In 2006, several gang leaders sat down to talk in a prison in Mérida, Yucatán. After decades of feuding, they asked themselves: “Do we really want to pass on our problems to the next generation?” Thus the Mayan Council was born, a model gang peace.
Motorcycles, pickup trucks. Sitting on the back of a pickup truck, I keep an eye on Manuel Magaña, an ex-gang member who delivers Three Kings’ Day gifts to the occupied areas in Mérida, Yucatán. They are warehouses, tin houses built in the woods. Due to political disputes, some people set them on fire to expel their residents, the city’s poorest. The names of the shantytowns are La Conejera, Henry Martín (the América soccer player), and Renacimiento Maya. Our caravan is protected by two cholos on motorcycles. The walls still bear the “plaques” or signatures of the gangs, especially those of Sur 13, former rivals of the neighborhood gang, of which Manuel was a leader.
“We do this to give back to society,” says Manuel, who today leads the delegation of Vieja Escuela Yucatán, a sort of consortium formed by former gang rivals. The seed of the alliance’s formation was planted in 2006, at the Social Reintegration Center (Cereso) in Mérida. Its context is a truce with its own name: the Mayan Council.
A clown—formerly a neighbor—hands out gifts to the local children. The trucks stop, dozens of people get out, and they ask to form lines. It seems everyone knows Manuel; they greet and hug him. Along with toys, he hands out hats, clothes, and candy. He chats with the women. “Who wants to take this lady? At one, at two, at three!” He cracks jokes that provoke laughter from the entire caravan. In a squatted area where the sun beats down on the wattle and daub and cork houses, whose walls are boarded up with pieces of cardboard and topped with bottle caps, a woman dressed as a security guard for a business appears. “Look, we even have private security here!” Manuel shouts.
Manuel, 41, has worked since he was 12 in Mérida’s main markets: Lucas de Gálvez and San Benito. He says that as a baby he grew up “wrapped in banana leaves.” His parents sold fruit, clothing, razors, and mothballs. His involvement in the Neighborhood was no small feat: he founded the Banda Mercado Loco (BML), the largest faction of that gang that emerged in the early 1990s in Mérida. His identity is marked by the 8 ball in billiards: Manuel has one tattooed on his arm.
—What does the 8 ball mean?
—It was a rosary with the cross removed and the 8 ball from a pool table placed on it. The 8th letter of the alphabet is H. Together, we made a plaque with the number 148: 14 for N and 8 for H. We were Real 148, which stood for Neighborhood. Our dress was a blue plaid shirt with khaki pants. Always lying down, cholos.
Cholos trying to contribute to the improvement of society. Ex-convicts, ex-thugs who travel to police stations to deliver medicine. Those who, after destructive weather events, help people in precarious conditions rebuild their homes. Men who were judged as antisocial and today go to neighborhoods to talk about the dangers of gang activity and drug addiction.
Manuel Magaña spent almost 20 years in prison. There, he became one of the key players in changing the landscape of gang activity in the state. Along with members of rival gangs—Sur 13, the BOF (Brothers of Family), the South Side, among others—he participated in the creation of the Mayan Council: the agreement that managed to defuse conflicts inside the Mérida prison and on the streets. The project continued. In 2021, gang leaders, members, and former members developed, through the Mayan Council, the activism project Vieja Escuela Yucatán. It’s surreal to see a group of cholos traveling to impoverished police stations to deliver medicine, rebuild homes, deliver groceries, and help the elderly. But it’s also an arc of redemption, a demonstration of collective solidarity. What emerges from anger.
“On that table were two thousand years of imprisonment,” Manuel laughs, recalling the meeting between gang leaders at the Mérida prison. Since he was deprived of his liberty in 2003, conflicts and outbreaks of fighting have erupted. There were violent attacks. But he recalls: “There, among the main gang leaders, the most important points, we realized that there were more things that united us than those that separated us: family, defending our own, changing the lives of the new generations. We were united by our Yucatecan, Mayan identity.”
Since their origin, gangs have been centers of resistance. What brings hundreds, sometimes thousands of people together around chola clothing, the badge (the numbers they represent), and violence? What don’t we see about gangs? Do they demonstrate traits of a society that tends, out of inertia, to disdain the “other,” the different? In any case, over the course of three months, I saw former gang leaders doing more activism than many politicians. I discovered musical talents. Many said, “It’s not a gang, they’re my family.” Or “They’ve been the only ones who understand and support me.” Thugs, thugs, bums, vandals: there are dozens of pejorative nicknames. For me, it’s simply “pure gangsters.”
