Mariachis and ballet folklórico energize resistance in L.A. protests

Washington Post

16-06-2025

LOS ANGELES — For a while, City Hall stood quiet. Police stood behind barricades, arms crossed, still as statues. The sun beat down on the empty steps. Then Maricela Martínez stepped forward.
She wore a black charro suit, its silver trim flashing like armor. She dragged a wooden spoon across the ridges of her lavadero, a metallic washboard. Rassss-ras-rass, rassss-ras-rass.
Moments later, they came: ballet folklórico dancers spinning in bursts of color, mariachis wielding guitars, trumpets and violins. From all across the city, they were gathering in this public place — not just to celebrate their culture, but to defend it.
What began as a single beat soon exploded into song. 'La Negra Tomasa' rang out defiantly across the plaza.
After more than a week of immigration raids, demonstrations and military presence, mariachi musicians and folklórico dancers are now energizing protests with their sounds and swirls — a way to reclaim space in a city they helped build, in a country that hasn't always made them feel like they belong.
As a force of resistance, they show strength in boots and braids, strings and brass.
'We are going to fight back this injustice with the music, joy, culture and traditions that represent us,' said Martínez, who left Mexico for the United States 20 years ago and is now a U.S. citizen. 'We will not be silenced.'
She lifted her voice above the trumpets and chants and sang: '¡Viva México, Viva América!'
Mariachis are more than just performers here. In this sprawling, polyphonic city, where nearly half the population is Latino, they are part of the architecture. Their music is a fundamental thread in the soundtrack of life — passed down through generations, present at births, weddings, birthdays and funerals.
Nowhere does this heritage run deeper than in Boyle Heights, a working-class enclave east of the Los Angeles River, hemmed in by freeways and rail lines.
Decades ago, the neighborhood became a haven for those locked out of other areas by redlining and housing covenants that discriminated against people of color. Within that exclusion, something enduring took root.
At the corner of First and Boyle streets, mariachi musicians once gathered each morning, hoping for work. Their meeting place became Mariachi Plaza — a public square modeled after Mexico City's Plaza Garibaldi, and a sanctuary of sound, memory and pride. And their influence grew; today, schools across the city offer mariachi and ballet folklórico programs.
'When it comes to mariachi music, it's always served not only as community for ourselves, but a way to bring and create community for everybody,' said Alexandro D. Hernández, a professor of Chicano and Chicana Studies at California State University, Dominguez Hills. 'And especially here in L.A., it's incredibly multicultural — a space of welcome and a great symbol of cultural empowerment and of resistance.'
Mariachi music was born in the 19th century in western Mexico — in the hot lands of Jalisco, Michoacán and Nayarit. It began as a reflection of the country itself, a composite of Indigenous, African and European elements all coming together.
Over time, it absorbed influences and crossed borders, eventually adding instruments and adopting the polished charro suits that became iconic through Mexican cinema. It evolved even further in Los Angeles, stretching across cultures, communities and genres.
'I mean, there's a mariachi singer in Kendrick Lamar's new album, 'GNX,' so you can really sing anything in mariachi,' said Hernández, who co-founded 'El Mariachi Manchester,' a tribute to Morrissey and The Smiths. 'It's just such a popular type of music that as long as you know how to keep the foundation of it together, you can literally fuse it with whatever you want.'
That flexibility is what makes mariachi such a powerful vehicle for protest, he noted, and why it's long been a fixture in demonstrations — from the Chicano movement of the 1960s to the rallies of recent days. 'It translates to virtually all settings, from rites of passage to protests.'
Coral Alonso is among the mariachis who have become a fixture at some of those events.
The 27-year-old grew up in an Arizona border town where life is split between countries, 'with one hand firmly in Mexico and the other in the United States,' as she put it Wednesday. But unfulfilled by her studies in chemical engineering and frustrated by the lack of job opportunities at home, she packed her bag and headed west.
Alonso found a life in music in Los Angeles. Today, she plays in restaurants, at private events and concerts, on TV shows. 'I love what I do,' she said. 'This city has given me a place to be who I am, and the people here truly support and love us.'
Over the past weeks, though, that sense of belonging has begun to feel fragile — especially as the federal raids spread, with people seized in the middle of daily routines or workplaces. President Donald Trump deployed both the California National Guard and the Marines, saying the military needed to 'liberate' Los Angeles from a 'migrant invasion.'
'Every day, I carry the Mexican flag, the Latino flag, through my work,' Alonso said. 'So if I represent Mexico every day — literally — then now, when our community is being unfairly attacked, when their rights are being violated, I have to stand up. I have to speak.'
She picked up her violin and played. On the steps of City Hall, she sang 'Flor de Capomo,' weaving verses in Spanish and the Yaqui language. It is a way to protest not with anger but with beauty, she said.
Around her, three women swept their skirts though the air and stomped their heels in unison — embodying a tradition that has survived conquest, colonization and the passage of time.
'To stay silent at this point is just not an option,' said Audrey Alvarez, 30, 'especially because when I walk through my community, the fruit guy is missing, the taco people are not there anymore, and people are getting literally taken off the streets. I dance for them.'
For Carmen Flores, 24, and Victoria Trevizo, 25, ballet folklórico is also a tribute to the sacrifices their families made. Their grandparents were once segregated in schools and shamed for speaking Spanish, they said. Now, with flowers in their braids and skirts swirling at their ankles, the women reclaim what others were once told to hide.
'This is pride,' Flores said, smiling.
Not far from the dancers, Aurelio Reyes stood with his guitar in hand, waiting to buy a paleta from a street vendor.
Known as El Gallo de Chiapas, Reyes arrived in Los Angeles more than 40 years ago, carrying little more than his voice and a dream. Now 71, he performs as part of El Trío Palenque — a family band made up of his wife and daughter.
A smile tugged at his face as he looked over the crowd of Angelenos. Even with fear rippling through the city, it moved him to see people coming together and refusing to go quiet.
Still, Reyes couldn't help thinking of the musicians who weren't there. The ones who had lost gigs or no longer felt safe enough to play. He thought of them before breaking out into an original verse.
'¡Sacaremos ese buey de la Casa Blanca!' he sang.
People clapped. It was a twist on a familiar Mexican idiom, 'sacar el buey de la barranca,' to get the ox out of the ravine, a phrase about doing the impossible or overcoming huge obstacles. This time, the ox was in the White House — and music and dance was the response.