The dead files evil descends murrieta california

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ZOOT SUIT and Other Plays

LUIS VALDEZ

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Acknowledgements

This volume is made possbile through a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, a federal agency, and the Ford Foundation.

The following people and institutions were instrumental in the development of this collection of plays:

El Teatro Campesino

Zoot Suit The Mark Taper Forum. The Rockefeller Foundation, The Shubert Organization, Alice McGrath, George Shibly, Ben Margolis, The Leyvas Family, The 38th St. Club.

Bandido! NEA Theater Program, AT&T On Stage.

I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking Badges! Lila Wallace-Reader’s Digest Foundation, Charles Duggan, Los Angeles Theatre Center.

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For reprint rights contact: Arte Público Press

Recovering the past, creating the future

Arte Público Press University of Houston

452 Cullen Performance Hall Houston, TX 77204-2004

Cover design by Mark Piñón Cover illustration by Ignacio Gómez

Zoot Suit & Other Plays / Luis Valdez p. cm.

Contents: Zoot Suit-Bandido!-I don’t have to show you no stinking badges! ISBN 978-1-55885-048-4 1. Mexican Americans-Drama. I. Title

PS3572.A387Z6 1992 91-4z1789 812’.54-dc20 CIP

The paper used in the publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48-1984

Copyright © 1992 by Luis Valdez Printed in the United States of America

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To my lovely wife and co-worker, Lupe Trujillo Valdez

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All rights reserved. All materials in Zoot Suit and Other Plays are the sole property of Luis Valdez. All dramatic, motion picture, radio, television and videotape rights are strictly reserved. No performances, professional or amateur, nor any broadcast, nor any public reading or recitation may be given without expressed written permission in advance. All inquiries should be addressed to:

El Teatro Campesino P.O.Box 1240 San Juan Bautista, CA 95045 (408) 623-2444 FAX (408) 623-4127

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Contents

Introduction, Jorge Huerta Zoot Suit Bandido! I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking Badges!

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INTRODUCTION

It is a pleasure to introduce the reader to Zoot Suit, Bandido! and I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking Badges!, as well as to their celebrated creator, Luis Miguel Valdez. These plays have never been published before and are an important addition to the growing corpus of Valdez’s writings that have been preserved for future theater artists, students, scholars and the general reader. These three plays represent only a fraction of Valdez’s astounding output since he first began writing plays in college.

For some, Luis Valdez needs no introduction; for others, his name may only be associated with his more widely seen films and television programs. No other individual has made as important an impact on Chicano theater as Luis Valdez. He is widely recognized as the leading Chicano director and playwright who, as the founder of El Teatro Campesino (Farmworker’s Theatre) in 1965, inspired a national movement of theater troupes dedicated to the exposure of socio-political problems within the Chicano communities of the United States. His output includes plays, poems, books, essays, films and videos, all of which deal with the Chicano and Mexican experience in the U.S. Before discussing the plays in this collection, I would like to briefly trace the director/playwright’s development, placing him and these plays in their historical context.

From Flatbed Trucks to Hollywood Sound Stages: The Evolution of Luis Valdez

Luis Valdez was born to migrant farmworker parents in Delano, California, on June 26, 1940, the second in a family of ten children. Although his early schooling was constantly interrupted as his family followed the crops, he managed to do well in school. By the age of twelve, he had developed an interest in puppet shows, which he would stage for neighbors and friends. While still in high school he appeared regularly on a local television program, foreshadowing the work in film and video which would later give him his widest audience. After high school, Valdez entered San Jose State College where his interest in theater fully developed.

Valdez’s first full-length play, The Shrunken Head of Pancho Villa, was produced by San Jose State College in 1964, setting the young artist’s feet firmly in the theater. Following graduation in 1964, Valdez worked with the San Francisco Mime Troupe before founding El Teatro Campesino. Valdez became the Artistic Director as well as resident playwright for this raggle-taggle troupe of striking farmworkers, creating and performing brief comedia-like sketches called “actos” about the need for a farmworker’s union. The acto became the signature style for the Teatro and Valdez, inspiring many other teatros to emulate this type of broad, farcical and presentational political theater based on improvisations of socio-political issues.

Within a matter of months El Teatro Campesino was performing away from the fields, educating the general public about the farmworkers’ struggle and earning revenue for the Union. By 1967 Valdez decided to leave the ranks of the union in order to focus on his theater rather than on the demands of a struggling labor organization. As a playwright, Valdez could now explore issues relevant to the Chicano beyond the fields; as a director, he could begin to develop a core of actors no longer committed to one cause and one style alone.

Although he and his troupe were working collectively from the beginning, the individual playwright in Valdez was anxious to emerge. Discussing the process of writing plays outside of the group, Valdez recalled: “I used to work on them with a sense of longing, wanting more time to be able to sit down and write.” In 1967, the playwright did sit down and write, creating what he termed a “mito,” or myth, that condemned the Vietnam war, titled Dark Root

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of a Scream. This contemporary myth takes place during a wake for a Chicano who died in Vietnam, an ex-community leader who should have stayed home and fought the battle in the barrio. The dead soldier becomes symbolic of all Chicanos who fought in a war that the playwright himself objected to. “I refused to go to Vietnam,” Valdez said twenty years later, “but I encountered all the violence I needed on the home front: people were killed by the farmworkers’ strike.”

In 1968 the Teatro was awarded an Obie, off-Broadway’s highest honor, and the following year Valdez and his troupe gained international exposure at the Theatre des Nations at Nancy, France. In 1970 Valdez wrote his second mito, Bernabé. This one act play is the tale of a loquito del pueblo (village idiot), Bernabé, who is in love with La Tierra (The Earth) and wants to marry her. La Tierra is portrayed as a soldadera, one of the women who followed and supported the troops during the Mexican Revolution of 1910.

Bernabé is a wonderfully written play that brings together myth and history, contemporary figures and historical icons. The allegorical figure of La Luna, brother to La Tierra, is portrayed as a Zoot Suiter. This is Valdez’s first theatrical exploration of this 1940’s Chicano renegade, foreshadowing one of his most powerful characters, El Pachuco, in Zoot Suit. Bernabé tells its audience that Chicanos not only have a history of struggle but are that struggle. Bernabé “marries” La Tierra and becomes a whole person; he symbolically represents all men who love and respect the earth.

Also in 1970, even as Valdez, the playwright, was scripting his individual statement about the Chicano and his relationship to the earth, Valdez, the director, was guiding the collective creation of an acto dealing with the war in Vietnam: Soldado Razo (Buck Private). Soldado Razo carefully explored some of the reasons young Chicanos were willing to go fight in Vietnam. Reflecting the influences of Bertholt Brecht’s theories, the playwright uses the allegorical figure of La Muerte (Death) as a constant presence narrating the action, continually reminding his audience that this is theater and that the soldier’s death is inevitable.

Soldado Razo complemented and expanded the earlier mito, Dark Root of a Scream, looking at the same issue but from a different viewpoint and in a distinct style. In Valdez’s words, the acto “is the Chicano through the eyes of man,” whereas the mito “is the Chicano through the eyes of God,” exploring the Chicanos’ roots in Mayan philosophy, science, religion and art. While Soldado Razo methodically demonstrates the eventual death of its central figure, Dark Root of a Scream begins after a soldier’s death, exploring the cause from a mythical distance.

In 1971 the troupe moved to its permanent home base in the rural village of San Juan Bautista, California, where the Teatro established itself as a resident company. During this period Valdez began to explore the idea of adapting the traditional Mexican corridos, or ballads, to the stage. A singer would sing the songs and the actors would act them out, adding dialogue from the corridos’ texts. Sometimes the singer/narrator would verbalize the text while the actors mimed the physical actions indicated by the song. These simple movements were stylized, enhancing the musical rhythms and adding to the unique combination of elements. The corrido style was to appear again, altered to suit the needs of a broader theatrical piece, La Carpa de los Rasquachis (The Tent of the Underdogs).

Developed over a period of years, La carpa de los Rasquachis stunned the audience at the Fourth Annual Chicano Theater Festival in San Jose, California in 1973. This production became the hallmark of the Teatro for several years, touring the United States and Europe many times to great critical acclaim. This piece is epic in scope, following a Cantinflas-like (read “Mexico’s Charlie Chaplin”) Mexican character from his crossing the border into the U.S. and the subsequent indignities to which he is exposed until his death.

La carpa de los Rasquachis brought together a Valdezian aesthetic that could be defined as

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raucous, lively street theater with deep socio-political and spiritual roots. The style combined elements of the acto, mito and corrido with an almost constant musical background as a handful of actors revealed the action in multiple roles with minimal costumes, props and set changes. This was the apogee of Valdez’s “poor theater,” purposely based on the early twentieth-century Mexican tent shows, otherwise known as “carpas.”

In an effort to define his neo-Mayan philosophy, Valdez wrote a poem, Pensamiento Serpentino, in 1973. The poem describes a way of thinking that was determining the content of Valdez’s evolving dramaturgy. The poem begins:

Teatro eres el mundo y las paredes de los buildings más grandes son nothing but scenery.

Later in the poem Valdez describes and revives the Mayan philosophy of “In Lak Ech” which translates as “Tú eres mi otro yo / You are my other me.” The phrase represents the following philosophy:

Tú eres mi otro yo / You are my other me. Si te hago daño a ti / If I do harm to you, Me hago daño a mí mismo /I do harm to myself; Si te amo y respeto / If I love and respect you, Me amo y respeto yo / I love and respect myself.

In the opening lines Valdez describes Chicano theater as a reflection of the world; a universal statement about what it is to be a Chicano in the United States. Recognizing the many injustices the Chicano has suffered in this country, the poet nonetheless attempts to revive a non-violent response. Valdez creates a distinct vision of a “cosmic people” whose destiny is finally being realized as Chicanos who are capable of love rather than hate, action rather than words.

While La carpa de los Rasquachis continued to tour, Valdez made another crucial change in his development by writing Zoot Suit and co-producing it with the Center Theatre Group of Los Angeles. Once again at the vanguard, Valdez began the mainstreaming of Chicano theater, or, for some observers, “the infiltration of the regional theaters.”

The director/playwright did not abandon El Teatro Campesino by getting involved with a major regional theater. The Teatro was still touring and Zoot Suit was co-produced by both theater organizations, thus including the Teatro in all negotiations and contracts. But this was a first step towards an individual identity that Valdez had previously rejected by working in a collective.

