USO for Mexican Cowboys

In June, 2007, my best friend Jane turned 30. We decided to spend a week in Florida, staying in my parents' winter house. Their house is beautiful, and they let us use the car they leave there, so it was a luxury vacation at rock bottom prices.

We knew that there were certain things that we wanted to do while we were down there. Although we love to sing karaoke in private, we had only sung it in public once before, and that was on our last trip to Florida, at Maria's Mexican restaurant. So we knew that we wanted to go back there. And we also knew that we wanted to swim, and that we wanted to look for shark's teeth on a certain beach that is known as The Shark Tooth Capital of the World. Other than that, we didn't have too many goals.

Our trips to Maria's were amazing. The staff remembered us from our last visit in February, probably because we are their only non-latino clientele. The first night we went there, people were singing in both Spanish and English, and it was a good mix of people. We made many friends. My favorite was probably Sunny, who was an elderly biker, who also did carpentry work and gave us his business card. His tattoos were faded to green blobs, and his teeth were crooked and nicotine-stained. There was also Jaun Carlos, who introduced himself as Charlie, and Ingrid, who we rememebered from our last trip. There was also this fantastic group of gay latino men, these huge muscular guys who cheered and sang along when we did Back Street Boys and songs from Grease.

We decided to go back a second time on Saturday night, out of a certain sense of loyalty. On Saturday night, in addition to being the sole non-latinos, we were also the only women in the entire bar. Jane counted, and it was the two of us and 41 Mexican men. At first, while we were waiting for the karaoke to start, it was like being on display. None of the men would look at us directly, but all of them were completely aware of everything we were doing at all times, watching us from the corners of their eyes, or glancing at us, and then hurriedly looking away. I think a few dares were made, because eventually men started ambling over and sitting at our table, introducing themselves: Rueben, Felipe, Juan, amd about a dozen others.

Something interesting happened when we started singing, though. The men all forgot about hitting on us, and kind of got kind of into it. They really loved the harmonies we sang. Pretty soon, they were asking us to dance, and were teaching us traditional Mexican two-stepping to the old songs the others were singing. A few guys were out to cop a feel, but most were respectful, and I could almost feel their homesickness, as they heard old songs from their homes, and missed their families, and just wanted someone to dance with. These were cowboys, migrant farm workers, country people. Some spoke no English. Many couldn't read. They sang along to the Spanish songs, crying out with their eyes closed. A few of the older guys, around 60, held court, dressed all in black with cowboy hats and boots, bolo ties and beaded belts. One young guy loved dancing so much he couldn't stay still, but danced by himself near the stage, in shorts, cowboy hat, beater, and engineer boots. Most of the men didn't know the songs were were singing, but they cheered whenever it was our turn, sometimes wiping the tears from their eyes if we had done something slow and pretty. Soon, each time I came off the stage, I walked along the bar, and each man sitting there would hold out his hand to me and kiss me on the cheek.

I have a lot of feelings about the power and importance of communities of people coming together to sing. I've always found it transformative. It's something about the risk of singing in front of people, something about music, and how it transcends language, race, and class. But that particular night at Maria's was, for me, one of the most powerful. I remember the evening with great tenderness, and I feel grateful to the men at Maria's for making me feel beautiful, and for making me feel like I had a shining little light inside of me that could bring them joy.