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A feminist update for a Mexican folk music tradition

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A feminist update for a Mexican folk music tradition

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Content A Feminist Update for a Mexican Folk Music
Tradition
By
Citlalli Chávez-Nava
A Thesis Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE
USC ANNENBERG SCHOOL FOR COMMUNICATION
AND JOURNALISM
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
MASTER OF ARTS
(SPECIALIZED JOURNALISM OF ARTS AND CULTURE)
August 2024
Copyright 2024 Citlalli Chávez-Nava

ii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The completion of this academic chapter came after a period of immense, difficult
personal transitions in my life. Upon deciding to embark on this journey, there were
many practical considerations that could have guided me away from this adventure, yet
I decided to follow my heart and fulfill the dreams of a younger me — the one who
developed a love for language arts and words in the fourth grade. I’m so glad I thought
about her and put her first.
As a first-generation Mexicana and mother of a beautiful, curious young boy
(under the age of five), I realize what an incredible privilege it was to have the
opportunity to dissect arts and culture journalism and commentary and to relish in it.
After two years of study, I realize that we live in a world that constantly
undervalues this craft and the labor of those who continue to cultivate it. Yet, while our
current economic system may devalue it, this journey has enriched my life in
immeasurable ways.
I’d like to thank the community of folks who helped me make this possible: my
parents, all the caregivers who looked after my son while I worked and studied, the
academic mentors who continue to guide my life, and my loving friend, Marisol Granillo.
Most of all, I’d like to thank my committee Chair and kind, patient mentor, Oscar
Garza. Thank you for keeping me accountable, for the multiple reads, edits,
conversations, and for making my entire journey possible at Annenberg. Thanks also to
my thesis co-chairs Paula Mejia and Laura Castañeda for their helpful reads and all the
knowledge they imparted during my studies.
Thanks to the wonderful community of artivistas who have filled my life with son
jarocho music, its warmth always comforts me and brings me closer to what truly
matters in life. A very special thank you to Xochi Flores-Castro, Alejandra Ocasio, and
Son del Sereno, and all the individuals listed below for taking time to discuss this topic
with me at length and for the continuous guidance and support.
Cesar Castro Emma Cordova Chris Chávez
Quetzal Flores Crystal Gonzalez David Partida
Ashley Sandoval Angelica Vargas Yuriana Velasco

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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Acknowledgments ………………………………………………………………….....................ii
List of Figures …………………………………………………………………......................... iv
Introduction: New rules for the fandango ….…………………….......................................... 1
Chapter 1: A music of resistance …………………………………......................................... 4
Chapter 2: “Fandanguerxs Against the Patriarchy” ……………........................................... 7
Chapter 3: Versar con conciencia / Sing with conscience ……………….............................13
Chapter 4: Pushing open the musical space……………. ………………...............................15
Chapter 5: Tradition amid transformation ………………...……………….............................. 20
Chapter 6: Looking toward the future ………………...……………….................................... 21
Chapter 7: “This is our space” ………………...………………................................................23
Bibliography …………………………………………………………………..............................25

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LIST OF FIGURES
Figure 1: Dancers on the tarima …………………………………………………………………....2
Figure 2: Son del Sereno “Acuerdos” ………………………………………………………………3
Figure 3: Figure 2: Son del Sereno members at “Fandango Fronterizo” ………......................6
Figure 4: Images from Son del Sereno Zine ………………………………………………………7
Figure 5: Son del Sereno members Summer Fandango ……………………………………….11
Figure 6: Alejandra Ocasio at “Fandango Fronterizo” …………………………………………. 12
Figure 7: Son del Sereno member Emma Cordova………………………………………………12
Figure 8: Screenshot of Son del Sereno members during group interview…………………….15

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Introduction: New rules for the fandango
On a spring night at a popular cultural center on the Eastside of Los Angeles,
after the worst days of COVID-19 had passed, a group of musicians gathered for a
fandango, the communal celebration associated with son jarocho, the music that hails
from the rural area of Veracruz state in Mexico’s Gulf region. (Son translates to “sound;”
jarocho refers to hailing from Veracruz). Known for its vibrant, hard driving strings, and
infectious and syncopated patterns, the music is a fusion of contact between three
cultures – Indigenous, African and Spanish. The Mexican origins of this music and its
dances can be traced to the 1770s when Angolan slaves were brought to Mexico’s Gulf
region from Cuba.
In the early 2000s, L.A.-based Chicana/o activists and musicians, who first
learned about son jarocho from colleagues in the Bay Area, began traveling to Veracruz
to experience fandangos themselves and they revived interest in the music on this side
of the border. They birthed a decades-long transnational cultural exchange between
master musicians and elders in Mexico and young artivistas – artist/activists – in
Southern California. Captivated by the sound and the music’s origins in struggle and
resistance, they eagerly learned and incorporated the music into the fabric of their
socially-oriented cultural centers.
One of those centers is the Eastside Café. Located in the predominantly Latine
L.A. neighborhood of El Sereno, the area is known for its scenic, hilly terrain. For
decades, the café — its walls embellished with bright Zapatista-inspired murals — has
been the epicenter of son jarocho practice in the region and also an autonomous
organizing hub for many second- and third-generation Chicanxs dedicated to Zapatista
movement-inspired community resiliency and autonomy, cultural practice and the fight