As advertised in the Los Angeles press, “On July 30, 1978, the Second Zoot Suit Riot begins,” and it did. Zoot Suit played to sold-out houses for eleven months—breaking all previous records for Los Angeles theater. While the Los Angeles production continued to run, another production opened in New York on March 25, 1979, the first (and only) Chicano play to open on Broadway. Although audiences were enthusiastic, the New York critics were not, and the play was closed after a four-week run. Hurt, but undaunted, Valdez could have the satisfaction that the play continued to be the biggest hit ever in Los Angeles and a motion picture contract had been signed.

Zoot Suit marked an important turning point in Valdez’s relationship with El Teatro Campesino as he began to write for actors outside the group. This experience introduced

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Valdez to the Hollywood Latino and non-Latino talent pool, suddenly bringing him into contact with a different breed of artist. With a large population of professionals at his disposal, Valdez’s vision had to expand. No longer surrounded by sincere, but sometimes limited talent, Valdez could explore any avenue of theater he desired. The success of the Los Angeles run of Zoot Suit enabled our playwright/director to move more seriously into filmmaking. Valdez adapted and directed Zoot Suit as a motion picture in 1981.

The collaboration with a non-Hispanic theater company and subsequent move into Hollywood film making was inevitable for Valdez; the natural course for a man determined to reach as many people as possible with his message and with his art. Theater was his life’s work, it was in his blood, but so was the fascinating world of film and video.

With the financial success of Zoot Suit, Valdez purchased an old packing house in San Juan Bautista and had it converted into a theater for the company. This new playhouse and administrative complex was inaugurated in 1981 with a production of David Belasco’s 1905 melodrama Rose of the Rancho, adapted by Valdez. This old fashioned melodrama was an ideal play for San Juan Bautista, because it was based on actual historical figures and events that had occurred in that town in the nineteenth century. Played as a revival of the melodrama genre, the play could be taken for face value, a tongue-in-cheek taste of history replete with stereotypes and misconceptions.

The experiment with Rose of the Rancho served as a kind of motivation for Valdez, inspiring him to write the second play in this collection, Bandido! which he then directed in 1982 in the Teatro’s theater. This was Valdez’s personal adaptation of the melodrama genre but with a distinctly Valdezian touch as we will see later.

Valdez wrote and directed Corridos for the 1983 season, producing this elaboration of the earlier exercises in San Francisco’s Marine’s Memorial Theater, a large house that was filled to capacity for six months. The San Francisco production garnered eleven awards from the Bay Area Theater Critics Circle before moving on to residencies in San Diego and Los Angeles.

All of his interaction in Hollywood and his own sense of history inspired Valdez to write the final play in this collection, I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking Badges!, first produced by El Teatro Campesino and the Los Angeles Theatre Center in 1986. This production represented the beginning of yet another phase for Valdez and his company. El Teatro Campesino was no longer a full-time core of artists, living and creating collectively under Valdez’s direction. Instead, the company began to contract talent only for the rehearsal and performance period. El Teatro Campesino became a producing company with Valdez at the helm as Artistic Director and writer. After great success in Los Angeles, Badges! was co- produced with the San Diego Repertory Theater and the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theatre in Jupiter, Florida. While the Teatro continued to produce, Valdez began to focus his efforts more on writing and directing films.

Valdez directed “La Bamba,” the sleeper hit of the summer of 1987, finally opening up the doors that had been so difficult to penetrate for so many years. “When I drove up to the studio gate,” Valdez related, following the success of his film, “the guard at the gate told me that the pastries were taken to a certain door. The only other Mexican he ever saw delivered the pastries.” That same year our playwright adapted and directed the earlier Corridos into a PBS version titled “Corridos: Tales of Passion and Revolution,” starring Linda Rondstadt and featuring himself as narrator. This production won the Peabody Award, the Pulitzer Prize of broadcasting.

Following the success of “La Bamba” and “Corridos,” Valdez continued to work on other projects for television and film as he also took his position as the leading Chicano filmmaker in Hollywood. Ever the activist, Valdez helped form the Latino Writers Group, which he

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hoped would pressure the studios to produce films written by Latinos. “The embryo is the screenplay,” he said. “The embryo, in fact, is what is written on the page. This is where you begin to tell the difference between a stereotype and reality.”

In 1991, Valdez adapted and directed La Pastorela, or Shepherd’s Play for a great performances segment on PBS. This television production is based on the traditional Christmas play, which El Teatro Campesino has produced in the mission at San Juan Bautista for many years. That same year, Valdez and his wife, Lupe, co-scripted a motion picture based on the life of Frida Kahlo, for production in 1992. Plans were also underway for a revival of Bandido! in San Juan Bautista during the 1992 season as well as a re-mounting of Zoot Suit for a national tour.

Valdez’s impressive career can be separated into the following four periods: Phase One, the director/playwright of the original group of farmworkers; Phase Two, a Teatro Campesino independent of the Union; Phase Three, a professional Teatro and co-productions such as Zoot Suit; and the current, Fourth Phase, Luis Valdez, the filmmaker alongside El Teatro Campesino, professional productions across the country and community-professional productions at home.

Cutting through the News: Zoot Suit

Zoot Suit is the logical culmination of all that Valdez had written before, combining elements of the acto, mito and corrido in a spectacular documentary play with music. Unlike any of his previous plays or actos, however, Zoot Suit is based on historical fact, not a current crisis.

By illuminating an actual incident in the history of Chicano-Anglo relations in Los Angeles, Zoot Suit does not have the immediacy of an acto about today’s headlines. The politically aware will know that the police brutality and injustices rendered in this play are still happening; others may lose the point. Most significantly, this play illuminates events that had a major impact on the Chicano community of Los Angeles during World War II, incidents that are carefully ignored by most high school history books.

Like the acto, Zoot Suit exposes social ills in a presentational style. It is a play that is closer to the docu-drama form, owing more to Brecht than to Odets as the action reveals the events surrounding the infamous Sleepy Lagoon Murder Trial of 1942. By employing a narrator, Valdez is discarding a totally representational style in favor of this more direct contact with his audience. El Pachuco’s almost constant presence, underscoring Henry’s inner thoughts and tribulations, skillfully captivates the audience and serves as a continual commentator on the action.

Just as La Muerte did in Soldado Razo, El Pachuco will stop the action entirely in order to make a point, telling Henry (and the audience) to listen again when the judge rules that the “zoot haircuts will be retained throughout the trial for purposes of identification … ” It is a kind of “instant replay” that is only used once for maximum effect. Countering the figure of El Pachuco is the allegorical character of The Press which descends directly from the acto as well.

Like the corrido, there is a musical underscoring in Zoot Suit, placing the events in a historical context by employing the music of the period. El Pachuco sings some of the songs, as in a corrido, setting the mood through lyrics such as those that introduce the “Saturday Night Dance” in Act One, Scene Seven. While El Pachuco sings, the actors dance to the rhythms he creates, transforming from youthful fun to vengeful intensity gone wild by the end of the scene.

Some of the songs are original while others are traditional Latin or Anglo-American tunes,

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such as Glenn Miller’s “In The Mood.” Unlike the corrido, in which the music was played by live musicians, however, the music is pre-recorded. The choreography is also more like that of a musical comedy during the dance numbers, staged with historical authenticity to enhance the theatricality and further engage the audience.

Most importantly, this play places the Chicanos in a historical context that identifies them as “American,” by showing that they, too, danced the swing as well as the mambo. Valdez is telling his audience that the Chicanos’ taste for music can be as broad as anyone’s. He is also revealing a cross-culturalism in the Chicanos’ language, customs and myths. As Valdez so emphatically stated when this play first appeared, “this is an American play,” attempting to dispel previous notions of separatism from the society at large. He is also reminding us that Americans populate The Americas, not just the U.S.

Valdez will not ignore his indigenous American ancestors, either, employing elements of the mito very subtly when the Pachuco is stripped of his zoot suit and remains covered only by an indigenous loincloth. This image suggests the sacrificial “god” of the Aztecs, stripped bare before his heart is offered to the cosmos. It is a stunning moment in the play, when the cocky Pachuco is reduced to bare nakedness in piercing contrast to his treasured “drapes.” He may be naked, but he rises nobly in his bareness, dissolving into darkness. He will return, and he does.

The character of El Pachuco also represents the Aztec concept of the “nahual,” or other self as he comes to Henry’s support during the solitary scene in prison. Henry is frightened, stripped emotionally bare in his cell and must rely on his imagination to recall the spirit of El Pachuco in order to survive. The strength he receives from his other self is determined by his ability to get in touch with his nahual.

The documentary form of the play is influenced by the Living Newspaper style, a documentary theater that exposed current events during the 1930’s through dramatizations of those events. The use of newspapers for much of the set decoration, as well as the giant front page backdrop through which El Pachuco cuts his way at the top of the play is an effective metaphor for the all-pervading presence of the press. When Dolores Reyna hangs newspapers on the clothesline instead of actual laundry, the comment is complete.

Like most of Valdez’s works, this play dramatizes a Chicano family in crisis. Henry Reyna is the central figure, but he is not alone. His familia is the link with the Chicano community in the audience, a continuing reminder that the Chicano is a community. Unlike the members of his family, however, Henry’s alter-ego brings another dimension to this misunderstood figure. El Pachuco represents an inner attitude of defiance determining Henry’s actions most of the time. El Pachuco is reminiscent at times of the Diablo and Diabla characters that permeated the corridos, motivating the characters’ hapless choices as in Medieval morality plays.

El Pachuco’s advice is not based on a moral choice, as in the corridos, but rather, on judgments of character. Mostly, El Pachuco represents the defiance against the system that identifies and determines the pachuco character. Sometimes, Henry does not take El Pachuco’s advice, choosing instead to do what he thinks is right. At times, Henry has no choice, whether he listens to his alter-ego or to another part of himself, he will still get beaten. Interestingly, El Pachuco is sometimes more politically astute than the defendants themselves, allowing Henry an awareness his fellows do not have. In other instances, such as when the boys debate whether to confide in George, the boys’ instincts are better for the whole and Henry must ignore El Pachuco’s advice.

Now available in video, the motion picture of Zoot Suit is a vivid record of elements of the original stage production, because it was filmed in the Aquarius Theatre in Hollywood where it had played. The motion picture recreates and reconstructs the play. At times we watch the action unfolding as if we, too, are one of the hundreds sitting in the audience,

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watching the play; then suddenly the characters are in a realistic setting, as in a sound stage and we are enveloped in social realism. Just as the Pachuco continually reminds the audience that “this is just a play” in the stage version, the film also prompts us to remember that this is a demonstration of actual events, urging us to think about it as we watch the action moving back and forth between realities. Zoot Suit is also a rewriting of history, as is the central issue of the next play, Bandido!

