Zocalo Showdown August 18, 2022
25 wooden grave-markers line the steps of the old government building on the south side of the Zocalo, beneath a sign that calls for “Justicia Para San Mateo del Mar.” This space has been occupied for months by protesters, who sleep in tents in a makeshift encampment, surrounded by the market-stalls and other business activities of the main square. Police do not harass them on their mission to call attention to what is described as a “massacre” against a campesino village near the coast that took place earlier this year.
“Gobierno Complice de Priístas Asesinos,” say the occupiers. Translated, whoever the assassins were, they were complicit with PRI, the political party that formerly ruled Oaxaca. This is a bold charge to which no one seems to object. Since the Morena Party won control a few months ago, it is fair to assume that the new government is supportive of the protesters. Thus, their shantytown is allowed to remain on the Zocalo and to become part of the colorful character of this frenetic gathering spot.
I personally try to spend as little time as possible on this central plaza, as a stationary gringo is a target for every vender and beggar imaginable. Do I want a balloon? How about a tiny piece of gum? A bracelet perhaps? Ahorita, no gracias! Shoe shine? Embroidery from Chiapas? A bag of sunflower seeds? If I am feeling especially surly, I will respond, cheerfully yet insistently, that what I really want most in the world is a bottle of maple syrup. I NEED maple syrup, and might you have some in your bag of items for sale? In this way, the vender is forced to say the word most dreaded—No. Thus, I am left in peace, at least for a minute or so. Oh no, the fellow with the untuned guitar is making his way over to play me a ballad of woe. I must keep moving, but not too hurriedly, or I might tip over one of the grave-markers and create a diplomatic incident.
On the north side of the Zocalo, the ancient Cathedral doors are open for the passion play unfolding outside, as today is the designated day on the calendar that the Virgin Mary ascended to Heaven. Fifty or so devotees are carrying candles and softly singing hymns, filing behind a 8-foot Mary dressed in celestial white and powder-blue. The old men carrying her are sweating profusely, but they stumble only occasionally, and the stiff virgin manages to remain erect. I find myself walking with them, my embroidered baseball cap in my hands.
However, before we can make the final turn to enter the dimly lit gothic fortress to God, we must pass another pageant in session; namely, the clown performance that occurs on this corner of the Zocalo every evening is under way. The audience is bigger than normal and boisterous as ever, as the jester guffaws into his microphone with lewd jokes that make the adults howl with laughter while leaving the children spellbound and undoubtedly disturbed.
It brings to mind a clown experience I had last century when I arranged to have a member of Ringling Brothers Circus introduce himself to my son for his birthday. This proved to be a frightening experience for the little boy, and for me, who was immediately anxious that a single clown in the ring seemed to fix his eyes on him. Of course, the employee was just trying to make sure he had identified the correct child in the audience, but Charlie saw only an unwavering stare from one demon among many. Then the clown cried, “Charlie!” How in hell does the fiend know my name? shrieked my son, or something to that effect, who proceeded to climb my arm like a scared cat and grab at my head in terror. Needless to say, he and I no longer (as if we ever did) share a fondness for clowns and their malevolent stares.
At the sight of the approaching Catholics, the clown on the Zocalo abruptly turns off his microphone and removes his silly red bowler. At first, his audience chuckles at what they perceive to be false piety, but he hushes them. This clown is bloody sincere. I take in the odd scene and raise my phone to photograph his moment of spiritual prostration, but this is a grave mistake, as he catches my eye instantly. The show is about to resume.
“Que Hace? De Donde Eres?” he shouts at me. What do you do? Where are you from?
Part of me knows that this clown just wants to draw the feckless tourist into his show, for laughs, but there is something ominous in his glare. I have captured him in a vulnerable moment, and I shall suffer the consequences. Despite the deceitful face paint, this guy is not smiling in the least. He places the red bowler back on his head and tugs indignantly at the suspenders that hold up his oversized striped shorts. He has returned to being the jester, the fool. And the fool is ready to accuse me on his home court.
He turns his microphone on. “Como Te Llama?” he blares. He even puts it in English, for my pathetic benefit, “What Ees Jew Name?”
None of Jew fucking business! I scream to myself. But, out loud, I am speechless. He has caught me—yet another fool, a liar and deceiver, captured in a procession of the faithful that is not his. “Yo No Soy de Aqui, Pero Tu Tampoco,” rings in my head, as I attempt to think of a way to extricate myself from this confrontation with a man hiding behind his own disguise. His audience has locked their eyes on me for some type of comic response. What do I do? Where am I from? How is this entertainment? Over the years, I have developed a morbid fear of the public gaze, and suddenly I am faced with it. Moreover, I hate clowns, especially those capable of reverence. Maybe I should drop my pants and jump in the fountain. This might work, for laughs. Maybe I should cry out for the missing at San Mateo del Mar, for sympathy.
Instead, I say nothing and file silently into the Cathedral with the other parishioners behind the gigantic Mary, so thus may we all ascend to a better place. And if the clown persists with his indictments, as my son Oil adroitly suggests, I can simply say, “Hey, Jokerman, I’m with her.”