2
against the rampant gentrification that overtook neighboring Highland Park and Eagle
Rock.
As is customary with fandango convenings, the night kicked off with “Siquisiri,”
the son composed of stanzas that traditionally welcome all who have gathered for the
celebration. But on this evening, members of the collective also established a new
tradition.
Figure 1:
Dancers on the
tarima at
Fandango
Fronterizo in
2019. Image
courtesy of Son
del Sereno.
They prefaced “Siquisiri” by publicly announcing a set of acuerdos, or community
agreements, that would establish the etiquette expected of everyone at the celebration:
La tarima es de quien la baila / The tarima is for everyone
Este es un espacio libre de acoso / This is a harassment-free space
Versar con conciencia / Sing with conscience
Ayuda donde puedas / Help where you can
Haz espacio para todos los niveles / Make room for all levels

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Fandangos have been traditionally conceived as spaces for collaboration and
spontaneity, where all participants' improvisational contributions serve as a cohesive
communal element and there is no central performer. Instead, the fandango, the
community itself, becomes the central protagonist. At these events, musicians gather
around the tarima, a slightly elevated wooden platform that transforms into a percussive
drum instrument as dancers stomp their musical energy through elaborate footwork late
into the evening hours. A vibrant fandango, it is believed, will continue until the
madrugada, or dawn.
Though these fandangos are steeped in tradition, local activist musicians are
reevaluating the practices that have guided the celebrations in Southern California for
decades. They are questioning the way in which heteronormative forces have
permeated the tarima, the versada (the poetic improvised lyrics), and the distribution of
labor among those who organize fandango celebrations.
Many of the women, joined by some male allies, are also challenging much
deeper oppressive forces that have harmed female members of the collective. In the
process, they are transforming the role,
treatment and overall experience of jaraneras
practicing the son jarocho tradition in Southern
California.
In keeping with the times, and reflecting
their bi-cultural upbringing, some of those
artivistas have organized behind the banner,
“Fandanguerxs Against the Patriarchy.”
Figure 2: Acuerdos, which translates
to “agreements,” posted on Son del
Sereno’s Instagram page.

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“We’re not accepting this anymore,” says Emma Cordova, a Son del Sereno
collective member. “We wouldn't accept this in our day-to-day, [so] why would we
accept it in our spaces and in a cultura that we want to continue to engage in?”
Chapter 1: A music of resistance
During the 1940s, son jarocho music made its way to Mexico City from Veracruz,
when musicians traveled to the nation’s capital to perform in films during Mexico’s
golden era of cinema. To meet the commercial needs of the movie industry, the music
moved away from its rural roots and its community fandango celebrations and, instead,
became characterized by more formal stage performances, the introduction of the
standing harp (replacing the original, smaller instrument played while seated),
musicians dressed in white trousers and shirts, wearing straw hats and red
handkerchiefs around the neck. Amid this period, virtuoso harpist Andrés Huesa
popularized “La Bamba” via son jarocho performances in Mexican films and with
recordings for Peerless Records and RCA Victor. Eventually, Huesca made his way up
to Los Angeles and performed at the iconic Million Dollar Theater and numerous films
including the 1944 release “Los Tres Caballeros,” produced by Walt Disney.
In 1958, Ritchie Valens, a young Mexican American from Pacoima, California,
took “La Bamba” and its Afro-Mexican roots and gave it a rock ‘n’ roll spin. The song
smashed records, becoming the first-ever Spanish-language crossover hit in the U.S. In
2018, Valens’ rendition further cemented itself as an American anthem when it was
cataloged in the National Recording Registry of the Library of Congress.
Almost three decades later, in 1987, the East Los Angeles-based Mexican
American band, Los Lobos, brought the music back to the spotlight when their cover of
“La Bamba” for Valens’ biopic of the same name topped the Billboard 100 chart. The

