out, the celebration would need to be proactively contained.
I was really rooting for them to win. I wanted to see the neighborhood happy. The Lakers had won a week ago and folks were wild, lighting off firecrackers, fireworks and screaming into the night. But it was a weeknight, and late. This was Sunday afternoon, there were barbecues in backyards and traffic of everyone getting to the one place they were going to be to watch the game.
So I am doing a little yardwork and I hear some howls. Seems joyous, Mexico must have made a goal. Subdued though. I hear a thud. The neighbor storms out of her house, slams the door. The cheers were from a strorefront church on the main drag a block away. the Argentinian congregation was cheering. My silent sulking neighbor was making sure her Mexican flag was unfurled properly on its post at her porch.
The drama fades quickly and Mexico ends up losing. The neighborhood is silent as I walk the dogs. The kids who help me with yardwork on Sunday are Honduran and they can tell Mexico lost too. We walk past parked cars with Mexico flags hanging on plastic window poles, flags taped across car hoods, painted with bright cheap tempera on van windows. But there is not a soul around. I hear the breeze in the trees for the first time since I moved to the barrio three years ago.
About an hour later it is time for my Sunday afternoon In-N-Out Burger. There is one just down the street and I have had to go to great pains to limit myself from eating there more than once a week. It is always bustling on Sunday and today the line was longer than ever. The place was packed with families and couples,many in green Mexico soccer jerseys, plenty others with wildly designed Team Mexico tee shirts, freshly screen printed for today by a dozen or more opportunist designers.
And it was quieter than a library. I waited in the solemn procession to order my food. They called the numbers and the simple processions, usually accompanied by a cacaphony of screaming and gab, this glorious fast food ritual was muted completely. Everyone looked sad, nobody was talking; there was just eating and the din of the assembly line kitchen. I heard a sniffle and one girl was drying the eyes of her crying man.
I took my burger and fries to go and went across the street to the empty patio of the Starbucks I ordered a drink there and the same scene played out, a few hushed patrons in fresh celebratory garb were out to just not celebrate. The girl at Starbucks knows me as a regular. I noted to her that is was awfully quiet. She said they had two security guards hired to stand at each door after Mexico won. They had gone home when the game was over. She said her mom was at home crying and that other family members were almost paralyzed. "At least some people came out to get over it" she said, noting the quiet crowd.
There were no smiles, but there were no horn honks, shouts or sneers. There was numb emptiness. I’m sure one day they will win a big game and the streets will buzz with joy and an edgy fear of losing control. If that mythical afternoon should bless your barrio and you see the green jerseys of the fans of EL TRI, know that the raging joy you witness counters the silent anti-sublime disconnect of June 27, 2010 on Pacific Boulevard in huntington Park, the day a people were silenced by themselves and commerce hummed on with no more sound than an ant hill.