Rewriting History: Bandido!

Bandido! is an exploration and expurgation of old clichés about the early California bandits. Valdez’s intent is to alter history by demonstrating his version of the exploits of one Tiburcio Vásquez, the last man to be publicly hanged in California. The play is therefore didactic like an acto or a docu-drama but goes beyond those forms to become a “melodrama within a play.” The playwright creates a construct in which audience sees Vásquez through different eyes. Vásquez is sympathetic when observed through the playwright’s eyes and a stereotype when seen through history’s distorted characterization.

The key to a successful production of Bandido! lies in an understanding of the satiric nature within the form of the play. Valdez’s introductory notes state the challenge to director and actors most clearly: “The contrast of theatrical styles between the realism of the jail and the trompe l’oleil of the melodrama is purely intentional and part of the theme of the play … their combined reality must be a metaphor—and not a facile cliché—of the Old West.” The actors must therefore represent real people in the jail scenes and stereotypes of those characters and others in the melodramatic scenes.

Valdez is no stranger to stereotypes, as is illustrated in one of the playwright’s most enduring actos, Los vendidos (The Sellouts), which he first wrote in 1967. In this very funny and popular acto, the playwright turns stereotyping around, making the audience reassess their attitudes about various Chicano and Mexican “types.” We laugh, but also understand that the characteristics exposed are a reflection of Anglo perceptions and, yes, even sometimes our own biases as Chicanos. In both Los vendidos and Bandido! the playwright is portraying these characters with a clear understanding that they are stereotypes.

The characterization of Tiburcio Vásquez will vary according to the point of view of who is re-creating him on stage. If he is perceived as “real” in the jail scenes and a stereotype in the melodrama, the audience will distinguish the playwright’s bias. They might also understand that their own biases come from the Hollywood stereotype of a “bandido.” The actor, too, must delight in demonstrating the exaggeration, commenting upon his character even as he explores the exaggerations. This is a Brechtian acting technique, asking the actor to have an opinion about his character’s actions and choices. Within the construct of the melodrama within the play, this can be effectively displayed.

Valdez clearly thinks of Vásquez as a social bandit, a gentleman who never killed anyone but who was forced into a life of crime by the Anglo invaders of his homeland. The playwright’s goal here is to make Tiburcio Vásquez more than a romantic figure cloaked in evil, to present us with a reason for his actions instead of only the results.

Valdez’s first play, The Shrunken Head of Pancho Villa, featured a young Chicano social bandit named Joaquín, symbolic of that better known “bandido,” Joaquín Murrieta. Labelled a pachuco by the police, Joaquín steals from the rich to give to the poor. Neither Joaquín nor Vásquez are clearly understood by the authorities, but they fascinate their communities. As Pico says to Vásquez in the second act: “You’ve given all of us Californios twenty years of secret vicarious revenge.”

The Shrunken Head of Pancho Villa offers hope for the community through unified social

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action, although the fate of Bandido!’s central figure is predetermined by history. Valdez knows that nobody can change the inequities of the past, but offers the suggestion that the future can be altered for the better, if misrepresentations of the Chicano are altered.

It is not that Valdez is attempting to completely whitewash Vásquez, either. When the Impresario asks him, “Are you comic or tragic, a good man or a bad man?” Vásquez responds: “All of them.” To which the playwright might respond: “Aren’t we all comic and tragic, good and bad?” It is perhaps the degree of evil that fascinates our playwright here, that degree always determined by who is being asked. Thus, the opposing views of this comic, tragic, good and bad man.

Valdez’s style here is reminiscent of Luigi Pirandello, the Italian playwright and novelist whose works often turn reality inside out, leaving the reader or observer to ponder the nature of reality. Again, the Impresario states the obvious when he tells Vásquez, “Reality and theater don’t mix, sir,” as we watch a play that is watching its own melodrama.

Above all, Bandido! is theatrical, offering the audience a delightful mixture of songs and dances that narrate the story as in the corrido, as well as characters that can be hissed or cheered as they would have been in the nineteenth century. Melodramas were extremely popular in Mexican theaters and carpas of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in this country, a fact that histories of U.S. theater neglect to report. In other words, the genre belongs to all of us.

What makes this play truly Valdezian, however, is the fact that it is not simply a play presenting us with villains and heroes in conflict. The conflict is the melodrama itself—the distortion the Impresario wants to present for profit. “The public will only buy tickets to savour the evil in your soul,” he tells Vásquez, a truism that cannot be denied. It is more fun to watch the villain than the hero in an old fashioned melodrama. In Valdez’s play, however, the villain is the Impresario, precursor to a legion of Hollywood producers. If history cannot be changed in either Zoot Suit or Bandido!, the next play looks to the future as the only hope.

Searching for Reality: I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking Badges!

The Valdezian questioning of reality reaches its pinnacle in I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking Badges! In this play the playwright presents us with a world that resembles a hall of mirrors, sometimes catching this picture, other times another view. One never knows for certain if what we are observing is real or an illusion. Instead of Bandido!’s “Melodrama within a play,” we are now given a much more complex vision as Valdez explores the different levels of reality between the world of the stage and the realm of television. Like Zoot Suit, this play was written for a fully-equipped theater. Furthermore, it requires a realistic set, designed to look like a television studio setting, including video monitors hanging above the set to help the audience understand its transformation into a “live studio audience.”

Badges! focuses on a middle-aged Chicano couple who have made their living as “King and Queen of the Hollywood Extras,” playing non-speaking roles as maids, gardeners and the like. The couple have been very successful, having put their daughter through medical school and their son into Harvard. They have, in effect, accomplished the American Dream, with a suburban home complete with swimming pool, family room and microwave.

The major conflict arises when Sonny, alienated from the Ivy League reality, comes home from Harvard unexpectedly and announces that he has dropped-out. To make matters worse, he decides he will become a Hollywood actor. His parents, his girlfriend and the audience know his fate will be the same as his parents’, playing “on the hyphen” in bit parts as thieves, drug addicts and rapists. Or will he? Like Zoot Suit, I Don’t Have to Show You No Stinking

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Badges! does not give a distinct ending, but rather, leaves the solution up to the audience members to decide.

While Zoot Suit takes us from a presentational style to a representational style as a play, Bandido! explores both styles transferring from the “real” Tiburcio Vásquez to the melodramatic version: Vásquez through the eyes of Luis Valdez and Vásquez through the eyes of Hollywood and dime novels. Badges!, on the other hand, takes us on a much more involved journey, by remodeling the theater to look like an actual television studio with all of the paraphernalia of the medium. To add to the effect, when the action begins it begins as an actual taping in progress.

As soon as the action begins in Badges!, we begin to think of it as a play, performed in the style of a sit-com, not a taping, but rather, a play, until the final scene. This is when it becomes difficult to tell if what we are seeing is a part of Buddy and Consuelo’s “sitcom,” or if what we are witnessing is Sonny’s “sit-com,” or his “play,” existing only in his mind.

Just as we saw Tiburcio Vásquez attempting to write the true version of his story, we now see Sonny Villa recreating his reality. “Is it real, or is it Memorex?” he asks, underscoring the premise of the play itself. Are we, the audience, a “live studio audience?” Are they really taping this? Did Sonny really rob a fast food restaurant? Questions mount as we watch Sonny’s transformation, his angst or his drama.

What is real to Sonny is the fact that he must find himself within this society, the son of parents whose very existence has depended on portraying the marginalized “other.” When Connie tells her son “I’d rather play a maid than be a maid,” she makes a point but cannot escape the fact that maids are all she ever will play. Sonny knows that he, too, will not be given greater opportunities unless he writes and directs his own material, to his standards and not some Hollywood advertising agency’s.

From melodrama-within-a-play to video-within-a-play, the playwright takes us on theatrical explorations that offer no easy solutions. The earliest actos offered clearly defined action: “Join the union,” “Boycott grapes,” etc. But what to do about distorted history or negative portrayals of Chicanos in the media? Can any of us, as Sonny Villa proposes to do, write and produce films and videos that cut through the biases of generations? Only a select few will ever have that opportunity and Luis Valdez is one of them.

Ultimately, these three plays present us with different aspects of the playwright himself. Valdez is the Pachuco of Broadway, the social bandit of the media and the brilliant student who will change the face of Hollywood portrayals of his people. He laughs at himself as much as at historians and Hollywood in these plays, exploding myths by creating others, transforming the way in which Chicanos and Chicanas view themselves within the context of this society. Each of these plays is finally about a search for identity through the playwright’s quest for what is reality—past, present and future. “How can we know who we are,” he continually asks, “if we do not know who we were?”

In the twenty-six years since he founded El Teatro Campesino, Luis Valdez has made an odyssey few theater artists in the United States can claim. This course could not have been predicted, yet the journey was inevitable. Yes, Valdez has gone from the fields of Delano to the migrant labor of a theater artist, to the even more complex world of Broadway and Hollywood. But he has never forgotten his roots, has never abandoned the beauty of his languages, both Inglés and Spanish.

Nor has he forgotten about his people’s troubles and triumphs. Valdez taught us to laugh at ourselves as we worked to improve the conditions in our

barrios and in our nation. In particular, he urges us to embrace life with all of the vigor we can muster in the midst of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. May these plays inspire others to follow in his footsteps.

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Jorge Huerta, Ph.D. Professor of Theatre

University of California, San Diego

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CHARACTERS

EL PACHUCO HENRY REYNA

His Family:

ENRIQUE REYNA DOLORES REYNA LUPE REYNA RUDY REYNA

His Friends:

GEORGE SHEARER ALICE BLOOMFIELD

His Gang:

DELLA BARRIOS SMILEY TORRES JOEY CASTRO TOMMY ROBERTS ELENA TORRES BERTHA VILLARREAL

The Downey Gang:

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RAFAS RAGMAN HOBO CHOLO ZOOTER GÜERA HOBA BLONDIE LITTLE BLUE

Detectives:

LIEUTENANT EDWARDS SERGEANT SMITH

The Press:

PRESS CUB REPORTER NEWSBOY

The Court:

JUDGE F.W. CHARLES BAILIFF

The Prison:

GUARD

The Military:

BOSUN’S MATE SAILORS MARINE SWABBIE MANCHUKA SHORE PATROLMAN

Others:

GIRLS PIMP CHOLO

SETTING

The giant facsimile of a newspaper front page serves as a drop curtain. The huge masthead reads: LOS ANGELES HERALD EXPRESS Thursday, June 3, 1943. A headline cries out: ZOOT-SUITER HORDES INVADE LOS ANGELES. US NAVY AND

MARINES ARE CALLED IN. Behind this are black drapes creating a place of haunting shadows larger than life. The

somber shapes and outlines of pachuco images hang subtly, black on black, against a back- ground of heavy fabric evoking memories and feelings like an old suit hanging forgotten in the depths of a closet somewhere, sometime … Below this is a sweeping, curving place of

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levels and rounded corners with the hard, ingrained brilliance of countless spit shines, like the memory of a dance hall.

