Free America Libre by Raul Ramos y Sanchez Page A

day.”
    “Yeah, we even caught a break on the rain. I doubt if anyone in the crowd got wet… except maybe Mano. He’s got a long walk
     home.”
    “Coño!” Jo cursed, pounding the steering wheel with her fist. “I’ve been so giddy over the rally, I forgot about Mano. I offered
     him a ride, but I think he’s worried his wife will get jealous.”
    “Wasn’t Mano great at the rally, though? Dios mio, he’s got the instincts of a sheepdog. It’s like he’s hardwired to protect
     his flock. I know you noticed it, too. He immediately worked out an escape plan for us, without being asked.”
    Jo nodded. “I was amazed at how quickly he calmed down the group from UCLA.”
    “Yeah, I saw that. He spotted the leader, confronted him, and hasta la vista, the trouble was over.”
    “I’d love to know what he said.”
    “I don’t think it really mattered much. A man who can lift you off the ground with one hand can be pretty damned persuasive.”
    Jo laughed, then suddenly got serious. “We seem to be getting through to him, Ray. I watched him during the speeches. He was
     moved by what he heard today.”
    “I hope you’re right. We’re going to need more people like Mano—and soon. As Marcha said, ‘Wars are won by moral men who can
     kill in cold blood.’ ”

    Mano walked upright in the downpour, untroubled by the wet clothes clinging to his skin. The rain had chased the evening crowds
     indoors, transforming the barrio’s familiar streets into a strange and silent place. Although he was getting closer to home,
     everything seemed changed in a way he could not describe—including his outlook. The uncertainty that had plagued him for the
     last few days was nearly gone. In its place was… well, if not clarity, at least calm. He knew the rally had something to do
     with it, but as yet had not figured out why.
    Striding along the empty street, Mano remembered the early years of the new century when East Los Angeles, like many Hispanic
     communities across the country, had been the target of a massive ad blitz. Sparked by the 2000 U.S. Census that showed the
     soaring growth of the Latino population, the advertising was usually stupid and insulting, often awkwardly translated versions
     of English-language campaigns. Before long, the advertisers discovered that the “bonanza” of the Hispanic market was empty
     hype touted by ad agencies desperate for new revenues.
    The only corporate presence in his neighborhood these days was the perennial liquor, beer, and cigarette videoboards. The
     commercial giants whose brands dominated the urban landscape of the American mainstream had once again shunned the barrios
     of Los Angeles. Outside the barrios, national franchises were ever-present on most main thoroughfares. The streets were lined
     with a jangling array of electronic signs that continually flashed, blinked, and pulsed, beckoning consumers with jingles
     and video-animated messages. In the barrios, these slick displays were rare.
    Then Mano noticed something he never had before: almost every building was covered with images made by a human hand—the crude
     signs of mami-and-papi businesses, the murals of aspiring artists, the placas of the gangs. He’d known these streets all his
     life. But tonight, for the first time, Mano saw more than the surface of the motley walls. He could sense the people who created
     them.
    The people of his barrio lived in a world of stark contradictions. Dreams flourished alongside despair. Honor was twisted
     into the self-destructive violence of the gangs. The fast lane for great ambitions was often the sale of drugs. The family
     was revered, but many women raised their children alone.
    Mano had always believed most Hispanics worked harder than Anglos. Yet in pay, in education, even in dignity, they seemed
     continually mired in second-class status. They were not welcome to live outside the crowded barrios. Only last week, Mano
     had seen innocent people gunned down in