“From an anthropological perspective, gangs are micro-societies,” says anthropologist Édgar Rodríguez Cimé, author of “Avientes todos: radiografía de las bandas urbanas en Mérida” (1997) and “Culturas juveniles en el mayab” (Youth Cultures in the Mayab) (2008), the first comprehensive analyses of gang activity in Mérida. Edgar interviewed many of the current members of Vieja Escuela Yucatán.
I was a gang member myself, Mateo. Back then, they weren’t gangs, but rather the “brozas”: we were united by our neighborhood, our poverty, and our desire to have fun. From the perspective of prejudice and power, we were “the wiros,” “the ones without a future.” But we were also talented soccer players, students, and graduates. In the case of the “gangas”—clicas or gangs derived from the influence of the pachuco and chicano cultures—we worked with these youth through music. Before, with the National Youth Council, where I worked, we tried to do what the kids from Vieja Escuela Yucatán are doing: support youth to foster artistic interests.
Wherever Manuel goes, he attracts attention. He’s an important figure, a leader. People identify with him, embrace him. He’s equally beloved in the market, at the tianguis (street market)—where he currently works—as in the poorest areas of Mérida. He is, at the same time, an example of overcoming obstacles: prison, even the biggest mistakes made, are not the end of life. By the early 2000s, he controlled more than a thousand people throughout Yucatán. He was a “steadfast” gang member, the first to “jump to the punches,” who encouraged his followers to avoid using hard drugs. The Lucas de Gálvez market was a strategic point. “All the contras—gang members from other gangs—passed through there at some point. Soap makers’ houses: what doesn’t fall, slides. We followed them from the moment they got off the trucks.”
Manuel, in short, ran the market; he even supported members of the Neighborhood gang to work there. He joined the gang ranks at the age of 15. He spent time in the correctional facility, then in prison. The Neighborhood gang was one of the largest and most feared gangs in the state. During the first decade of the 20th century, conflicts between Neighbors and Sureños members left deaths, people in prison, and other casualties; they attacked each other with knives, bats, machetes, Molotov cocktails, and, on rare occasions, firearms. At Mérida’s major events, like Carnival and the Xmatkuil Fair, Manuel led more than 800 people. It was the gang with the most problems. Dominant, with so much ground gained, conflict arose wherever there was a neighbor. But every powerful person serves a powerful person higher up.
We felt like we were the bosses, always causing fear. I’m short, and having a thousand assholes behind me made me feel like a giant. We do, we undo, you feel like Juan Camaney, asshole! Of course, there were so many ways I could tell myself: slow down. One day you’re going to get into trouble. And, look: when we moved such a large number of people, they would seek out political authorities for the famous shock groups. We had certain strikes. Say: ‘Oh, he was arrested for stoning a house.’ They would strike, and we would get out [of the jailbreaks]. Or he was arrested due to injuries and gang activity. And they (the political groups) would strike us. Back then, because the elections were coming up, they told us, ‘As long as you don’t get convicted of homicide or some crime for which nothing can be done, they’ll support you.’ And off they go, starting to mess things up, stealing votes. The reality is, we didn’t realize they were using us, that we were pawns on the chessboard.