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ACT ONE PROLOGUE

A switchblade plunges through the newspaper. It slowly cuts a rip to the bottom of the drop. To the sounds of “Perdido” by Duke Ellington, EL PACHUCO emerges from the slit. HE adjusts his clothing, meticulously fussing with his collar, suspenders, cuffs. HE tends to his hair, combing back every strand into a long luxurious ducktail, with infinite loving pains. Then HE reaches into the slit and pulls out his coat and hat. HE dons them. His fantastic costume is complete. It is a zoot suit. HE is transformed into the very image of the pachuco myth, from his pork-pie hat to the tip of his four-foot watch chain. Now HE turns to the audience. His three-soled shoes with metal taps click-clack as HE proudly, slovenly, defiantly makes his way downstage. HE stops and assumes a pachuco stance. PACHUCO:

¿Que le watcha a mis trapos, ese? ¿Sabe qué, carnal? Estas garras me las planté porque Vamos a dejarnos caer un play, ¿sabe? (HE crosses to center stage, models his clothes.) Watcha mi tacuche, ese. Aliviánese con mis calcos, tando, lisa, tramos, y carlango, ese. (Pause.) Nel, sabe qué, usted está muy verdolaga. Como se me hace que es puro square. (EL PACHUCO breaks character and addresses the audience in perfect English.) Ladies and gentlemen the play you are about to see is a construct of fact and fantasy. The Pachuco Style was an act in Life and his language a new creation. His will to be was an awesome force eluding all documentation … A mythical, quizzical, frightening being precursor of revolution Or a piteous, hideous heroic joke deserving of absolution? I speak as an actor on the stage. The Pachuco was existential for he was an Actor in the streets both profane and reverential. It was the secret fantasy of every bato in or out of the Chicanada to put on a Zoot Suit and play the Myth

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más chucote que la chingada. (Puts hat back on and turns.) ¡Pos órale! (Music. The newspaper drop flies. EL PACHUCO begins his chuco stroll upstage, swinging his watch chain.)

1. ZOOT SUIT

The scene is a barrio dance in the forties. PACHUCOS and PACHUCAS in zoot suits and pompadours.

They are members of the 38TH STREET GANG, led by HENRY REYNA, 21, dark, Indian-looking, older than his years, and DELLA BARRIOS, 20, his girlfriend in miniskirt and fingertip coat. A SAILOR called SWABBIE dances with his girlfriend MANCHUKA among the COUPLES. Movement. Animation. EL PACHUCO sings. PACHUCO:

PUT ON A ZOOT SUIT, MAKES YOU FEEL REAL ROOT LOOK LIKE A DIAMOND, SPARKLING, SHINING READY FOR DANCING READY FOR THE BOOGIE TONIGHT! (The COUPLES, dancing, join the PACHUCO in exclaiming the last term of each

line in the next verse.) THE HEPCATS UP IN HARLEM WEAR THAT DRAPE SHAPE COMO LOS PACHUCONES DOWN IN L.A. WHERE HUISAS IN THEIR POMPADOURS LOOK REAL KEEN ON THE DANCE FLOOR OF THE BALLROOMS DONDE BAILAN SWING.

YOU BETTER GET HEP TONIGHT AND PUT ON THAT ZOOT SUIT!

(The DOWNEY GANG, a rival group of pachucos enters upstage left. Their quick dance step becomes a challenge to 38TH STREET.) DOWNEY GANG: Downey … ¡Rifa! HENRY: (Gesturing back.) ¡Toma! (The music is hot. EL PACHUCO slides across the floor

and momentarily breaks the tension. HENRY warns RAFAS, the leader of the DOWNEY GANG, when HE sees him push his brother RUDY.) ¡Rafas!

PACHUCO: (Sings.)

TRUCHA, ESE LOCO, VAMOS AL BORLO WEAR THAT CARLANGO, TRAMOS Y TANDO DANCE WITH YOUR HUISA DANCE TO THE BOOGIE TONIGHT!

’CAUSE THE ZOOT SUIT IS THE STYLE IN CALIFORNIA TAMBIÉN EN COLORADO Y ARIZONA THEY’RE WEARING THAT TACUCHE EN EL PASO Y EN TODOS LOS SALONES DE CHICAGO

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YOU BETTER GET HEP TONIGHT AND PUT ON THAT ZOOT SUIT!

2. THE MASS ARRESTS

We hear a siren, then another, and another. It sounds like gangbusters. The dance is interrupted. COUPLES pause on the dance floor. PACHUCO: Trucha, la jura. ¡Pélenle! (Pachucos start to run out, but DETECTIVES leap

onstage with drawn guns. A CUB REPORTER takes flash pictures.) SGT. SMITH: Hold it right there, kids! LT. EDWARDS: Everybody get your hands up! RUDY: Watcha! This way! (RUDY escapes with some others.) LT. EDWARDS: Stop or I’ll shoot! (EDWARDS fires his revolver into the air. A number of

pachucos and their girlfriends freeze. The cops round them up. SWABBIE, an American sailor, and MANCHUKA, a Japanese-American dancer, are among them.)

SGT. SMITH: ¡Ándale! (Sees SWABBIE.) You! Get out of here. SWABBIE: What about my girl? SGT. SMITH: Take her with you. (SWABBIE and MANCHUKA exit.) HENRY: What about my girl? LT. EDWARDS: No dice, Henry. Not this time. Back in line. SGT. SMITH: Close it up! LT. EDWARDS: Spread! (The PACHUCOS turn upstage in a line with their hands up. The

sirens fade and give way to the sound of a teletype. The PACHUCOS turn and form a lineup, and the PRESS starts shooting pictures as HE speaks.)

PRESS: The City of the Angels, Monday, August 2, 1942. The Los Angeles Examiner, Headline:

THE LINEUP: (In chorus.) Death Awakens Sleepy Lagoon (Breath.) LA Shaken by Lurid “Kid” Murder.

PRESS: The City of the Angels, Monday, August 2, 1942. The Los Angeles Times Headline: THE LINEUP: One Killed, Ten Hurt in Boy Wars: (Breath.) Mexican Boy Gangs Operating

Within City. PRESS: The City of the Angels, August 2, 1942. Los Angeles Herald Express Headline: THE LINEUP: Police Arrest Mexican Youths. Black Widow Girls in Boy Gangs. PRESS: The City of the Angels … PACHUCO: (Sharply.) El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Porciúncula,

pendejo. PRESS: (Eyeing the PACHUCO cautiously.) The Los Angeles Daily News Headline: BOYS IN THE LINEUP: Police Nab 300 in Roundup. GIRLS IN THE LINEUP: Mexican Girls Picked Up in Arrests. LT. EDWARDS: Press Release, Los Angeles Police Department: A huge showup of nearly

300 boys and girls rounded up by the police and sheriff’s deputies will be held tonight at eight o’clock in Central Jail at First and Hill Street. Victims of assault, robbery, purse snatching, and similar crimes are asked to be present for the identification of suspects.

PRESS: Lieutenant … ? (EDWARDS poses as the PRESS snaps a picture.) LT. EDWARDS: Thank you.

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PRESS: Thank you. (SMITH gives a signal, and the lineup moves back, forming a straight line in the rear, leaving HENRY up front by himself.)

LT. EDWARDS: Move! Turn! Out! (As the rear line moves off to the left following EDWARDS, SMITH takes HENRY by the arm and pulls him downstage, shoving him to the floor.)

3. PACHUCO YO

SGT. SMITH: Okay, kid, you wait here till I get back. Think you can do that? Sure you can. You pachucos are regular tough guys. (SMITH exits. HENRY sits up on the floor. EL PACHUCO comes forward.)

HENRY: Bastards. (HE gets up and paces nervously. Pause.) ¿Ese? ¿Ese? PACHUCO: (Behind him.) ¿Qué pues, nuez? HENRY: (Turning.) Where the hell you been, ese? PACHUCO: Checking out the barrio. Qué desmadre, ¿no? HENRY: What’s going on, ese? This thing is big. PACHUCO: The city’s cracking down on pachucos, carnal. Don’t you read the newspapers?

They’re screaming for blood. HENRY: All I know is they got nothing on me. I didn’t do anything. PACHUCO: You’re Henry Reyna, ese—Hank Reyna! The snarling juvenile delinquent. The

zootsuiter. The bitter young pachuco gang leader of 38th Street. That’s what they got on you.

HENRY: I don’t like this, ese. (Suddenly intense.) I DON’T LIKE BEING LOCKED UP! PACHUCO: Calmantes montes, chicas patas. Haven’t I taught you to survive? Play it cool. HENRY: They’re going to do it again, ese! They’re going to charge me with some phony rap

and keep me until they make something stick. PACHUCO: So what’s new? HENRY: (Pause.) I’m supposed to report for the Navy tomorrow. (THE PACHUCO looks at

him with silent disdain.) You don’t want me to go, do you? PACHUCO: Stupid move, carnal. HENRY: (Hurt and angered by PACHUCO’s disapproval.) I’ve got to do something. PACHUCO: Then hang tough. Nobody’s forcing you to do shit. HENRY: I’m forcing me, ese—ME, you understand? PACHUCO: Muy patriotic, eh? HENRY: Yeah. PACHUCO: Off to fight for your country. HENRY: Why not? PACHUCO: Because this ain’t your country. Look what’s happening all around you. The Japs

have sewed up the Pacific. Rommel is kicking ass in Egypt but the Mayor of L.A. has declared all-out war on Chicanos. On you! ¿Te curas?

HENRY: Órale. PACHUCO: Qué mamada, ¿no? Is that what you want to go out and die for? Wise up. These

bastard paddy cops have it in for you. You’re a marked man. They think you’re the enemy.

HENRY: (Refusing to accept it.) Screw them bastard cops! PACHUCO: And as soon as the Navy finds out you’re in jail again, ya estuvo, carnal. Unfit

for military duty because of your record. Think about it.

