Jazz Owls_A Novel of the Zoot Suit Riots

by Margarita Engle

Civil Code of 1941 states very clearly: “All marriages

  of white persons with Negroes, Mongolians, members

  of the Malay race, or mulattoes are illegal

  and void.”

  No intermarriage is allowed,

  so why weren’t Mexicans

  included?

  It’s a detail overlooked

  by the law, one that means

  las señoritas de la USO

  can marry white sailors,

  but they can’t marry blacks,

  so all this scandalous

  interracial

  jazz dancing

  might sooner or later

  lead to CRIMES OF THE HEART,

  a passionate headline

  with a bittersweet

  echoing sound

  that makes

  lonely housewives

  pay attention

  to my articles.

  I imagine the sailors

  and police

  notice too.

  After fear, my next-best seller

  is anger.

  After the Imaginary Great Air Raid

  Reporter #2

  Last year’s Japanese invasion of Los Angeles

  never happened, but predicting that it would

  helped us sell plenty of newspapers,

  and now this interracial dancing

  angle

  might be almost

  as profitable.

  Why wait for real-life drama

  when I can just go ahead

  and speculate?

  Helping Abuela in the Backyard

  Ray

  With zoot suits dangerously illegal, my parents

  make me stay home and scrub laundry

  in a shed, or hoe weeds in the victory garden,

  eggplant, jicama, okra, tomatoes,

  jalapeños, cilantro, squash,

  it’s amazing how many flavors

  can be angrily yanked from the earth

  when my grandma uses my muscles

  and her faith in the generosity

  of dirt.

  Rice, potatoes, flour, pinto beans,

  I’m sent to the store to fetch big cloth

  sacos filled with food, then I help Abuela

  bleach the sacks—girls’ work,

  so I absolutely refuse

  to have anything to do

  with stitching bean sack clothing

  or embroidering flowery

  designs.

  Memorias

  Abuela

  I remember long ago

  when I was young enough

  to climb a pepper tree at home

  in México,

  or play

  at making snails race,

  then run, run, run away

  when the soldiers

  of Pancho Villa

  came.

  ¿Cómo es posible que una vida—one life

  can hold

  both the revolution

  of 1910 in my birth tierra

  and this worldwide guerra now,

  with my oldest grandson gone

  and the young one always

  in trouble?

  Patches of Time

  Ray

  Tierra. Earth.

  Guerra. War.

  So many rhymes

  inside my grandma’s

  tired old mind.

  It’s easy to watch her twirl a polka,

  then show her my own

  modern moves.

  Together we laugh

  as she tries to imitate

  my COOL new way

  of inventing

  a HOPPING jitterbug

  garden-crossing step.

  By the time we’re finished, it’s hard to say

  whether we’re dancing through her youth

  or mine.

  The Month of Flowers

  Lorena

  Voladas, our grandma calls us, flown girls,

  carried away by a wind

  of wildness.

  So we quiet down as we obediently agree

  to carry flowers to the altar of María

  each evening in May, marching in a long

  procession of girls and women, all of us

  dressed in white, our heads covered

  with lacy veils, as we deliver armloads

  of homegrown roses, el ofrecimiento,

  an offering and a plea

  for the safety

  of soldiers,

  our brother

  overseas.

  Las voladas

  Marisela

  Las voladas is a criticism

  meaning “flown-away girls,”

  but I love the soaring SOUND!

  If only I really could FLY up high and FAR away

  from the painful SIGHT

  of gold stars in windows,

  each one in honor of a father, son,

  or brother

  lost

  FOREVER.

  Inside each of those grieving homes

  there’s a funeral flag, folded

  and treasured,

  all the stars

  of the U.S.

  sparkling

  with SORROW.

  Sneaking OUT

  Ray

  I know I’m not supposed to wear my cool suit,

  but I’m a ZOOT cat, hip cat, Lindy Hopping vato LOCO,

  so I won’t let anyone tell me how to dress

  or when to go out dancing, sí, simón, I slip away

  no matter how often Papá warns me,

  and even when Mami tries

  to make me feel guilty

  by praying for the safety

  of Nicolás,

  I still climb

  over the windowsill

  at midnight

  when everyone else

  is sleeping.