But those days passed. “La vida loca,” “I die for my clique,” “firm until death” took their toll on Manuel, resulting in nearly two decades in prison. Time gradually diluted his strong leadership. Manuel became isolated, alone; many criticized his initiative to collaborate in changing the state’s violence. He didn’t give up. In prison, in addition to participating in many cultural projects, he recovered from addiction. “I thought about my family. That’s the only gang that stays with you in the end. I distanced myself from everything.” Through his efforts and those of other members, the prison became culturally integrated. With the Mayan Council came concerts, book presentations—like that of Édgar Rodríguez—and social gatherings, as well as the trust of the director of the Cereso (Cereso prison), Francisco Javier Brito Herrera, whom I was unable to contact through the Government Communications Department. Outside prison, a key figure in consolidating Vieja Escuela Yucatán was Gustavo Rosado, “La Mazkara,” a former member of the Florencia 13 gang. He speaks from his radio booth. He has been a radio host for 16 years. Previously, as a gang leader in the early 2000s, he ran the northern part of Mérida: Carranza, Las Águilas, La Maya, and other neighboring neighborhoods. He explains that the gang was structured around a “mastermind,” who gave instructions to two trusted individuals. A mastermind meeting was held with the gang’s key leaders. During the meetings, attended by hundreds of young people, drug use was not allowed, one of the rules that was passed over the years. Were there high levels of violence? Of course. Another former gang member told me about the “missions” to earn the clecha—tattoos and ranks within the gang. They had different levels of difficulty; they ranged from robbery to attempted murder. At that time, there was one goal: to unite and fight against the enemy. The rival gang, the toughest besides us, was Manuel Magaña’s gang, the Neighborhood. I was involved for three years. And I left because of bad experiences. I went in and out of the correctional facility; sometimes I was held in jail due to conflicts and fights. When I decided to leave, I focused on what I had always loved. I already stood out as a leader. I was a good dancer and singer; I wasn’t afraid of the microphone. I dedicated my time to hosting and hosting evening parties at nightclubs, and then I worked for a brewery for many years. Finally, I got into radio, which was something I’d dreamed of since I was a child, Gustavo adds. Focused on radio production, Gustavo met with the CERESO authorities, who opened the door for him to host musical events. He spoke with his former rivals. All of them, as a common thread, wanted to redeem themselves at the expense of the past, and it was important for them to talk about it as a warning to the youth. The first meeting in prison led to a radio program in which leaders who had (or hadn’t) been imprisoned recounted how they had come together to bury the hatchet inside and outside of prison, as well as to recall the experiences of their youth.
This is how Gustavo remembers:
When I went to the Cereso, the Mayan Council had already taken place. Some time passed, and I invited those who were away to a radio program: “Talking with Generation X.” There were two episodes to talk about our experiences. At the end of the second, I said: “Why don’t we create an association where we can help young people? Now there are problems with meth. Many of us knew what drugs are.” And when we realized that meth is destroying young people, how can we support them with our past, especially with a past that is a hundred times more aggressive? Everyone agreed, and the Vieja Escuela Yucatán was born.
From that agreement, a WhatsApp group was founded that, by 2025, had at least 60 members. The first Vieja Escuela events focused on giving talks in the annexes and collecting toys for low-income children—more than 3,000 toys on the first occasion. Then they responded to calls for help through social media, such as from elderly people “who couldn’t afford their electricity bills” or who needed home repairs. “In one of the first activities, we helped a paralyzed girl by bringing groceries and diapers. Since then, a lot has been done.”
Maricela Tamayo is the patron saint of Santa Muerte in Melitón Salazar, a formerly “tough” neighborhood in Mérida. She has 70 figures of the saint; she has traveled to Mexico City to attend events dedicated to this deity. The figures come in various colors. One girl, who asks that her name not be used, says she brought a Gerbera to her deceased baby. Other people—of different generations and attire; cholos, teenagers, elderly people—come to offer offerings, ask for health, love, money. They pray for those they love who are sick. They pray for a better future. It’s a peaceful atmosphere, a blue house saturated with incense.
Maricela opens the doors of her house for this mass prayer, where DJ Bogie—Álvaro David Valdez Martín, 41—a member of Vieja Escuela Yucatán, spins songs on the turntable. He says he’s been with the Sur 13 since he was 18. He’s an artist: aside from spinning records, he paints, graffiti, and designs t-shirts with phrases that reclaim southeastern Mexico. He grew up in southern Mérida. Joining gangs was almost a natural occurrence. That’s why he dedicates himself to two main branches of hip-hop: graffiti and music. He started with “placazos” (placazos) in his neighborhood to defend his territory.
—How did you get into Vieja Escuela?
—Through the friends we used to hang out with as a gang. Nowadays, everyone has their jobs, their families. I focused on painting. But a few years ago, we organized fundraising events with them. I’m a DJ and I always help out with that.
With 11 years of experience, Bogie plays music at Vieja Escuela events. He also paints murals for causes. He talks about one in particular he did at Arca de Noé, a rehabilitation center. “Painting saved me from getting into trouble,” Bogie says, mentioning a string of friends who focused on art. In front of us are 20 chairs with people sitting, watching the prayers. “I’ve been painting for a while. I’ve done everything. What I love most is writing lyrics.” The music plays: “Take away my bad life, you know I’ve been a devotee for a while, my little saint.”