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HENRY: (Pause.) You got a frajo? PACHUCO: Simón. (HE pulls out a cigarette, hands it to HENRY, lights it for him. HENRY

is pensive.) HENRY: (Smokes, laughs ironically.) I was all set to come back a hero, see? Me la rayo. For

the first time in my life I really thought Hank Reyna was going someplace. PACHUCO: Forget the war overseas, carnal. Your war is on the homefront. HENRY: (With new resolve.) What do you mean? PACHUCO: The barrio needs you, carnal. Fight back! Stand up to them with some style.

Show the world a Chicano has balls. Hang tough. You can take it. Remember, Pachuco Yo!

HENRY: (Assuming the style.) Con safos, carnal.

4. THE INTERROGATION

The PRESS enters, followed by EDWARDS and SMITH. PRESS: (To the audience.) Final Edition; The Los Angeles Daily News. The police have

arrested twenty-two members of the 38th Street Gang, pending further investigation of various charges.

LT. EDWARDS: Well, son, I was hoping I wouldn’t see you in here again. HENRY: Then why did you arrest me? LT. EDWARDS: Come on, Hank, you know why you’re here. HENRY: Yeah. I’m a Mexican. LT. EDWARDS: Don’t give me that. How long have I known you? Since ’39? HENRY: Yeah, when you got me for stealing a car, remember? LT. EDWARDS: All right. That was a mistake. I didn’t know it was your father’s car. I tried

to make it up to you. Didn’t I help you set up the youth club? SGT. SMITH: They turned it into a gang, Lieutenant. Everything they touch turns to shit. LT. EDWARDS: I remember a kid just a couple of years back. Head boy at the Catholic Youth

Center. His idea of fun was going to the movies. What happened to that nice kid, Henry?

PRESS: He’s “Gone With The Wind,” trying to look like Clark Gable. SGT. SMITH: Now he thinks he’s Humphrey Bogart. PACHUCO: So who are you, puto? Pat O’Brien? LT. EDWARDS: This is the wrong time to be anti-social, son. This country’s at war, and

we’re under strict orders to crack down on all malcontents. SGT. SMITH: Starting with all pachucos and draft dodgers. HENRY: I ain’t no draft dodger. LT. EDWARDS: I know you’re not. I heard you got accepted by the Navy. Congratulations.

When do you report? HENRY: Tomorrow? SGT. SMITH: Tough break! LT. EDWARDS: It’s still not too late, you know. I could still release you in time to get sworn

in. HENRY: If I do what? LT. EDWARDS: Tell me, Henry, what do you know about a big gang fight last Saturday night,

out at Sleepy Lagoon? PACHUCO: Don’t tell ’em shit.

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HENRY: Which Sleepy Lagoon? LT. EDWARDS: You mean there’s more than one? Come on, Hank, I know you were out there.

I’ve got a statement from your friends that says you were beaten up. Is that true? Were you and your girl attacked?

HENRY: I don’t know anything about it. Nobody’s ever beat me up. SGT. SMITH: That’s a lie and you know it. Thanks to your squealer friends, we’ve got enough

dope on you to indict for murder right now. HENRY: Murder? SGT. SMITH: Yeah, murder. Another greaser named José Williams. HENRY: I never heard of the bato. SGT. SMITH: Yeah, sure. LT. EDWARDS: I’ve been looking at your record, Hank. Petty theft, assault, burglary, and

now murder. Is that what you want? The gas chamber? Play square with me. Give me a statement as to what happened at the Lagoon, and I’ll go to bat for you with the Navy. I promise you.

PACHUCO: If that ain’t a line of gabacho bullshit, I don’t know what is. LT. EDWARDS: Well? PACHUCO: Spit in his pinche face. SGT. SMITH: Forget it, Lieutenant. You can’t treat these animals like people. LT. EDWARDS: Shut up! I’m thinking of your family, Hank. Your old man would be proud to

see you in the Navy. One last chance, son. What do you say? HENRY: I ain’t your son, cop. LT. EDWARDS: All right, Reyna, have it your way. (EDWARDS and PRESS exit.) PACHUCO: You don’t deserve it, ese, but your going to get it anyway. SGT. SMITH: All right, muchacho, it’s just me and you now. I hear tell you pachucos wear

these monkey suits as a kind of armor. Is that right? How’s it work? This is what you zooters need—a little old-fashioned discipline.

HENRY: Screw you, flatfoot. SGT. SMITH: You greasy son of a bitch. What happened at the Sleepy Lagoon? Talk! Talk!

Talk! (SMITH beats HENRY with a rubber sap. HENRY passes out and falls to the floor, with his hands still handcuffed behind his back. DOLORES his mother appears in a spot upstage, as he falls.)

DOLORES: Henry! (Lights change. Four PACHUCO COUPLES enter, dancing a 40’s pasodoble (two-step) around HENRY on the floor, as they swing in a clothesline of newspaper sheets. Music.)

PACHUCO:

Get up and escape, Henry … leave reality behind with your buenas garras muy chamberlain escape through the barrio streets of your mind through a neighborhood of memories all chuckhole lined and the love and the pain as fine as wine …

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(HENRY sits up, seeing his mother DOLORES folding newspaper sheets like clothes on a clothesline.)

DOLORES: Henry? PACHUCO: It’s a lifetime ago, last Saturday night … before Sleepy Lagoon and the big bad

fight. DOLORES: Henry! PACHUCO: Tu mamá, carnal. (HE recedes into the background.) DOLORES: (At the clothesline.) Henry, ¿hijo? Ven a cenar. HENRY: (Gets up off the floor.) Sorry, jefita, I’m not hungry. Besides, I got to pick up Della.

We’re late for the dance. DOLORES: Dance? In this heat? Don’t you muchachos ever think of anything else? God

knows I suffer la pena negra seeing you go out every night. HENRY: This isn’t just any night, jefa. It’s my last chance to use my tacuche. DOLORES: Tacuche? Pero tu padre … HENRY: (Revealing a stubborn streak.) I know what mi ’apá said, ’amá. I’m going to wear it

anyway. DOLORES: (Sighs, resigns herself.) Mira, hijo. I know you work hard for your clothes. And

I know how much they mean to you. Pero por diosito santo, I just don’t know what you see en esa cochinada de “soot zoot.”

HENRY: (Smiling.) Drapes, ’amá, we call them drapes. DOLORES: (Scolding playfully.) Ay si, drapes, muy funny, ¿verdad? And what do the police

call them, eh? They’ve put you in jail so many times. ¿Sabes qué? I’m going to send them all your clothes!

HENRY: A qué mi ’amá. Don’t worry. By this time next week, I’ll be wearing my Navy blues. Okay?

DOLORES: Bendito sea Dios. I still can’t believe you’re going off to war. I almost wish you were going back to jail.

HENRY: ¡Órale! (LUPE REYNA, 16, enters dressed in a short skirt and baggy coat. She is followed by DELLA BARRIOS, 17, dressed more modestly. LUPE hides behind a newspaper sheet on the line.)

LUPE: Hank! Let’s go, carnal. Della’s here. HENRY: Della … Órale, esa. What are you doing here? I told you I was going to pick you up

at your house. DELLA: You know how my father gets. HENRY: What happened? DELLA: I’ll tell you later. DOLORES: Della, hija, buenas noches. How pretty you look. DELLA: Buenas noches. (DOLORES hugs DELLA, then spots LUPE hiding behind the

clothesline.) DOLORES: (To LUPE.) ¿Oye y tú? What’s wrong with you? What are you doing back there. LUPE: Nothing, ’amá. DOLORES: Well, come out then. LUPE: We’re late, ’amá. DOLORES: Come out, te digo. (LUPE comes out exposing her extremely short skirt.

DOLORES gasps.) ¡Válgame Dios! Guadalupe, are you crazy? Why bother to wear anything?

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LUPE: Ay, ’amá, it’s the style. Short skirt and fingertip coat. Huh, Hank? HENRY: Uh, yeah, ’amá. DOLORES: ¿Oh sí? And how come Della doesn’t get to wear the same style? HENRY: No … that’s different. No, chale. ENRIQUE: (Off.) ¡VIEJA! DOLORES: Ándale. Go change before your father sees you. ENRIQUE: I’m home. (Coming into the scene.) Buenas noches, everybody. (All respond.

ENRIQUE sees LUPE.) ¡Ay, jijo! Where’s the skirt?! LUPE: It’s here. ENRIQUE: Where’s the rest of it? DOLORES: She’s going to the dance. ENRIQUE: ¿Y a mí qué me importa? Go and change those clothes. Ándale. LUPE: Please, ’apá? ENRIQUE: No, señorita. LUPE: Chihuahua, I don’t want to look like a square. ENRIQUE: ¡Te digo que no! I will not have my daughter looking like a … DOLORES: Like a puta … I mean, a pachuca. LUPE: (Pleading for help.) Hank … HENRY: Do what they say, sis. LUPE: But you let Henry wear his drapes. ENRIQUE: That’s different. He’s a man. Es hombre. DOLORES: Sí, that’s different. You men are all alike. From such a stick, such a splinter. De

tal palo, tal astillota. ENRIQUE: Natural, muy natural, and look how he came out. ¡Bien macho! Like his father.

¿Verdad, m’ijo? HENRY: If you say so, jefito. ENRIQUE: (To DELLA.) Buenas noches. DELLA: Buenas noches. HENRY: ’Apá, this is Della Barrios. ENRIQUE: Mira, mira … So this is your new girlfriend, eh? Muy bonita. Quite a change from

the last one. DOLORES: Ay, señor. ENRIQUE: It’s true. What was her name? DELLA: Bertha? ENRIQUE: That’s the one. The one with the tattoo. DOLORES: Este hombre. We have company. ENRIQUE: That reminds me. I invited the compadres to the house mañana. DOLORES: ¿Que qué? ENRIQUE: I’m buying a big keg of cerveza to go along with the menudo. DOLORES: Oye, ¿cuál menudo? ENRIQUE: (Cutting him off.) ¡Qué caray, mujer! It isn’t every day a man’s son goes off to

fight for his country. I should know. Della, m’ija, when I was in the Mexican Revolution, I was not even as old as my son is.

DOLORES: N’ombre, don’t start with your revolution. We’ll be here all night. HENRY: Yeah, jefe, we’ve got to go. LUPE: (Comes forward. She has rolled down her skirt.) ’Apá, is this better?