5
band started out in the early ‘70s playing traditional Mexican music and in 1988 devoted
an entire album (“La Pistola y El Corazón”) to various Mexican folk genres, including
son jarocho. The band continues to feature Mexican music in its live shows.
Scholar Alexandro David Hérnandez, an activist and son jarocho musician, in his
doctoral dissertation discussed the influence Los Lobos had on future generations of
Chicana and Chicano jaraneros/as “to reimagine the music in social movements and
musical fusions.”
At the core of his research, Hérnandez highlights son jarocho’s origins as
stemming from struggle and protest, writing that “there exist hidden histories, transcripts
of resistance not accounted for in México’s official history,” evidenced by how the music
was censored (yet persisted) during the Holy Inquisition in 18th- and 19th Century New
Spain (México); the solidarity exchanges between son jarocho musicians in the
Zapatista rebel camps in the 1990s; and how the music, rooted in this social history,
migrates and transforms within social and cultural movements in the U.S., such as antimilitarization, immigration reform, workers’ rights and economic justice movements,
among others.
When I became a student of son jarocho in 2009, I was attracted by the music’s
egalitarian spirit and its humility. I was drawn to its people, Mexican musicians who are
deeply proud of their rural lifestyle and their connection to the natural environment. This
led me to question how I was conducting my own life. For several years, I found my
musical community by learning to play the jarana, the small guitar-like eight-string
instrument that provides son jarocho’s rhythmic and harmonic body. The Eastside Café
was the space where I felt most welcome and safe, despite my basic musical
knowledge. And although life’s detours have disrupted my own musical practice, I’ve

6
always found my way back, particularly during challenging times, finding comfort in the
music’s sound and the ideals the tradition aspires to in the United States, even if these
ideals are still a work in progress.
And since I began engaging with the music and the culture bearers who keep the
tradition alive, I’ve found that since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic and the social
uprisings of Summer 2020, something seems different, something seems bolder, about
the way the current cohort of musical leaders of Son del Sereno, many of whom
participated in the “Fandaguerxs Against the Patriarchy” discussions, are challenging
the status quo around this musical practice.
Figure 3: Son del Sereno members at the annual “Fandango Fronterizo,” a fandango held at the U.S./Mexico border
in San Diego to call attention to immigration and migrant injustices (2019). Photo courtesy of Son del Sereno.

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Chapter 2: “Fandanguerxs Against the Patriarchy”
Starting in 2019, musician, scholar and mother Xochi Flores-Castro began
leading a series of gatherings with women and some male ally musicians from Los
Angeles, Santa Ana, and the San Fernando Valley “to talk about how machismo and
patriarchy shows up in fandango spaces,” as described in a Son del Sereno Zine.
Figure 4: Front cover and “Nuestros Acuerdos”/ “Our Agreements” page from “Sembrando Amapolas: Encuentros en
La Tarima” Zine, 2024. Zine document courtesy of Son del Sereno.
In a blog post Flores-Castro authored in 2020, she captured both her
appreciation of the tradition and her motivation to build something new:
“It was the Fandango, the site of community arts participation, where I found liberation
from the hurt accumulated by erasure and silence. Shortly after, I also realized
Fandango, like many other male, hetero-centered practices, could be used as a tool to
perpetuate colonial practices that elucidate some, chosen few, while still invisibilizing
others. Even with these contradictions enacted and often sanctioned by leaders in these

8
movements, the hope that surfaced in the fandango, in the people, in what my partner,
daughters and I could learn and practice together, is what I have held onto, the
buoyancy of this ever-present hope that has shown me we can do better for each
other.”
Flores released another public letter in which she called out the general
patriarchal dynamics of movement spaces in Los Angeles and “how men occupy the
most prominent and visual and auditory spaces.” She also noted the harm done to
women and queer individuals “in the name of the movement or of progressive dogma.”
In the wake of that statement, she received messages of solidarity from other women
and fellow jaraneras interested in combating the patriarchal norms in their shared son
jarocho communities, which paved the way for “Fandanguerxs Against the Patriarchy.”
Among these women was Crystal Gonzalez, who once formed part of the son
jarocho performance group based at El Centro Cultural de México, an alternative
cultural center located in Santa Ana just south of L.A. She said these convenings
became a space to reassess their commitment to wholly respecting the traditions
shared by elder pioneers of the music, many of whom were males. She said this loyalty,
rooted in a deep respect for the culture, began to feel misaligned with the feminist
worldviews of this new generation of jaraneras.
She remembers that the initial conversations resembled organizing meetings
where women shared different ideas, using markers to make posters that were taped to
the walls.
“Different things came up, including harassment that people had faced in the
music and sexual violence in the circles. And I use ‘sexual violence’ loosely, more like
sexual harassment,” said Gonzalez, speaking over the phone during a break from her
job as program coordinator for an organization that advocates for food justice. “And the