The altar, for the house’s sixth anniversary, is beautiful: in the center there are candles, fruit, sweets, and bread. The central figure is a nearly two-meter statue adorned with blue balloons; He wears a black robe, and at his feet, next to a number seven, a ceramic owl stares fixedly at those praying. Surrounded by 50 figures, a man kneels, says something unintelligible, and spits smoke at death.
Three boys, at least 12 years old, sand the paint on a car outside the home of Frankel Pérez, founder of Florencia 13. Frankel, 45, is a hulk: muscles packed into a body just over 5’6″ tall. He’s bald, a “cholo,” with a tattoo on his arm that reads “Pacabdreams,” the name of his urban art studio. He lives here with his wife and children.
“We almost lost one of these kids, who are very good prospects and excellent athletes, to hunger,” he says of the youth from outside. “Contributing to youth means giving them a job, a sense of purpose, food, and opportunities in life to find new experiences.”
Frankel’s gang emerged from a love of Mexican-American style. Initially influenced by foreign films and the clothing worn by deportees from the United States, he and a group of friends, addicted to hip-hop music and culture, would go to dances in downtown Mérida, in Santa Lucía Park. Dressed as cholos, they would approach the elderly people dancing danzón.
“We liked seeing their outfits. Catrines, like Tin Tan. We felt good because we were returning to that era where cholo, catrín, elegance, pachuco, and wildness all intertwined. It made us feel like gangsters, gang members, and mafiosi. Then we started wearing different types of clothing. Everything was going well until we met people who had different ideals. It was normal, logical. That’s when the fights started,” explains the ex-gang member.
We’re in Frankel’s studio. He’s going to tattoo a friend with a black, oriental-style dragon. He tells how Sur 13 became one of the most important gangs in the state of Yucatán: it was governed by ethical principles such as “not letting the homies die,” “rescuing them from drugs,” “always being firm.” He also talks about the rampant drug use. Today, gangs don’t have the rules they used to; they’re more drugged up. Crystal, substances adulterated with fentanyl, came to change everything. In some cases, during the talks given by the Old Yucatán School in the annexes, they found addicted children.
We see 11-year-olds smoking crack and crystal. You see teenagers who could be good prospects in the neighborhood: who could have a family, who could get ahead, have stability, educate their children for a better life. And it’s difficult when you know that crack or crystal has already won the battle. You see them scavenging just to consume more, their faces haggard, zombies, dead in life. You know you’ve lost the battle with that teenager. For me, they’re a “prospect” because I’ve always loved them all like my own children; I’ve adopted them, supported them, treated them well. I’ve taught them to have character and to become responsible people later.
Eight years ago, Frankel lost “Sodas,” a boy who worked at the Pacabdreams studio. With Frankel’s training, he practiced airbrushing, tattooing, and mural painting. He died while guarding a voting booth for 300 pesos.
That’s why I hate politics. It’s a time when I’ve hated politics and the corruption that prevails in our country. He went to defend the polling place, and someone pulled out a handgun and shot him in the chest, a bullet in the heart. That very day, he told me he was happy because he was going to receive his tattoo equipment, which his father brought him. His father works as a diver, fishing for lobsters. Imagine all the times he went underwater to get the equipment for his son. It weighs on me knowing he was with me, that he was safe. He had even made fun of the kids who were thinking of going. He said, ‘Why would I go to that place if I already have everything?’ You see how life works, God or the devil. He was 17 years old.
Frankel is an artist. Gang members recognize him for his participation in the international TV show “Tunéame la nave,” where cars in poor condition were repaired. He is an expert in airbrushing, music production, and tattooing. Since the gang’s founding, the “Macizos” of Sur 13, people who had gotten involved in “dense” matters, recognized that he had a gift and should take advantage of it. They told him: “You’re not outside the gang, but rather you’re our artistic representative.” In reality, what he represents through airbrushing is the entire chola and Chicano culture.
Frankel gave free art classes at the CERESO (Cereso), after having earned the recognition of other leaders. These friendships, born inside and outside of prison, further united those who had been enemies. Neighborhood and Sur 13, historically at odds, finally talked. Another point: love blossomed, and couples formed between men and women from different cliques. “It’s been calmed down. Yes, there were deaths, clashes, but today everything changes, and the one who calls for things to be fixed is God. It’s ironic, but, as for my wife… her first cousin is the boss of the Neighbor […] Now, the other lines, the young people, have that heat, that anger, and if they run into someone… these are things we sometimes want to avoid. But we all have to walk that wide path that being a gang member entails,” the artist summarizes.