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ENRIQUE: Bueno. And you leave it that way. HENRY: Órale, pues. It’s getting late. Where’s Rudy? LUPE: He’s still getting ready. Rudy! (RUDY REYNA, 19, comes downstage in an old suit

made into a tachuche.) RUDY: Let’s go everybody. I’m ready. ENRIQUE: Oye, oye, ¿y tú? What are you doing with my coat? RUDY: It’s my tachuche, ’apá. ENRIQUE: ¡Me lleva la chingada! DOLORES: Enrique … ¡por el amor de Dios! ENRIQUE: (To HENRY.) You see what you’re doing? First that one and now this one. (To

RUDY.) Hijo, don’t go-out like that. Por favor. You look like an idiot, pendejo. RUDY: Órale, Hank. Don’t I look all right? HENRY: Nel, ese, you look fine. Watcha. Once I leave for the service, you can have my

tachuche. Then you can really be in style. ¿Cómo la ves? RUDY: Chale. Thanks, carnal, but if I don’t join the service myself, I’m gonna get my own

tachuche. HENRY: You sure? I’m not going to need it where I’m going. ¿Tú sabes? RUDY: Are you serious? HENRY: Simón. RUDY: I’ll think about it. HENRY: Pos, no hay pedo, ese. ENRIQUE: ¿Cómo que pedo? Nel, ¿Simón? Since when did we stop speaking Spanish in this

house? Have you no respect? DOLORES: Muchachos, muchachos, go to your dance. (HENRY starts upstage.) HENRY: Buenas noches … (ENRIQUE holds out his hand. HENRY stops, looks, and then

returns to kiss his father’s hand. Then HE moves to kiss his MOTHER and RUDY in turn kisses ENRIQUE’s hand. ENRIQUE says “Buenas Noches” to each of his sons.)

HENRY: Órale, we’d better get going … (General “goodbyes” from everybody.) ENRIQUE: (As RUDY goes past him.) Henry! Don’t let your brother drink beer. RUDY: Ay, ’apá. I can take care of myself. DOLORES: I’ll believe that when I see it. (SHE kisses him on the nose.) LUPE: Ahí te watcho, ’amá. ENRIQUE: ¿Que qué? LUPE: I mean, I’ll see you later. (HENRY, DELLA, LUPE and RUDY turn upstage. Music

starts.) ENRIQUE: Mujer, why didn’t you let me talk? DOLORES: (Sighing.) Talk, señor, talk all you want. I’m listening. (ENRIQUE and

DOLORES exit up right. RUDY and LUPE exit up left. Lights change. We hear hot dance music. HENRY and DELLA dance at center stage. EL PACHUCO sings.)

PACHUCO:

CADA SÁBADO EN LA NOCHE YO ME VOY A BORLOTEAR CON MI LINDA PACHUCONA LAS CADERAS A MENEAR

ELLA LE HACE MUY DE AQUELLAS

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CUANDO EMPIEZA A GUARACHAR AL COMPÁS DE LOS TIMBALES YO ME SIENTO PETATEAR

(From upstage right, three pachucos now enter in a line, moving to the beat. They are JOEY CASTRO, 17; SMILEY TORRES, 23; and TOMMY ROBERTS, 19, Anglo. They all come downstage left in a diagonal.)

LOS CHUCOS SUAVES BAILAN RUMBA BAILAN LA RUMBA Y LE ZUMBAN BAILAN GUARACHA SABROSÓN EL BOTECITO Y EL DANZÓN!

(Chorus repeats, the music fades. HENRY laughs and happily embraces DELLA.)

5. THE PRESS

Lights change. EL PACHUCO escorts DELLA off right. THE PRESS appears at upstage center. PRESS: Los Angeles Times: August 8, 1942.

A NEWSBOY enters, lugging in two more bundles of newspapers, hawking them as he goes. PEOPLE of various walks of life enter at intervals and buy newspapers. They arrange themselves in the background reading. NEWSBOY: EXTRA! EXTRAAA! READ ALL ABOUT IT. SPECIAL SESSION OF L.A.

COUNTY GRAND JURY CONVENES. D.A. CHARGES CONSPIRACY IN SLEEPY LAGOON MURDER. EXTRAAA! (A CUB REPORTER emerges and goes to the PRESS, as LIEUTENANT EDWARDS enters.)

CUB REPORTER: Hey, here comes Edwards! (EDWARDS is beseiged by the PRESS, joined by ALICE BLOOMFIELD, 26, a woman reporter.)

PRESS: How about it, Lieutenant? What’s the real scoop on the Sleepy Lagoon? Sex, violence …

CUB REPORTER: Marijuana? NEWSBOY: Read all about it! Mexican Crime Wave Engulfs L.A. LT. EDWARDS: Slums breed crime, fellas. That’s your story. ALICE: Lieutenant. What exactly is the Sleepy Lagoon? CUB REPORTER: A great tune by Harry James, doll. Wanna dance? (ALICE ignores the

CUB.) LT. EDWARDS: It’s a reservoir. An old abandoned gravel pit, really. It’s on a ranch between

here and Long Beach. Serves as a swimming hole for the younger Mexican kids. ALICE: Because they’re not allowed to swim in the public plunges? PRESS: What paper are you with, lady? The Daily Worker? LT. EDWARDS: It also doubles as a sort of lovers’ lane at night—which is why the gangs

fight over it. Now they’ve finally murdered somebody. NEWSBOY: EXTRA! EXTRA! ZOOT-SUITED GOONS OF SLEEPY LAGOON! LT. EDWARDS: But we’re not going to mollycoddle these youngsters any more. And you can

quote me on that. PRESS: One final question, Lieutenant. What about the 38th Street Gang—weren’t you the

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first to arrest Henry Reyna? LT. EDWARDS: I was. And I noticed right away the kid had great leadership potential.

However … PRESS: Yes? LT. EDWARDS: You can’t change the spots on a leopard. PRESS: Thank you, sir. (PEOPLE with newspapers crush them and throw them down as they

exit. EDWARDS turns and exits. ALICE turns towards HENRY for a moment.) NEWSBOY: EXTRA, EXTRA. READ ALL ABOUT THE MEXICAN BABY GANGSTERS.

EXTRA, EXTRA.

THE PRESS and CUB REPORTER rush out happily to file their stories. The NEWSBOY leaves, hawking his papers. ALICE exits, with determination. Far upstage, ENRIQUE enters with a rolling garbage can. HE is a street sweeper. During the next scene HE silently sweeps up the newspapers, pausing at the last to read one of the news stories.

6. THE PEOPLE’S LAWYER

JOEY: ¡Chale, ese, chale! Qué pinche agüite. SMILEY: Mexican Baby Gangsters?! TOMMY: Zoot-suited goons! I knew it was coming. Every time the D.A. farts, they throw us

in the can. SMILEY: Pos, qué chingados, Hank. I can’t believe this. Are they really going to pin us with a

murder rap? I’ve got a wife and kid, man! JOEY: Well, there’s one good thing anyway. I bet you know that we’ve made the headlines.

Everybody knows we got the toughest gang in town. TOMMY: Listen to this, pip squeak. The biggest heist he ever pulled was a Tootsie Roll. JOEY: (Grabbing his privates.) Here’s your Tootsie Roll, ese. TOMMY: What, that? Get my microscope, Smiley. JOEY: Why don’t you come here and take a little bite, joto. TOMMY: Joto? Who you calling a joto, maricón? JOEY: You, white boy. Did I ever tell you, you got the finest little duck ass in the world. TOMMY: No, you didn’t tell me that, culero. (JOEY and TOMMY start sparring.) SMILEY: (Furious.) Why don’t you batos knock it off? HENRY: (Cool.) Cálmenla. SMILEY: ¡Pinches chavalos! (The batos stop.) JOEY: We’re just cabuliando, ese. TOMMY: Simón, ese. Horsing around. (He gives JOEY a final punch.) SMILEY: (With deep self-pity.) I’m getting too old for this pedo, Hank. All this farting around

con esos chavalillos. HENRY: Relax, carnal. No te agüites. SMILEY: You and me have been through a lot, Hank. Parties, chingazos, jail. When you said

let’s join the pachucada, I joined the pachucada. You and me started the 38th, bato. I followed you even after my kid was born, but what now, carnal? This pinche pedo is serious.

TOMMY: He’s right, Hank. They indicted the whole gang. JOEY: Yeah, you know the only one who ain’t here is Rudy. (HENRY turns sharply.) He was

at the Sleepy Lagoon too, ese. Throwing chingazos. HENRY: Yeah, but the cops don’t know that, do they? Unless one of us turned stoolie.

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JOEY: Hey, ese, don’t look at me. They beat the shit out of me, but that’s all they got. Shit. TOMMY: That’s all you got to give. (Laughs.) HENRY: Okay! Let’s keep it that way. I don’t want my carnalillo pulled into this. And if

anybody asks about him, you batos don’t know nothing. You get me? SMILEY: Simón. TOMMY: Crazy. JOEY: (Throwing his palms out.) Say, Jackson, I’m cool. You know that. HENRY: There’s not a single paddy we can trust. TOMMY: Hey, ese, what about me? HENRY: You know what I mean. TOMMY: No, I don’t know what you mean. I’m here with the rest of yous. JOEY: Yeah, but you’ll be the first one out, cabrón. TOMMY: Gimme a break, maníaco. ¡Yo soy pachuco! HENRY: Relax, ese. Nobody’s getting personal with you. Don’t I let you take out my carnala?

Well, don’t I? TOMMY: Simón. HENRY: That’s because you respect my family. The rest of them paddies are after our ass. PACHUCO: Talk about paddies, ese, you got company. (GEORGE SHEARER enters upstage

right and comes down. HE is a middle-aged lawyer, strong and athletic, but with the slightly frazzled look of a people’s lawyer.)

GEORGE: Hi, boys. HENRY: Trucha! GEORGE: My name is George Shearer. I’ve been retained by your parents to handle your

case. Can we sit and talk for a little bit? (Pause. The BOYS eye GEORGE suspiciously. HE slides a newspaper bundle a few feet upstage.)