9
way a lot of women in the space had felt it from different men, even [from] different
elders, and in the music.”
During an initial lengthy phone interview with Flores-Castro where she spoke with
conviction, clearly and thoughtfully, she detailed how the women began working toward
deconstructing the heteronormative practices that have guided local son jarocho
communities for decades and having open, honest conversations that had lingered in
their mind for years.
“[We] came together to talk about fundamental practices and how we could be
more inclusive, and how we could really take intentional steps toward really
decolonizing the spaces and really making them what they're supposed to be — spaces
of liberation, of true inclusiveness.”
Flores-Castro also spoke about how moving in this direction intended to rectify
the social justice origins that the music is associated with in Los Angeles.
“I feel if we're to use the fandango as a space of liberation, as a space of
community organizing and civic engagement, then we need to come with it,” she said.
“We need to understand that not all of its [oppressive] components are going to sit in
our space and be able to be operationalized. Because that’s not liberating.”
As I interviewed other women who joined these gatherings, they said this
dialogue laid the foundation for the growing evolution in fandango practices that have
transpired in the past few years and how finally voicing these thoughts collectively,
resulted in a desahogo, which translates to an “undrowning” or a cathartic experience.
Following initial conversations that only involved women, some males were
asked to join subsequent meetings. The collective organized the conversation in a
fishbowl-style setting where first, women sat at the center to share their grievances and

10
then the roles were reversed, with men sharing their reactions while the women
listened.
“I think it helped us kind of hear each other and understand each other,”
Gonzalez said.
A key point of conversation was the tarima, the instrument often referred to as
the heartbeat of the fandango. Traditionally, it is believed that the dancers on the tarima
dictate the ambiance of the celebration. It is said: If there are no dancers, there’s no
fandango.
For years, dancers’ participation on the tarima had reflected an organizing
principle that reflected traditional gender roles; certain sones (songs), it was taught,
could only be danced by women (referred to as sones de montón), while others were
reserved for couples (sones de pareja). Another widely recognized rule, though not
overtly enforced, was that proximity to the tarima was determined by one’s level of skill
or mastery of the music. So, traditionally, those with more years of musical training
stood closer to the tarima while newcomers stood toward the back.
These rules did not sit well with Alejandra Ocasio, who has been part of the Son
del Sereno group since 2013. She found these ways to be antiquated and exclusionary,
and she believed that such rules could make anyone who doesn’t fit traditional gender
roles feel uncomfortable.
“I didn’t want people that I didn't even know to come in and [say], You, as a man,
have to do this. And you, as a woman, have to do this,” she said, wearing dark-rimmed
eyeglasses and a sleek pixie cut with sage green highlights, during a Zoom group
interview at her kitchen table with fellow Son del Sereno members Emma Cordova and
Chris Chavez. “And there's no space for people who are in between or outside of that.”

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Figure 5: Son del Sereno members along with musicians of other local cultural centers at a “Summer Fandango”
celebration at Lewis MacAdams Riverfront Park 2021. Image courtesy of Son del Sereno.
Ocasio also believes the tarima has often been devalued since it’s been
designated mostly as a space for female dancers, but she has noticed that efforts to
make the space more inclusive are having results: “I had [trans] people telling me:
‘That's the first time I felt comfortable on the tarima.’”
Sitting next to her, Cordova, wearing a black denim jacket and tousled braid, said
that now the tarima space feels more open and free of judgment.

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“It feels a lot less policed in a way, whereas a few years ago, I wouldn't go on the
tarima unless I knew the basic stuff,” she said. “Now, I'm gonna go up there and try to
figure it out with the people who are with me. It's okay, even if it's not perfect.”
Figure 6: Son del Sereno member since 2013, Alejandra Ocasio
at the “Fandango Fronterizo”. Image courtesy of Son del Sereno.
Newer members of the Son del Sereno group, such as Ashley Sandoval, noticed the
way the “Fandanguerxs Against the Patriarchy” conversations, combined with the years
of commitment to more horizontal leadership approaches at the Eastside Café, have
generated a more welcoming ambiance for newcomers and a more egalitarian
approach to teaching the musical tradition overall.
“[Son del Sereno] has always been super welcoming,” she said, speaking in her
bedroom over Zoom, wearing a mustard-colored down jacket and shaggy mullet haircut.
“Folks have been super generous with sharing knowledge and their skills. And it's been
impressive to see the difference in dynamic when you visit other spaces, having come
from our space, that is more collective-run compared to others where it's more like,
These are the maestros and you’re just attending class. In our space, if someone's
facilitating, it feels like there's a bit more room to have a good discussion if somebody is
struggling with something.”
Figure 7: Son del Sereno member, Emma
Cordova at “Fandango Fronterizo.” Image
courtesy of Son del Sereno.

