"La Alarma"

Tio's Peluqueria

These are my earliest memories I have about going to my grandmother's house in Juarez. My grandparents lived in Juarez for the longest time of what I recall. They lived in a colonial-style house that my grandfather built. As you walked into what would typically be a living room, in this house, you walked into an open concept outdoor area. With a cobblestone walkway greeting you as soon as you stepped in. Bugambilia's hung alongside the fence with a light flowery scent leading you in, as you entered an open area with a water fountain, producing a serene rippling water sound in the background. It was such a soothing and welcoming entrance. My grandparents' house was the main house. It held an array of apartments towards the back, giving the house the colonial feeling it commanded.

My parents, my brother, and I visited my grandparents in Juarez every other weekend. Unbeknownst to me, my brother always seemed bothered by the fact that we'd be visiting. Not sure whether it was the haircut my dad would request or the fact that he'd have to be there for hours amid my dad, uncle, and the whole neighborhood of males. All who, on their own, were quite interesting characters. As soon as we'd arrive, it seemed like the word was out, "they're here, they're here."

My uncle was a barber by trade and lived in one of the apartments behind my grandparent's house. My grandfather allowed my uncle to build a small barbershop next to my grandparent's house. I guess you could say this was the neighborhood hangout.

As soon as we'd arrived, due to the cultural blueprints that we inherited, we first had to greet our grandparents. As soon as we spent some time with them, my grandmother would voice, "vengan aqui" to give us our bi-weekly allowances. We'd both stick out our hands, super excited because we knew what was coming next. A run to the corner store for some "cueritos." These treats were pickled pork rinds, wrapped in newspapers of the day, or saved from that week's news. Nonetheless, once we had those "three pesos," we were out the door, my mom yelling at both my brother and I, "mucho cuidado" or be careful out there. The corner mom and pop store was our go-to destination for our "cueritos."

Running with our valued yummy-ness "cueritos" in our hands, we'd head towards my uncle's barbershop. My uncle's barbershop was quite enjoyable, it had bench seating's all around, with two main barber chairs, smacked in the middle. All along the walls were magazines of all sorts. The magazines were everywhere. You had to make room and push them aside just, so you could sit down. Once you found your comfy "niche," you owned it for the time you were there. Like the neighbors would say if you got up and someone took your seat, "el que se fue a torreon perdio su sillion," meaning that, if you went to Torreon, (a far-off place) you've lost your seat.

I would always pick a corner seat, away from all the banter that the neighborhood men were talking about. Excited and already salivating about my, "cueritos" I'd sit and start looking through the plethora of magazines everywhere. My go-to reading was "La Alarma" this was a publication of the numerous tragedies and deaths throughout Mexico City, back in the '70s. With its life-size illustrations and vibrant colors, this magazine demanded attention. I'd be super excited because I had everything I needed to be captivated for several hours.

Periodically, I'd raise my head to see who was sitting in one of the chairs. I'd laugh, especially if the haircut was ridiculous, such as my brothers was during those times. This was something he hated. "Natural Oscuro," my father would tell my uncle. At the same time, my brother sat draped with a weathered black cape, making expressions of discontent. I'd laugh and point at him, "like ha-ha," all along enjoying the scene of my brother's face, and the chit-chatter by everyone in the room.

As I went in and out of what was going on in the room, I'd remember why I was there, "La Alarma." My attention span was gone from my surroundings and focused on what was in front of me. I remember not understanding all of the words in front of me. Still, I did, however, understand the horridness of the photography. Since I didn't understand how to read Spanish, I read the photographs. I know this sounds creepy, but I recited the stories of death and macabre tragedies through the pictures in this magazine. I am not sure if this was the beginning of where my passion for photography began, but looking back, this might've been the beginning of putting the puzzles of photos together. These puzzles eventually revealed the graphic reality of the images describing the tragic end of someone's life.

                          Photo credit to the proper owner, not mine! 

Engrossed with the graphics of the photos, I always felt like I was in a glass bowl looking out. Like a feeling of falling into a "rabbit hole," where the only thing that mattered was "La Alarma." Once in a while, dad would refer to me, raising his voice to grab my attention, "What me?" I'd raise my head trying to figure out what, or who was saying something. By then, my dad would dismiss my absentminded response, and turn towards the mockery of the "Viejo's" in the room.

My dad was never the one to lay down the law, that was my mom's job, my dad was a go-to person for other things, such as our "Domingo" every Sunday. My brother and I got a quarter weekly, and as we got older, a quarter was increased. My dad's chillout demeanor made it easy to sit in that corner of my uncle's barbershop and read "this" magazine. He would never request to see what I was reading, and I never said anything.

Reflecting back on those days, I value the freedom and the trust my dad entrusted in me. Times were very different, they were more tranquil, and life didn't seem as complicated as it looks now. Coming from an eight or nine-year-old at that time, life was good. Visiting my grandparents was even better. What made it much better, were my "cueritos" and "La Alarma."  

Thank you for taking the time to read my story, xoY 💕