  I wear a black hat

  to cover up my ducktail hair,

  and shoe soles that I made myself,

  building them up high

  with old tire rubber,

  just like huarache sandals

  from Tijuana,

  so they’ll

  last longer

  and save leather,

  helping the war effort—but also

  a double-thick sole works like an anchor,

  making me strong

  when I lift a girl

  UP

  over my head,

  swing her HIGH,

  make her FLY,

  turning both of us

  into dance contest

  SUPER-heroes!

  Robbed

  Ray

  Policemen are supposed to protect people.

  Instead they yell, spin me around,

  order me to take off my shoes

  then my socks

  naked feet

  exposed heart

  all my feelings

  so OPENLY displayed

  on the surface

  of my face.

  When they toss my shoes and socks

  into their car, I RACE away, barefoot

  on the spit-stained

  ugliness

  of sidewalks,

  strangers laughing

  STRANGELY.

  Did You See That Dark Kid?

  Sailor #1

  Cops sent him home barefoot.

  They even made him take off his socks!

  Deadly weapons, that’s what those foreign shoes are,

  the homemade ones with thick rubber soles

  that must weigh as much

  as a brick.

  City life is so lively that the sight

  of a shoeless Spanish boy makes me laugh

  even louder and longer than that newspaper cartoon

  about Zoot Suit Yokum, the stupidest guy

  in the world, a not-super-hero so dumb

  that all us navy recruits argue

  about who gets to read

  the Sunday funny section

  first.

  It’s a
lways me.

  I win because I’ve got the most muscular

  attitude in the world.

  Feeling Like a Bully

  Sailor #2

  I don’t like the way laughing

  at that barefoot kid made me feel,

  but still, Zoot Suit Yokum is so silly

  and foolish

  that I tell myself

  we’re just having

  a bit of fun in this big, wild city

  before heading out to kill

  or be

  killed.

  Any teen in a big suit must know

  that he’s taking the risk of being

  stripped down to ridiculous

  naked

  feet.

  Barefoot?

  Mami

  ¿Sin zapatos?

  ¡Ay, no!

  Dios, protect Nicolás from los Nazis

  and Ray from la policía right here

  in our own

  city.

  Imagínate, God, how it feels for a mother

  to work hard, hard, hard

  just so her children

  never have to run

  shoeless

  like I did

  when I was little, so many sharp

  rocks, shells, and broken bottles

  hidden in beach sand,

  slicing

  my bare toes.

  City Life or Countryside?

  Papá

  The work was a lot harder

  when we followed crops,

  moving every season,

  never feeling settled,

  no chance for our children

  to stay in school.

  Now Ray is the only one still studying,

  I couldn’t keep the girls from dropping out,

  but look at him, beaten up, barefoot, ashamed,

  maybe he’d be better off if we’d stayed

  out on the road, Lost Hills for cotton,

  Sanger in peach season,

  no place to dance

  in fancy clothes

  that pull like a magnet,

  attracting attention,

  policía,

  trouble.

  June Gloom Comes Early

  Lorena

  Fog is on its way.

  There will be no work.

  The lag between seasons

  so endless

  once spinach is over,

  and peaches

  won’t start

  until agosto

  swimming season

  August heat

  crazy

  loco.

  So I work with Abuela

  in her quiet little victory garden,

  where she tends fruit trees

  and vegetables,

  all these patches of hot chiles

  so spicy

  that red heat

  scalds my fingertips

  just as brightly

  as any cooking flame.

  Food grown at home

  means less bought in stores,

  leaving plenty

  for the army,

  navy,

  marines.

  All Marisela ever talks about

  is her favorite cubano musician,

  the one she calls Manolito, showing

  that she knows him, and maybe they’ve

  already crossed the line way past friendship,

  but Ray likes to speculate—which

  military branch

  will he choose

  when he’s old enough

  to fight and die for

  our country.

  I agree that marines have

  the most attractive uniforms,

  but there’s something to be said

  for the air force, warplanes

  soaring high above our heads

  on their way

  to wherever Nico

  might be wishing

  to be rescued,

  or waiting

  to be

  buried.

  MIA.

  Missing in action.

  It’s a gloomy,

  pre-June telegram

  that sends all of us

  on a pilgrimage

  to an altar

  on a hilltop.