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Angelica Vargas, also a newer member of Son del Sereno, shared a recent
example of how the collective is addressing practices that may have been swept under
the rug in the past, but are no longer being tolerated since classes resumed after the
pandemic eased.
“There was an individual who, for lack of better words, wanted to be the rock
star,” she said, speaking from her bedroom over Zoom wearing a turquoise green
flannel. “So, we did have a conversation with that member, trying to provide feedback
about how their approaches might be patronizing. And how their power dynamic as a cis
man may be making other people uncomfortable. Unfortunately, that wasn't received
very well by that individual and that individual is no longer part of the space.”
Chris Chávez, a more established member of Son del Sereno, said Vargas
exemplifies the types of changes that the collective is trying to make. “I think for the
longest time, folks just had to sit with that,” he said, wearing a white and red Mexican
soccer jersey adorned by Aztec and Mayan art. “But we're trying to figure out ways to
have uncomfortable conversations. And I personally don't like uncomfortable
conversations. And I avoid them every chance I get. But if we're able to have them, they
are really powerful.”
Chapter 3: Versar con conciencia / Sing with conscience
According to ethnomusicologist Daniel Sheehy, the son jarocho repertoire
consists of only about 80 sones. However, the tradition is renowned for its
improvisational qualities, so part of learning son jarocho also entails learning how to
improvise new versos, or poetry, to accompany the music, depending on the location or
occasion.

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Common lyric structures in son jarocho consist of coplas (two-line stanzas),
cuartetas (four-line stanzas), quintillas (five-line stanzas) and décimas (10-line stanzas),
all derived from traditional Spanish verse. Historically, they often took on a playful,
crude quality and, during the period of the Spanish inquisition, they were known for their
subversive qualities, used as a communication tool among Angolan slaves against their
oppressors.
In the case of Son del Sereno members, and the “Fandanguerxs Against the
Patriarchy,” the versada has also become a key point of reconsideration. Son del
Sereno’s new community agreements include a rule that states participants of the
fandango celebration should “verse with conscience” which they say came about
because “a lot of the versos we sing are from different generations and sometimes
contain themes that perpetuate colorism, racism, sexism,” according to a Son del
Sereno Zine.
As a younger student, I recall participating in workshops and fandango spaces,
dissecting the meaning behind one of the most popular sones — one of the first that
students learn when they join a workshop — and one that is played at every fandango,
“El Colás.”
Colás, my teachers explained it, was short for “Nicolás.” Given the versos, my
jaranera friends and I talked about how Nicolás seemed to be a manipulative
womanizer, as evidenced by the objectifying in the traditional versos:
Bonita por delante, bonita por detrás / Bonita la muchacha que baila el Colás
(Pretty from the front, pretty from behind / Pretty the girl who dances the Colás)
Que baile Nicolás este bonito son / Con las cuatro mujeres que bailan en montón
(Nicolás should dance this beautiful son / With the four women who dance as a group)
The chorus continues…

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Colás, Colás, Colás y Nicolás, lo mucho que te quiero y el pago que me das/
Si puedes, si quieres / Si no tú me dirás / Ay qué bonito baila la mujer de Nicolás.
(Colás, Colás, Colás and Nicolás, how much I love you and the payment you give me /
If you can, if you want / If not, you will tell me / Oh, how beautifully Nicolás's wife
dances)
In response to these sorts of themes within “El Colás” and other sones, Son del
Sereno has come up with new versos to reflect its anti-patriarchal values. At the
Eastside Café, participants are invited to sing this rendition of “El Colás” instead:
Amada Margarita, dejó de cocinar / Sacó su bandera y se fue a protestar
(Beloved Margarita, she stopped cooking / She took out her flag and she went to
protest)
Amada Marcelina le dijo a Nicolás / Me voy con Margarita, ya no te quiero mas
(Beloved Marcelina told Nicolas / I'm leaving with Margarita, I don't love you anymore)
Figure 8: Screenshot of Son del Sereno during a group interview where they discussed the ways in which they’re
establishing new community agreements at the Eastside Café. Screenshot by Citlalli Chávez-Nava.
Chapter 4: Pushing open the musical space
Musically, Crystal Gonzalez said, women have also begun questioning the lines
that had been drawn between male and female participants when it comes to
instrumentation.

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“If a woman and male play requinto, only the males can really play at a
fandango,” she said, referring to the four-stringed instrument that introduces the melodic
theme of the son and the largely improvised counterpoint to the vocal line of the music.
In discussing this with master musicians and some women, I found
disagreements among practitioners. Several men and some women opined that, while
they were all open to liberating son jarocho and fandango spaces further, the quality of
the music should not suffer.
Gonzalez challenged the contradictions in this thinking and believes it’s steeped
in deep-seated patriarchal attitudes that keep women performers and fandangueras
from reaching greater musical prominence.
She said she has noticed growing support to increase the number of women
performers, but at the same time, there are high expectations as to how the music
should sound to preserve the musical quality. Ultimately, she explained, these
conflicting priorities sustain the status quo.
“I agree that the music should still sound good. But I think it's a balance,” she
said. “There's going to be a process where the music doesn't sound as good until we
remove those barriers that allow women to have the same amount of space to play and
perform.”
Ocasio, who plays both the jarana and requinto, has experienced the barriers
that come with being a requintera, but she’s staying the course. She pointed to a recent
fandango where she and a compañera flipped the script, choosing to play lead on most
of the sones at the celebration and instead had men play whatever the women didn’t
want to, a move that is nearly unheard of in the ways the tradition has been practiced in
Los Angeles.