—What’s your best weapon to support youth?
—I use music. To support the kids, the teenagers. You’ve seen the drug problem. It’s a way to get them to focus on other things. Having them there for a moment is already a win.
It’s November 26, 2024. A metal gate gives us access to a clandestine event: the Malandrozos Fest, the premier representation of southern hip-hop music in the state of Yucatán. The invitation is sent on the same day to avoid awkward presences. Cypress Hill is playing before the local bands start. We arrive at Frankel Pérez’s invitation: privileged access.
We’re in a party room: swimming pools, awnings under which dozens of cholos are gathered. Shaved heads with the number 13. Pants draped over the floor, some touching the floor. Blue, white, and black jerseys. Glasses in different positions. “These comrades are a band, they’re journalists, they’ll be covering this event,” Frankel introduces us. We receive applause, and when the photographer focuses on the crowd, several hands emerge: they form the one and the three in greeting. The 13th arises from the position of the letter M in the alphabet: M for Mexican.
I speak with several members of the bands. Their testimonies, below, reflect a generational shift: peace reigns, music imposes a better pace of life.
Big Rick, musician of Pacabrones
I’m Big Rick, Ricardo Benítez. I’m 30 years old, originally from Pacabtún. I compose and make music, hip-hop. I’ve been making music for 12 or 13 years, my friend. At first, it was something trivial, something I wanted to do, then I became more serious about it because there were people who supported me. We represent the Sureños 13, bro, and 623, which is Fidel Velázquez-Pacabtún, a movement we started. 6 is the F in the alphabet, and 26 is the V. My little brother, who’s here, was the first to sing hip-hop. He was the first, Yayo LP, and he started this whole thing with Frankel on Clandestino Kingdom Records. Music takes away all the bad things. I have a family, I have kids, a wife, I play hard. I’m all over it. Music is my way of expressing what I’ve been through. I don’t regret anything I’ve been through. Music, what I’ve been through, defines me as a person and has helped me improve a lot as a father, son, and brother. My family also represented the movement. My uncles are ‘Los Caprices,’ who in their time represented 65. In my time it was X3, and in my uncles’ time it was 3C. It’s the same movement, carnal, pure southern, what changes is the story. My favorite Los Pacabrones song is “Olvido,” we just uploaded it. I like it because I like the lyrics and because, besides, my wife appeared in the video. Absolutely.
Yair Benítez, Pacabrones musician
My name is Yair Benítez, they call me Yayo LP. I’m 23 years old, born in 2001. The Malandrozos Fest is a description of us,: that we can throw a party, and everyone has a great time, relax, and the band takes away good memories. Music is life for me because I don’t just listen to rap, but all kinds of music. I feel like music is a tool for me in every sense: for sadness, for happiness, for the malandrozos. That’s where I express myself. At least in my neighborhood, we’re the last generation: gangs are mostly about drugs […] Crystal meth is a real problem; it’s messing up a lot of people now. Now you go to every neighborhood, dude, all of them, not just mine, and you see the gang, which is already like zombies; a lot of guys, homies from my clique, who are the same.
Álex Xólotl, established tattoo artist
I’m 26 years old, I tattoo for a living, and my style is, more than anything, color realism, dude. I’m from Tabasco, where I currently tattoo, but due to work and traveling with the gang, I’m currently with the Mérida band supporting the Malandrozos Fest. For me, the art of tattooing is a way to transmit, to leave something of myself in the world. I’ve realized that I’m an artist, that I deserve to be where I am.
Comando Doce (for the 12 steps of rehabilitation). Three members speak simultaneously: Blaner, Morro, and Genio
We come from a rehabilitation center. That’s where we met and the connection arose, each of us making rhymes. And through the experiences we’ve had with addictions, gangs, and street experiences, we express our music today through suggestions, so the gang knows what it’s like to live with addiction. Music, for us, is about living, about feeling every lyric we sing, every verse we sing. Because of course, to be able to sing it, we first had to live it. We’ve already experienced the reality of hip-hop, and today we try to convey a message in each of our songs. Yucatecan urban culture, to help others so they don’t go through what we went through.
DKA, musician
I’m Crazy DKA, from Campeche, Santa Licha, 29 years old. I represent the Sur 13 of Santa Licha, the Lost Batos clique. I’m totally dedicated to music, carnal. For me, it’s the meaning of my life, my culture, my essence; it’s my refuge. Instead of focusing on all the bad things, I focus on music. I write everything down, put it on a beat, and it’s an outlet. It’s not all about drugs and gang activity; there’s a message, a life. For me, the Malandrozos Fest is an event where diverse elements of our culture come together: graffiti, DJs, the rap we do. It’s more of a family than a big event.