  While the rest of us walk slowly,

  our bodies and minds weighed down by horror,

  Abuela travels on her knees, letting the road’s

  rough gravel

  scrape her skin,

  a plea

  made of flesh,

  her prayer

  a trail

  of raw,

  bleeding

  hope.

  Fear

  Ray

  MIA means “missing in action,”

  but in Spanish it also means mía,

  “mine, belonging to me,”

  like that day last month when I walked

  on my own two straight piernas, my legs,

  while Abuela shuffled painfully along

  on her bent, bleeding knees.

  I felt so useless and selfish,

  just a little kid who can’t fight beside

  my brother, or search when he

  goes missing.

  I know the prayers

  flowers

  altars

  make my grandma feel dream-filled

  and hopeful,

  but I need a plea

  that I can experience in my bones,

  not just words in my mind,

  so I DANCE

  all alone

  each night

  at home

  while everyone else

  is asleep

  and only God

  sees me

  furiously

  leaping. . . .

  Mind in the AIR

  heart on the ground

  my silent

  prayer

  for Nico

  RISES

  and floats.

  Divided

  Marisela

  My dreams and heart

  are spinning all over

  a daydreamed

  moonlit

  dance floor

  with MANOLITO . . .

  but the rest of me

  stays close to Abuela

  and my mother,

  helping them pray

  for my missing

  brother.

  Nonsense

  Lorena

  A few nights after the procession

  to that hilltop altar of Santa María,

  we danced at the Aragon Ballroom

  on the Venice pier, until sailors

  got drunk and chased Ray

  onto the beach,

  then the boardwalk,

  a crowded trail

  of chaos

  that suddenly turned

  into a fight . . .

  but my little brother

  wasn’t the only kid

  kicking and punching,

  even though he was one

  of the few

  arrested.

  How can something

  as simple

  and ordinary

  as a jitterbug

  get so twisted,

  like a vine

  on a fence,

  tendrils

  of fear

  twining

  high

  as we

  desperately

  try

  to grasp

  calm

  common

  sense?

  Vision

  Ray

  All I did was defend my sisters

  against wolf-whistling brutos.

  I wasn’t even wearing my cool

  zoot drapes.

  But cops always see me

  as an invading foreigner

  who walks and talks

  with too much

  CONFIDENCE.

  Being a citizen born in the U.S. is never

  enough protection, so from now on

  maybe I’ll thi
nk of myself

  as a wanderer,

  not shut out

  or locked in

  but separate and FREE.

  Punished

  Marisela

  Radio newsmen call us wild.

  Printed headlines make us sound even worse,

  using words like immoral, dangerous, vile.

  Everyone talks like we’re the ones who are SCARY!

  All Lorena and I did was DANCE,

  and Ray just fought back

  when he was ATTACKED.

  Ay, how beautifully I tried to fly above the floor,

  and now I’m scolded by Mami and Papá,

  who don’t seem to believe in my innocence.

  What if I’m not allowed to be a jazz owl anymore?

  My sister and I still need to go out, work hard,

  and bring home money, walking back late

  with our chaperone, Ray,

  who never stops risking his life

  to escort us.

  Maybe I really do need to be more cautious

  like Lorena.

  Ready for Anything

  Reporter #1

  Rowdy.

  Riled up.

  I choose my ominous R words carefully,

  trying to describe rumbles of restlessness

  in the ramshackle neighborhood

  where Mexicans have been brooding

  for a long time, angry because their shacks

  were torn down to build that sturdy armory

  for training new sailors and stockpiling

  ferocious war weapons.

  Now it’s all finally turning into a real story!

  Sailors scare local girls.

  Zooters frighten navy wives.

  A military man’s car cuts in front

  of local teens who are walking around

  in their fancy suits, just waiting

  to break beer bottles

  and challenge authority.

  Retaliation. Revenge.

  When the inevitable turmoil

  finally rises up, I’ll be there,

  ready to write

  about

  rage.

  One word that I plan to repeat over and over

  in this long article about dangerous influences

  is Afro-Cuban, with respect to music,

  because it sounds even more vicious

  than Aztec warriors

  demanding

  a sacrifice.

  Latin dance.

  That’s what the other reporters prefer.

  Latin jazz.

  Yeah, even older readers love the rhumba,

  so they feel more comfortable with words

  that make people think of tropical romance,

  but comfort doesn’t move newspapers.