America Libre (2 page)

The window on Cole’s side caved in with a terrifying crash. The rattled young lieutenant was certain he now faced a life-or-death
decision—and he was determined to save his men. With the radio still in hand, Lieutenant Edward Cole gave an order he would
forever regret.

“We’re under attack. Open fire!”

When it was over, twenty-three people lay dead on the black pavement beneath the neon sign of the Rio Grande Carryout.

“The Rio Grande Incident,” as it came to be known, led every newscast and spanned every front page from Boston to Beijing.
Bloggers went into hyperdrive. Talk radio knew no other subject. Protests erupted in many American cities, usually flash mobs
that drew a wide spectrum of extremists.

Outside the U.S. embassy in Mexico City, tens of thousands chanting “Rio Grande” burned American flags alongside an effigy
of Texas governor Jeff Bradley. Massive demonstrations multiplied across Latin America, Asia, and Europe in the days that
followed. The prime minister of France called the confrontation “an appalling abuse of power.” Germany’s chancellor labeled
it “barbaric.” Officials in China declared it “an unfortunate consequence of capitalist excess.”

Fed by the media frenzy, the destruction and looting on San Antonio’s south side escalated. In less than a week, riots broke
out in other Hispanic enclaves across Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, and California.

Many Americans were shocked by the sudden turmoil in the Southwest, yet in hindsight, the origins of the discontent were easy
to see.

As the United States entered the second decade of the twenty-first century, a severe recession was under way. With unemployment
benefits running out, millions of Americans sought any kind of job, saturating low-rung job markets. From farms to fast-food
chains, Hispanics were pitted against mainstream workers in a game of economic musical chairs.

Only a few years earlier, the election of the nation’s first African-American president, Adam Elewa, had brought hope to Hispanics
and all minorities. But Elewa was voted out after one term following a renewal of terrorist attacks on U.S. soil. Elewa’s
successor, Carleton Brenner, resumed what many were calling the War on Terror II. With widespread public support, Brenner
quickly launched a wave of overseas military deployments and stiffened border security.

The tighter borders stemmed the flow of illegal immigrants. But the presence of millions of undocumented Hispanics already
within the country was a political quagmire that remained unresolved. More significant, Latinos born in the U.S. had long
overtaken immigration as the prime source of Hispanic growth thanks to birth rates that soared far above the mainstream average.
The nation’s Hispanic population had exploded—and the lingering economic slump had created a powder keg of idle, restless
youth.

Fear of this perplexing ethnic bloc among mainstream Americans had given rise to an escalating backlash. Armed vigilante groups
patrolling the Mexican border had shot and killed border crossers on several occasions. Inside the border, anyone with a swarthy
complexion was not much safer. Assaults by Anglo gangs against Hispanics caught in the wrong neighborhood were now commonplace.
“Amigo shopping,” the epidemic of muggings on illegal immigrants who always carried cash, was rarely investigated by police.
Graffiti deriding Hispanics was a staple in schools and workplaces. Another burning cross in the yard of a Latino home was
no longer news.

Meanwhile, politicians had discovered a wellspring of nativist passion. In a scramble for votes, a deluge of anti-immigration
and “English only” ordinances had been passed over the last decade by state and local governments as Washington’s inability
to resolve the thorny immigration issue continued. Most of these laws were struck down by federal judges. Yet local politicians
persisted in passing new ones. The strident nativist vote was too powerful to resist. This conflicting patchwork of laws created
an unforeseen side effect. Fleeing the legislative backlash, most Hispanics—both legal and illegal—were now concentrated in
“safe haven” communities, usually in crowded urban areas.

Outraged by the growing attacks against Hispanics and seeing the anti-immigrant laws as thinly veiled bullying, Latino community
leaders in the Southwest had grown increasingly militant. Protest marches and rallies were on the rise. Hispanic separatists,
once only fringe groups at the marches, were visibly growing in number. A favorite banner at many of these events reflected
an attitude gaining in popularity: “We didn’t cross the border. The border crossed us.”

Now, in a sweltering July, these long-smoldering elements were reaching the flashpoint in the nation’s teeming barrios.

M
anolo Suarez awoke to the crash of breaking glass.

Through the bedroom’s lone window, opened to the stifling heat, he heard the shrill wail of a burglar alarm and loud, angry
voices. Mano glanced at the glowing clock. It was 12:27 a.m.

Rosa lay naked against his side, using his brawny biceps for a pillow. Mano gently moved his wife aside and stepped out of
bed.

“Wake up, querida,” he said, pulling a T-shirt over his chiseled torso.

Rosa stirred, still torpid from their lovemaking less than an hour earlier. “Mano? What’s going on?”

“There’s rioting outside. I’m going to take a look. Move the children into the living room—away from the windows,” he said
as he finished dressing.

From the courtyard of his apartment building on East Fourth Street in Los Angeles, Mano watched the mob, surprised by its
makeup. The main source of violence was a few dozen teens at the edge of the crowd. They were hurling bricks, bottles, and
stones at the shops along Fourth Street. Behind the teenagers were small groups of adults shouting encouragement, waiting
for a chance to grab anything of value. Most people on the street were simply milling around, watching curiously, drifting
with the action.

Near the back of the crowd, Mano spotted a familiar face. Eddie Paz was loitering with two other men, sharing swigs from a
bottle of Cutty Sark. Eddie had been a lot boy at the dealership where Mano worked as a mechanic—until the business had gone
under five months earlier.