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“Being able to really make that space for us, and say, This is what we're going to
take charge of and, [the men] can have what's left over, because that's what I've been
given [in the past],’” she said. “That felt really, really good, just to be able to carve that
out, that felt really special.”
As Ocasio and other members of Son del Sereno began seeking advice from
elders in Mexico, they found that making changes to fit the social standards of their own
musical community wasn’t as controversial as it had initially seemed within the Southern
California landscape.
“They gave back really interesting answers around history … how gender roles
have changed to fit the context of the time,” Ocasio recounted. “During the [Mexican]
Revolution, when there [were] no men around, women would play and dance together
and do everything. Or in times where there weren't a lot of women playing, men would
dance together.”
Elders in Mexico gave Son del Sereno a sort of “blessing” to adapt the tradition to
fit their needs, said Ocasio, something that, in many ways, lifted the constraints the
collective had felt before.
“Their response was, Do whatever you want … it's your space, and you get to
decide what it looks like,” she said.
While the process of applying these changes to dance and singing practices at
Eastside Café has been relatively smooth, there have been moments of “redirecting” or
reminding one another and new participants of the collective’s value system. At the
same time, some members of the space have found that the silence with which some of
the changes have been received can also be interpreted as a statement.

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“No one from the older crowd has said, This is great. No one's praising us for
trying to make this [space] more inclusive,” said Ashley Sandoval, a Son del Sereno
collective member. “So their silence also says a lot. It just feels like they're brushing it
off.”
Son del Sereno member Chris Chávez talked about the way the collective at the
Eastside Café is also focused on making fandangos more family friendly.
“While not perfect, but still developing, is the planning of fandangos with families
and parents in mind,” he said. “We borrowed some tools from other folks in Mexico and
they have committees where they are responsible for different parts of the fandango
and roles and responsibilities.”
Now, parents are not an afterthought. Instead, there are considerations in how to
share caretaking responsibilities at fandangos and preparing activities for young kids to
keep them safe and entertained.
Chávez also talked about Son del Sereno’s efforts to have more open
conversations regarding the distribution of the behind-the-scenes labor that goes into
preparing for a fandango. He noted how, in the past, a lot of that labor such as
preparing and cleaning the fandango space before the event, cooking the food to be
shared, and cleaning up after the celebration was falling disproportionately on women,
so now the collective is finding ways to amend those inequities.
Yuriana Velasco, originally from Oaxaca, Mexico, who made her son jarocho
home at Santa Ana’s El Centro beginning in 2007, also brought up the labor inequities
and she agreed with many of the grievances broached by other women. Yet, for her,
racial inequities were central to her list of harms. That took other son jarocho
practitioners, most of them mestizo, or mixed race, by surprise.

19
“I felt like the two white women in the performance group had a lot of power in
the group, during performances and in the talleres [workshops] in general,” she said. “I
would think, What a privilege to be able to learn this music well … they had the
privilege to travel … being able to stay [in Mexico] for months to study the music.’”
Velasco shared that, often, “I would always take a step back and [say to myself],
I’ll just be back here, I don’t want to shine.”
After she brought this up to members of the collective, some efforts were made
to ensure that the members engaging in the “Fandanguerxs” discussions were
specifically women of color.
Velasco said that while there have been no concrete changes or
reconsiderations as to how issues of skin color or race permeate son jarocho spaces in
Southern California, they are matters she continues to critically analyze, particularly how
race and, by extension, whiteness and wealth, allow someone to master a musical skill.
During a recent trip to Spain, she noticed how son jarocho has also been embraced by
white Europeans and, there too, she bore witness to how this rural, working-class
musical tradition has become a pastime for those with more social privilege.
For the time being, turned off by a series of issues linked to her concerns and
those outlined by other Fandanguerxs members, Velasco left her musical community in
Santa Ana and is returning to the tradition in other spaces in Los Angeles.
Ultimately, Velasco believes more inclusivity will be reached when practitioners
make space for others by taking a step back.