PACHUCO: Better check him out, ese. He looks like a cop. HENRY: (To the GUYS, sotto voce.) Pónganse al alba. Este me huele a chota. GEORGE: What was that? Did you say I could sit down? Thank you. (HE pulls a bundle

upstage. HE sits.) Okay, let me get your names straight first. Who’s José Castro? JOEY: Right here, ese. What do you want to know? GEORGE: We’ll get to that. Ismael Torres? SMILEY: (Deadpan.) That’s me. But they call me Smiley. GEORGE: (A wide grin.) Smiley? I see. You must be Thomas Roberts. TOMMY: I ain’t Zoot Suit Yokum. GEORGE: Which means you must be Henry Reyna. HENRY: What if I am. Who are you? GEORGE: I already told you, my name’s George Shearer. Your parents asked me to come. HENRY: Oh yeah? Where did they get the money for a lawyer? GEORGE: I’m a People’s Lawyer, Henry. SMILEY: People’s Lawyer? JOEY: Simón, we’re people. TOMMY: At least they didn’t send no animal’s lawyer. HENRY: So what does that mean? You doing this for free or what? GEORGE: (Surprise turning to amusement.) I try not to work for free, if I can help it, but I

do sometimes. In this case, I expect to be paid for my services. HENRY: So who’s paying you? For what? And how much?

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GEORGE: Hey, hey, hold on there. I’m supposed to ask the questions. You’re the one going on trial, not me.

PACHUCO: Don’t let him throw you, ese. GEORGE: I sat in on part of the Grand Jury. It was quite a farce, wasn’t it? Murder one

indictment and all. SMILEY: You think we stand a chance? GEORGE: There’s always a chance, Smiley. That’s what trials are for. PACHUCO: He didn’t answer your question, ese. HENRY: You still didn’t answer my question, mister. Who’s paying you? And how much? GEORGE: (Getting slightly peeved.) Well, Henry, it’s really none of your damned business.

(The BOYS react.) But for whatever it’s worth, I’ll tell you a little story. The first murder case I ever tried, and won incidentally, was for a Filipino. I was paid exactly three dollars and fifty cents plus a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, and a note for a thousand dollars—never redeemed. Does that answer your question?

HENRY: How do we know you’re really a lawyer? GEORGE: How do I know you’re Henry Reyna? What do you really mean, son? Do you think

I’m a cop? HENRY: Maybe. GEORGE: What are you trying to hide from the cops? Murder? (The BOYS react.) All right!

Aside from your parents, I’ve been called into this case by a citizens committee that’s forming in your behalf, Henry. In spite of evidence to the contrary, there are some people out there who don’t want to see you get the shaft.

HENRY: ¿Sabes qué, mister? Don’t do us any favors. GEORGE: (Starting to leave.) All right, you want another lawyer? I’ll talk to the Public

Defender’s office. JOEY: (Grabbing his briefcase.) Hey, wait a minute, ese. Where are you going? TOMMY: De cincho se le va a volar la tapa. JOEY: Nel, este bolillo no sabe nada. GEORGE: (Exploding.) All right, kids, cut the crap! SMILEY: (Grabs his briefcase and crosses to HENRY.) Let’s give him a break, Hank.

(SMILEY hands the briefcase to GEORGE.) GEORGE: Thank you. (HE starts to exit. Stops.) You know, you’re making a big mistake. I

wonder if you know who your friends are? You boys are about to get a mass trial. You know what that is? Well, it’s a new one on me too. The Grand Jury has indicted you all on the same identical crime. Not just you four. The whole so-called 38th Street Gang. And you know who the main target is? You, Henry, because they’re saying you’re the ringleader. (Looks around at the GUYS.) And I suppose you are. But you’re leading your buddies here down a dead-end street. The D.A.’s coming after you, son, and he’s going to put you and your whole gang right into the gas chamber. (GEORGE turns to leave. SMILEY panics. JOEY and TOMMY react with him.)

SMILEY/JOEY/TOMMY: (All together.) Gas chamber! But we didn’t do nothing! We’re innocent!

HENRY: ¡Cálmenla! (The batos stop in their tracks.) Okay. Say we believe you’re a lawyer, what does that prove? The press has already tried and convicted us. Think you can change that?

GEORGE: Probably not. But then, public opinion comes and goes, Henry. What matters is our system of justice. I believe it works, however slowly the wheels may grind. It could

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be a long uphill fight, fellas, but we can make it. I know we can. I’ve promised your parents the best defense I’m capable of. The question is, Henry, will you trust me?

HENRY: Why should I? You’re a gringo. GEORGE: (Calmly, deliberately.) ¿Cómo sabes? TOMMY: (Shocked.) Hey, you speak Spanish? GEORGE: Más o menos. JOEY: You mean you understood us a while ago? GEORGE: More or less. JOEY: (Embarrassed.) ¡Híjole, qué gacho, ese! GEORGE: Don’t worry. I’m not much on your pachuco slang. The problem seems to be that I

look like an Anglo to you. What if I were to tell you that I had Spanish blood in my veins? That my roots go back to Spain, just like yours? What if I’m an Arab? What if I’m a Jew? What difference does it make? The question is, will you let me help you? (Pause. HENRY glances at the PACHUCO.)

PACHUCO: ¡Chale! HENRY: (Pause.) Okay! SMILEY: Me too! JOEY: Same here! TOMMY: ¡Órale! GEORGE: (Eagerly.) Okay! Let’s go to work. I want to know exactly what happened right

from the beginning. (GEORGE sits down and opens his briefcase.) HENRY: Well, I think the pedo really started at the dance last Saturday night … (El

PACHUCO snaps his fingers and we hear dance music. Lights change. GEORGE exits.)

7. THE SATURDAY NIGHT DANCE

SWABBIE and MANCHUKA come running onstage as the barrio dance begins to take shape. HENRY and the batos move upstage to join other PACHUCOS and PACHUCAS coming in. HENRY joins DELLA BARRIOS; JOEY teams up with BERTHA VILLARREAL, TOMMY picks up LUPE REYNA; and SMILEY escorts his wife ELENA TORRES. They represent the 38TH STREET neighborhood. Also entering the dance comes the DOWNEY GANG, looking mean. RUDY stands upstage, in the background, drinking a bottle of beer. EL PACHUCO sings. PACHUCO:

CUANDO SALGO YO A BAILAR YO ME PONGO MUY CATRÍN LAS HUISITAS TODAS GRITAN, DADDY VAMOS A BAILAR EL SWING!

(The COUPLES dance. A lively swing number. The music comes to a natural break and shifts into a slow number. BERTHA approaches HENRY and DELLA downstage on the dance floor.)

BERTHA: Ese, ¡surote! How about a dance for old time’s sake? No te hagas gacho. HENRY: (Slow dancing with DELLA.) Sorry, Bertha.

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BERTHA: Is this your new huisa? This little fly chick? DELLA: Listen, Bertha … HENRY: (Stops her.) Chale. She’s just jealous. Beat it, Bertha. BERTHA: Beat it yourself. Mira. You got no hold on me, cabrón. Not any more. I’m as free as

a bird. SMILEY: (Coming up.) Ese, Hank, that’s the Downey Gang in the corner. You think they’re

looking for trouble? HENRY: There’s only a couple of them. BERTHA: That’s all we need. SMILEY: Want me to alert the batos? HENRY: Nel, be cool. BERTHA: Be cool? Huy, yu, yui. Forget it, Smiley. Since he joined the Navy, this bato forgot

the difference between being cool and being cool-O. (She laughs and turns but HENRY grabs her angrily by the arm. BERTHA pulls free and walks away cool and tough. The music changes and the beat picks up. EL PACHUCO sings as the COUPLES dance.)

PACHUCO:

CUANDO VOY AL VACILÓN Y ME METO YO A UN SALÓN LAS CHAVALAS GRITAN, PAPI VENTE VAMOS A BAILAR DANSÓN!

(The dance turns Latin. The music comes to another natural break and holds. LUPE approaches HENRY on the dance floor.)

LUPE: Hank. Rudy’s at it again. He’s been drinking since we got here. HENRY: (Glancing over at RUDY.) He’s okay, sis, let the carnal enjoy himself. RUDY: (Staggering over.) ¡Ese, carnal! HENRY: What you say, brother? RUDY: I’m flying high, Jackson. Feeling good. LUPE: Rudy, if you go home drunk again, mi ’apá’s going to use you for a punching bag.

(RUDY kisses her on the cheek and moves on.) DELLA: How are you feeling? HENRY: Okay. DELLA: Still thinking about Bertha? HENRY: Chale, ¿qué traes? Listen, you want to go out to the Sleepy Lagoon? I’ve got

something to tell you. DELLA: What? HENRY: Later, later. LUPE: You better tell Rudy to stop drinking. HENRY: Relax, sis. If he gets too drunk, I’ll carry him home. (Music picks up again. EL

PACHUCO sings a third verse.) PACHUCO:

TOCAN MAMBO SABROSÓN SE ALBOROTA EL CORAZÓN

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Y CON UNA CHAVALONA VAMOS VAMOS A BAILAR EL MAMBO

(The COUPLES do the mambo. In the background, RUDY gets into an argument with RAFAS, the leader of the DOWNEY GANG. A fight breaks out as the music comes to a natural break. RAFAS pushes RUDY, half drunk, onto the floor.)

RAFAS: ¡Y a ti qué te importa, puto! RUDY: (HE falls.) ¡Cabrón! HENRY: (Reacting immediately.) Hey! (The whole dance crowd tenses up immediately,

splitting into separate camps. Batos from 38TH clearly outnumber the GUYS from DOWNEY.)

RAFAS: He started it, ese. El comenzó a chingar conmigo. RUDY: You chicken shit, ese! Tú me haces la puñeta, ¡pirujo! RAFAS: Come over here and say that, puto! HENRY: (Pulling RUDY behind him.) ¡Agilítala, carnal! (Faces RAFAS.) You’re a little out

of your territory, ¿que no Rafas? RAFAS: It’s a barrio dance, ese. We’re from the barrio. HENRY: You’re from Downey. RAFAS: Vale madre. ¡Downey Rifa! DOWNEY GANG: ¡SIMÓN! RAFAS: What are you going to do about it? HENRY: I’m going to kick your ass. (The TWO SIDES start to attack each other.)

¡Cálmenla! (ALL stop.) RAFAS: (Pulls out a switchblade.) You and how many batos? HENRY: Just me and you, cabrón. That’s my carnalillo you started pushing around, see? And

nobody chinga con mi familia without answering to me, ese! Hank Reyna! (HE pulls out another switchblade.)

BERTHA: ALL-RIGHT! HENRY: Let’s see if you can push me around like you did my little brother, ese. Come on …

COME ON! (They knife fight. HENRY moves in fast. Recoiling, RAFAS falls to the floor. HENRY’s blade is at his throat. EL PACHUCO snaps his fingers. Everyone freezes.)