“Suarez!” Eddie slurred. “Come here, man!”

Hoping to learn more about the mob, Mano waded into the mass of bodies. At six foot three and a hard two hundred sixty, he
plowed easily through the crowd.

“Take a swig!” Eddie said, holding out the bottle as Mano approached.

“No thanks, Eddie,” Mano shouted over the noise. “How long has this been going on?” he asked, gesturing to the chaos around
them.

“I dunno, man,” Eddie said, staggering closer, booze on his breath. “Me and the guys were tossing down a few back at Paquito’s
and heard all this racket about an hour ago. Been checking out the scene ever since.”

“I’m surprised to see you out here doing this, Eddie. You’ve got a family to support.”

“Hey, man, I think it’s a shame these kids are tearing up the barrio,” Eddie said indignantly. “A lot of these businesses
are owned by Latinos. They don’t deserve this shit. But what can I do about it, man?”

“What you can do, Eddie, is go home. Hanging around out here only gives these cholos safety in numbers,” Mano said and walked
away.

Rosa used her nightgown to wipe a tear from Elena’s cheek. The trembling five-year-old clung to her mother on the worn living
room couch, terrified by the angry screams and crashes outside.

“Where’s Papi?” the half-awake child asked, suddenly noticing her father’s absence.

“Papi will be back soon,” Rosa cooed soothingly, hoping it was true. She knew Mano could take care of himself on the street.
He’d done it all his life. But this rioting was something new, something that made no sense.

Rosa glanced at Pedro and Julio tucked into the pallets she’d laid out on the living room floor. The noise outside had energized
her sons, their brown eyes flashing with each new swell in the din.

When Mano entered the front door, Rosa stifled a sigh of relief to avoid alarming the children.

“Make the people stop, Papi,” Elena cried, pointing outside.

Mano stroked his daughter’s cheek. “It’s OK, m’hijita. You’re safe in here. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Ten-year-old Pedro sat up excitedly. “I want to go out and riot with you, Papi.”

“Me, too,” said Julio, who, at eight, was always eager to follow his big brother.

“I did not go outside to riot, Pedro. I went outside to make sure we weren’t in danger.”

“But everybody at school says rioting is tight, Papi. You know, so people will listen to us Hispanics. It’s on the news and
everything.”

“What they’re doing outside is senseless, Pedro,” Mano said calmly. “They’re attacking places that provide us jobs. Rioting
isn’t going to make people listen to Hispanics, m’hijo. It’s going to make things worse.”

Rosa stroked her son’s forehead. “Pedro, you’ve seen your father looking for work every day for the last five months. Do you
think this rioting is going to help him find a job?”

The boy lowered his eyes. “No, Mami,” he said softly, settling back under the covers.

Rosa could sense the tug of excitement the rioting had on her boys, an undertow she would have to guide them to resist. Drugs,
crime, the gangs, and now this pointless violence—it was one more danger her kids would face. Asking God for the strength
and patience to protect them was always first in the prayers she said daily. “Close your eyes, m’hijo,” she said, gently smoothing
Pedro’s blankets.

The boy blinked drowsily a few times—then his eyes widened suddenly as the shriek of sirens joined the din outside.

“All of you stay here,” Mano said, rising to his feet. “I’m going to see what’s going on.”

Without a view of the street from the living room, Mano went to the kitchen window. The pulsing red lights of emergency vehicles
glowed against the wall of the warehouse next door. Moving to the bedroom window at the back of their apartment, Mano was
alarmed to see the flickering yellow reflection of flames on the building behind them.

Trying to determine the source of the fire, Mano heard a series of dull thumps coming from the street. He recognized the sound
of tear gas canisters and could tell from the sudden drop in voices that the crowd was in retreat. Soon pale smoke was seeping
into their apartment.

By the time Mano reached the living room, Rosa and the children were already coughing. “Get the children into the bathroom,”
he called out to Rosa. “Seal the door with wet towels, then wet down some washcloths and breathe through them.” Mano leaned
close to Rosa, speaking softly so the children could not hear. “I saw flames outside. Keep the children ready to move in case
the fire spreads.”

Rosa’s eyes flared with alarm for a moment, then she composed herself and nodded calmly. She led the children into the bathroom
and closed the door.

Feeling as if his eyes were being boiled, Mano rushed into their bedroom and ripped the sheet from the bed. After soaking
the fabric in the kitchen sink, he jammed the dripping cloth under the front door. From a wet kitchen towel, he fashioned
a gas mask for himself and began patrolling the windows.

Inside the cramped bathroom, Rosa coughed violently as she prepared wet-cloth masks for the children before making one of
her own. She sealed the bathroom door, then herded the kids into the bathtub, trying to keep them comfortable but alert. Sitting
on the edge of the tub, she began a familiar nursery rhyme. “
Palomita blanca, pico de coral
,” she recited, playfully patting each of their heads in time with the verse. “
Pidele al Señor que no llueva más
.” The children giggled and joined in, their squeaky voices muffled by the cloths. For the next hour Rosa led them through
the many cancionitas she’d learned from her mother.

Although Rosa spoke little Spanish and barely understood the meaning of these nursery rhymes she’d passed on to her children,
their familiar rhythm was always reassuring—especially tonight. After more than an hour, the children were struggling to stay
awake, their heads lolling. Rosa was relieved when she heard Mano’s voice from the other side of the bathroom door.