20
“I think people need to put their ego aside, this whole idea of, I want to be the
star, I want to shine,” she said. “Because I feel like that keeps us away from playing
good music.”
Chapter 5: Tradition amid transformation
On a recent sunny afternoon filled with fresh, crisp air following a weeklong
monster storm that battered Los Angeles, I met master musician, multi-instrumentalist
and luthier — and perhaps the most respected son jarocho musician in the region —
Cesar Castro. I wanted to ask him about the recent changes promoted by Son del
Sereno members and his wife, bandmate and “Fandanguerxs Against the Patriarchy”
founder Xochi Flores-Castro. Sitting on the patio at their El Sereno home, Castro started
by discussing how the “Fandanguerxs” conversations were long overdue and that
they’re giving way to the beginning of a new cycle.
A native of Veracruz, he began playing son jarocho at the age of 13 and joined
the groundbreaking group, Mono Blanco, two years later. In 2004, he moved to Los
Angeles and began offering classes at numerous L.A.-based cultural centers. Presently,
he’s a music instructor at Occidental College and teaches son jarocho at state prisons
through a nonprofit organization.
Castro recognizes that, in Los Angeles, son jarocho draws activists who bring
ideas inspired by previous organizing experiences. As we spoke, he drew connections
between the way the tradition is now evolving to the way Mono Blanco changed the
course of son jarocho in the 1970s by digging deep into the music’s rural culture, while
at the same time reviving it through new ideas and approaches that continue to endure.

21
Castro said Mono Blanco “completely cut off the verses that are offensive to
women — [verses] very emphatic about the mothers-in-law — and the jokes about
racial issues in a derogatory aspect.”
He said that, while it may sound surprising, the new practices Mono Blanco
pushed forward were embraced by the legendary master musician Arcadio Hidalgo, a
founding member of the group.
“Even though [Hidalgo] was born in the 1890s, when he started hanging out with
the young [Mono Blanco] musicians at the end of the 1950s, he supported them, he
would say, ‘You all should try new stuff,’” Castro relayed.
When it comes to the emerging etiquette that is creating a gender-neutral tarima
on this side of the border, Castro said he dances within the traditional boundaries, but
he is open to the changes and will not enforce traditions he no longer agrees with.
Castro believes the value system younger musicians bring to the tradition will
largely overtake a more purist approach to the versada and the dancing. And he
believes this is the case in both Los Angeles and Mexico.
For him, it comes down to the quality of the music being created on a
foundational aspect of son jarocho.
“The tarima is now an instrument that can be shared by all people, no matter
what gender,” said Castro, “as long as [the dancers sound good].”
Chapter 6: Looking toward the future
Quetzal Flores is a member of L.A.’s beloved, politically-engaged Grammywinning band Quetzal, known for blending its son jarocho foundations with a myriad of
genres. Flores is one of the artivists whose involvement with son jarocho dates to the
early 2000s. His family founded Eastside Café in 2004 and his sister is Xochi Flores-

22
Castro. When we spoke, he said he was not at all surprised people are coming together
to analyze the traditional ways fandangos have been organized.
Having been involved in numerous fandango communities in Los Angeles,
Seattle and México, Flores said he’s noticed the reappraisal taking place for years
among musicians of different generations and backgrounds.
“I've seen it,” he declared. “I've seen the deconstruction of patriarchal and white
supremacist practices within the tradition are slowly being chipped away.”
Flores doesn’t necessarily link the push for change within the fandango to a
specific group or act; instead, he believes the broader social changes were ignited amid
the pandemic and the social uprisings that swept the country.
“Young people rose up, they said, No, absolutely not! And they took to the streets
and said, We will physically distance, but we will not socially distance … and they [said]
Black people matter.” Flores thinks this same spirit can be found in the way young
people of various backgrounds, including young Jewish people, are showing up to
protest the war in Gaza.
The way younger generations now understand gender is also different, Flores
said.
“Young people today are automatically locked into the spectrum of gender and
sexuality and all those things [that] naturally are going to enter into [the fandango]
space.”
Flores said the changes are responding to the way young people, in general, are
reimagining so many social aspects of their lives. The response reminded him of the
social moment during which Ritchie Valens’ released his adaptation of “La
Bamba,” referring to the social conditions in which the music industry pushed diverse