Chacal MH, musician
My name is Chacal MH. With the Malandrozos Fest, we try to create an event that’s beyond the ordinary, beyond the usual. We try to bring together people with talents other than music. Airbrushing, painting, tattoos, and music. What unites us is the urban movement. I started producing music three years ago, and we’re still going strong. It’s become fundamental for me. Before, it was just for fun, to be with the band. Now we’re doing it more seriously, so people see it as a job for many people, so everyone can see what it takes to make a song, from the composition to the people, the instruments, and everything. Music changed my life; it distanced me from some things. I don’t know if I’d be dead now, but I’d be in bad shape.
Mr. Dan, musician
I’m Mr. Dan. Daniel Canto Ramos, I’m 31 years old and I’m from Mérida, Yucatán. Music means a lot to me; it’s helped me with many things. I started a long time ago, but I didn’t do it for drugs. I had to stop and go on now. I’m a soloist, Mr. Dan from Melitón Salazar, Mérida. I’m from Sur 13. Gangs have changed, it’s calmer. Before, there were fights, now the waters are more tempered. But we still represent: the clothes, the cholo, the attire, the blue bandana, baldness, Sur 13 plaque and everything, bro. If I had to give a message to society, I’d tell them to focus on what they need, what they want, and not on gangs. Gangs lead you to something bad, but they also help you learn the ropes. The gang is a family that always opens its doors, always hanging around on the corner. The love that isn’t at home, we look for on the street, bro.
Crazy Passenger, musician
I’m the Crazy Passenger, I’m 35 years old, dogs, and I come with everything straight from Jalisco. Music is part of my life and is time turned into melody. As I said: I am the voice of the people who disappeared in my neighborhood. Through music, I express my discomfort, the infidelities I’ve had with myself as a person. We are imperfect beings. The good and the bad come together. I fight for the right to have. I fight for every single person in rap, who dedicates themselves to making music, who are DJs, presenters, hosts, rappers, writers. I believe everyone makes a big difference in this music. I have two daughters, and it’s a joy for me to show them hip-hop culture. I’ve taken them to events. So, they can enjoy it and see that, even though we had a bad life, the future exists, and we can contribute a lot. I have a daughter with autism; it’s a pleasure to have her; she teaches me every day because patience is the virtue of every man. When there are moments where I want to throw in the towel, I look at her, smile, and move on. This is so that the bad things we did don’t happen again.
Problematic use of crystal meth has caused overcrowding at the Yucatán Psychiatric Hospital. A year ago, I interviewed two nurses with more than 15 years at the institution, who warned me about the “psychoticization” of youth. “We don’t have enough, and there will be more and more violence,” they agreed. Drugs are generating outbreaks of schizophrenia and violent attacks.
The members of Vieja Escuela are also on alert. They insist it’s a phenomenon they’ve never experienced before. Less than a month ago, in the town of Tekit, in southern Yucatán, people lynched and burned a young man alive because he killed an elderly woman, supposedly driven by substance use. How many times have we seen events like this in the most “peaceful” state in Mexico? Moreover, notes and videos of people with machetes, disturbed by drug use, proliferate on social media. And I wonder: Is a group of former gang members, former enemies, now parents, talented artists and musicians, and social leaders the only way out to combat the problem? It seems so. At least, they’re the only ones trying.
The crystal meth user is experiencing hallucinations. I’m in a courtyard covering part of this report. A 20-year-old boy is smoking crystal meth, insisting I smoke with him. He invades my space but doesn’t move away. I see other kids sitting a meter away. Without fear, I tell him no, that it’s not necessary. He talks about his son, a baby; about what he’d like to do in the future: produce music. He repeats that he’s a “duende” who protects his people. When I left the site, wondering if the previous scene is part of a social symptom, if it’s worth recounting, I look at a notebook in which the boy had created a supposed song—he talked about this for several minutes—and in which he only wrote the word “duende” several times. If he were to meet an old-school gang member, one who has been stigmatized as criminals or dangerous people—and who has paid their “debt to society” for it—I’m sure he’d help him out, support him in becoming, as Frankel said, “a good prospect.”
Source: Gato Pardo