23
artists to assimilate into the white culture as much as possible while obscuring their
ethnic identities.
“We understand [this rendition as] an incredible act of rebellion,” Flores said.
“Ritchie Valens was 17 years old, a Chicano from Pacoima, who was the son of migrant
workers who was forced to change his name [from Valenzuela] in order to have viability
in the marketplace, [who] felt the shame and sting of racism and classism and white
supremacy.”
And along with recording of-the-moment rock ‘n’ roll tunes such as “Donna” and
“Come On, Let’s Go,” he boldly embraced his roots.
“He remembered his humanity and his dignity by recording something that was
the articulation of his lived reality,” Flores said. “It was Black, and it was Mexican, and it
was Chicano, and it was all these things all at once. And so this moment really sort of
solidified the son jarocho as such an integral part of Chicano music.”
Just as Quetzal believes, by its nature, son jarocho could be used to dismantle
different forms of oppression, he believes the fandango space could also be a place of
healing and transformation.
“To me [the fandango] is an immersive experience in community building, in
empathetic ways of dealing with everything — for sure, harm and hurt,” he said. “It
means really investing in infrastructure around learning this tradition, in a way where
you are accountable to the stewardship of it.”
Chapter 7: “This is our space”
As I reflected upon all of the different narratives I heard, I came back to
Alexandro David Hérnandez’s thesis and the way he wrote about son jarocho’s power of
“creative renewal,” which he described as moments in which culture is re-imagined or

24
reinterpreted through subtle or obvious modifications, leading to “pressure on a
tradition.”
For Southern California jaraneras, they are contributing to a “creative
renewal,” one that is pushing the boundaries further within a musical tradition that will
always be associated with struggle and resistance, but that is now attempting to create
a new fandango space, one that is more liberated, more free, and safer for women and
people of all genders.
Xochi Flores-Castro believes it’s important to consider the geography of where
the culture transpires to ensure that it reflects that practices match up with the space.
Regionally, she believes Southern California jaraneras have agency to redefine the
tradition for themselves.
“Even though it's a borrowed tradition, it's a living tradition,” she declared. “And
we still get to decide how it's healthy for us.”
Alejandra Ocasio, who has been involved with Son del Sereno for more than a
decade, agrees with Flores-Castro and believes it's a moment for new culture to
flourish.
“This is our space and we have the power to change it,” Ocasio insisted.
“Breaking down all these power structures that had been perpetuating for years, just
because that's the way things [were].”

25
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Castro, Cesar. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, March 10, 2024.
Chávez, Chris. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, November 16, 2022.
Cordova, Emma. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, November 16, 2022.
Flores-Castro, Xochi. (2019). My Love to the cis Men of the Movement.
Flores-Castro, Xochi. (2020). Movement Mothering: Chicana Mothers in Movement Spaces and
the Hope We Cultivate Despite the Insvisib.
Flores-Castro, Xochi. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, November 17, 2022.
Flores-Castro, Xochi. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, March 10, 2024.
Flores, Quetzal. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, March 5, 2024.
Gonzalez, Crystal. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, March 7, 2024.
Hernández, Alexandro David (2014). The Son Jarocho and Fandango Amidst Struggle and
Social Movements: Migratory Transformation and Reinterpretation of the Son Jarocho in La
Nueva España, México, and the United States.
Lehmer, Larry. (2018). “La Bamba” — Ritchie Valens (1958).
Ochoa Villegas, Carlos (2014). Un Apoyo de Son Jarocho Versada Recopilada De Aqui y de
Alla.
Rodriguez, Eugene (2006). Grupo Mono Blano, "Soneros Jarochos" - The Arhoolie Recordings.
Sandoval, Ashley. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, November 16, 2022.
Sheehy, Daniel Edward (1979). The Son jarocho”: the history, style and repertory of a changing
Mexican musical tradition.
Son del Sereno Zine (2024). Sembrando Amapolas: Encuentros En La Tarima.
Vargas, Angelica. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, November 16, 2022.
Velasco, Yuriana. Interview by Citlalli Chávez-Nava, February 17, 2024.

Abstract (if available)

Abstract Southern California activist jaraneras are reevaluating the practices that have guided son jarocho musical spaces and fandango celebrations in their local communities.They are questioning the way in which heteronormative forces have permeated the tarima, the versada, and the distribution of labor among those who organize fandango celebrations. Collectively, they are also challenging deeper oppressive forces, and in the process, they are transforming the role, treatment and overall experience of jaraneras practicing the son jarocho tradition in Southern California. In keeping with the times, and reflecting their bi-cultural upbringing, some of those artivistas have organized behind the banner: “Fandanguerxs Against the Patriarchy.”

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Asset Metadata

Creator Chavez-Nava, Citlalli G. (author)

Core Title A feminist update for a Mexican folk music tradition

School Annenberg School for Communication

Degree Master of Arts

Degree Program Journalism (Specialized Journalism)

Degree Conferral Date 2024-08

Publication Date 06/17/2024

Defense Date 06/14/2024

Publisher Los Angeles, California (original), University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag challenging patriarchy,female musicians,feminism,Mexican folk music,Son Jarocho

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Language English

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Advisor Garza, Oscar (committee chair), Castañeda, Laura (committee member), Mejia, Paula (committee member)

Creator Email cchavezn@usc.edu,citlallichaveznava@gmail.com

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