PACHUCO: Qué mamada, Hank. That’s exactly what the play needs right now. Two more Mexicans killing each other. Watcha … Everybody’s looking at you.

HENRY: (Looks out at the audience.) Don’t give me that bullshit. Either I kill him or he kills me.

PACHUCO: That’s exactly what they paid to see. Think about it. (EL PACHUCO snaps again. Everybody unfreezes.)

HENRY: (Kicks RAFAS.) Get out of here. ¡Píntate! BERTHA: What? GÜERA: (RAFAS’girlfriend runs forward.) Rafas. ¡Vamonos! (SHE is stopped by other

DOWNEY batos.) RAFAS: Está suave. I’ll see you later. HENRY: Whenever you want, cabrón. (The DOWNEY GANG retreats, as the 38TH razzes

them all the way out. Insults are exchanged. BERTHA shouts “¡Chinga tu madre!” and they are gone. The 38TH whoops in victory.)

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SMILEY: Órale, you did it, ese! ¡Se escamaron todos! TOMMY: We sure chased those jotos out of here. BERTHA: I could have beat the shit out of those two rucas. JOEY That pinche Rafas is yellow without his gang, ese. LUPE: So why didn’t you jump out there? JOEY Chale, Rudy ain’t my baby brother. RUDY: (Drunk.) Who you calling a baby, pendejo? I’ll show you who’s a baby! JOEY: Be cool, ese. TOMMY: Man, you’re lucky your brother was here. BERTHA: Why? He didn’t do nothing. The old Hank would have slit Rafas’ belly like a fat

pig. HENRY: Shut your mouth, Bertha! RUDY: ¿Por qué, carnal? You backed down, ese. I could have taken that sucker on by myself. HENRY: That’s enough, Rudy. You’re drunk. DELLA: Hank, what if Rafas comes back with all his gang? HENRY: (Reclaiming his leadership.) We’ll kill the sons of bitches. JOEY: ¡Órale! ¡La 38th rifa! (Music. Everybody gets back with furious energy. EL

PACHUCO sings.) PACHUCO:

DE LOS BAILES QUE MENTÉ Y EL BOLERO Y EL BEGUÍN DE TODOS LOS BAILES JUNTOS ME GUSTA BAILAR EL SWING! HEY! (The dance ends with a group exclamation: HEY!)

8. EL DÍA DE LA RAZA

The PRESS enters upstage level, pushing a small hand truck piled high with newspaper bundles. The batos and rucas on the dance floor freeze in their final dance positions. EL PACHUCO is the only one who relaxes and moves. PRESS: October 12, 1942: Columbus Day. Four Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary of the

Discovery of America. Headlines!

In their places, the COUPLES now stand straight and recite a headline before exiting. As they do so, the PRESS moves the bundles of newspapers on the floor to outline the four corners of a jail cell. SMILEY/ELENA: President Roosevelt Salutes Good Neighbors In Latin America. (SMILEY

and ELENA exit.) TOMMY/LUPE: British Begin Drive to Oust Rommel From North Africa. (TOMMY and

LUPE exit.) RUDY/CHOLO: Japs In Death Grip On Pacific Isles. (RUDY and CHOLO exit. PRESS

tosses another bundle.) ZOOTER/LITTLE BLUE: Web Of Zoot Crime Spreads. (ZOOTER and LITTLE BLUE exit.) MANCHUKA/SWABBIE: U.S. Marines Land Bridgehead On Guadalcanal. (MANCHUKA

and SWABBIE exit.) JOEY/BERTHA: First Mexican Braceros Arrive In U.S.A. (JOEY and BERTHA exit.)

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DELLA: Sleepy Lagoon Murder Trial Opens Tomorrow. (DELLA and the PRESS exit. As they exit, GEORGE and ALICE enter upstage left. HENRY is center, in a “cell” outlined by four newspaper bundles left by the PRESS.)

GEORGE: Henry? How you doing, son? Listen, I’ve brought somebody with me that wants very much to meet you. I thought you wouldn’t mind. (ALICE crosses to HENRY.)

ALICE: Hello! My name is Alice Bloomfield and I’m a reporter from the Daily People’s World.

GEORGE: And … And, I might add, a red hot member of the ad hoc committee that’s fighting for you guys.

ALICE: Oh, George! I’d hardly call it fighting, for Pete’s sake. This struggle has just barely begun. But we’re sure going to win it, aren’t we, Henry?

HENRY: I doubt it. GEORGE: Oh come on, Henry. How about it, son? You all set for tomorrow? Anything you

need, anything I can get for you? HENRY: Yeah. What about the clean clothes you promised me? I can’t go to court looking like

this. GEORGE: You mean they didn’t give them to you? HENRY: What? GEORGE: Your mother dropped them off two days ago. Clean pants, shirt, socks, underwear,

the works. I cleared it with the Sheriff last week. HENRY: They haven’t given me nothing. GEORGE: I’m beginning to smell something around here. HENRY: Look, George, I don’t like being like this. I ain’t dirty. Go do something, man! GEORGE: Calm down. Take it easy, son. I’ll check on it right now. Oh! Uh, Alice? ALICE: I’ll be okay, George. GEORGE: I’ll be right back. (HE exits.) ALICE: (Pulling out a pad and pencil.) Now that I have you all to myself, mind if I ask you a

couple of questions? HENRY: I got nothing to say. ALICE: How do you know? I haven’t asked you anything yet. Relax. I’m from the progressive

press. Okay? (HENRY stares at her, not knowing quite how to react. ALICE sits on a bundle and crosses her goodlooking legs. HENRY concentrates on that.) Now. The regular press is saying the Pachuco Crime Wave is fascist inspired—any thoughts about that?

HENRY: (Bluntly.) No. ALICE: What about the American Japanese? Is it true they are directing the subversive

activities of the pachucos from inside the relocation camps? (HENRY turns to the PACHUCO with a questioning look.)

PACHUCO: This one’s all yours, ese. HENRY: Look, lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. ALICE: I’m talking about you, Henry Reyna. And what the regular press has been saying. Are

you aware you’re in here just because some bigshot up in San Simeon wants to sell more papers? It’s true.

HENRY: So? ALICE: So, he’s the man who started this Mexican Crime Wave stuff. Then the police got into

the act. Get the picture? Somebody is using you as a patsy. HENRY: (His machismo insulted.) Who you calling a patsy?

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ALICE: I’m sorry, but it’s true. HENRY: (Backing her up.) What makes you so goddamned smart? ALICE: (Starting to get scared and trying not to show it.) I’m a reporter. It’s my business to

know. PACHUCO: Puro pedo. She’s just a dumb broad only good for you know what. HENRY: Look, Miss Bloomfield, just leave me alone, all right? (HENRY moves away.

ALICE takes a deep breath.) ALICE: Look, let’s back up and start all over, okay? Hello. My name is Alice Bloomfield,

and I’m not a reporter. I’m just somebody that wants very much to be your friend. (Pause. With sincere feeling.) Can you believe that?

HENRY: Why should I? ALICE: Because I’m with you. HENRY: Oh, yeah? Then how come you ain’t in jail with me? ALICE: (Holding her head up.) We are all in jail, Henry. Some of us just don’t know it. PACHUCO: Mmm, pues. No comment. (Pause. HENRY stares at her, trying to figure her

out. ALICE tries a softer approach.) ALICE: Believe it or not, I was born in Los Angeles just like you. But for some strange

reason I grew up here, not knowing very much about Mexicans at all. I’m just trying to learn.

HENRY: (Intrigued, but cynical.) What? ALICE: Little details. Like that tattooed cross on your hand. Is that the sign of the pachuco?

(HENRY covers his right hand with and automatic reflex, then HE realizes what he has done.)

HENRY: (Smiles to himself, embarrassed.) Órale. ALICE: Did I embarrass you? I’m sorry. Your mother happened to mention it. HENRY: (Surprised.) My mother? You talked to my jefita? ALICE: (With enthusiasm.) Yes! And your father and Lupe and Rudy. The whole family gave

me a helluva interview. But your mother was sensational. I especially liked her story about the midnight raid. How the police rushed into your house with drawn guns, looking for you on some trumped up charge, and how your father told them you were already in jail … God, I would have paid to have seen the cops’ faces.

HENRY: (Hiding his sentiment.) Don’t believe anything my jefa tells you. (Then quickly.) There’s a lot she doesn’t know. I’m no angel.

ALICE: I’ll just bet you’re not. But you have been taken in for suspicion a dozen times, kept in jail for a few days, then released for lack of evidence. And it’s all stayed on your juvenile record.

HENRY: Yeah, well I ain’t no punk, see. ALICE: I know. You’re an excellent mechanic. And you fix all the guys’ cars. Well, at least

you’re not one of the lumpen proletariat. HENRY: The lumpen what? ALICE: Skip it. Let’s just say you’re a classic social victim. HENRY: Bullshit. ALICE: (Pause. A serious question.) Are you saying you’re guilty? HENRY: Of what? ALICE: The Sleepy Lagoon Murder. HENRY: What if I am? ALICE: Are you?

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HENRY: (Pause, a serious answer.) Chale. I’ve pulled a lot of shit in my time, but I didn’t do that. (GEORGE re-enters flushed and angry, trying to conceal his frustration.)

GEORGE: Henry, I’m sorry, but dammit, something’s coming off here, and the clothes have been withheld. I’ll have to bring it up in court.

HENRY: In court? GEORGE: They’ve left me no choice. ALICE: What’s going on? HENRY: It’s a set up, George. Another lousy set up! GEORGE: It’s just the beginning, son. Nobody said this was going to be a fair fight. Well, if

they’re going to fight dirty, so am I. Legally, but dirty. Trust me. ALICE: (Passionately.) Henry, no matter what happens in the trial, I want you to know I

believe you’re innocent. Remember that when you look out, and it looks like some sort of lynch mob. Some of us … a lot of us … are right there with you.

GEORGE: Okay, Alice, let’s scram. I’ve got a million things to do. Henry, see you tomorrow under the big top, son. Good luck, son.

ALICE: Thumbs up, Henry, we’re going to beat this rap! (ALICE and GEORGE exit. EL PACHUCO watches them go, then turns to HENRY.)

PACHUCO: “Thumbs up, Henry, we’re going to beat this rap.” You really think you’re going to beat this one, ese?

HENRY: I don’t want to think about it. PACHUCO: You’ve got to think about it, Hank. Everybody’s playing you for a sucker. Wake

up, carnal! HENRY: Look, bato, what the hell do you expect me to do? PACHUCO: Hang tough. (Grabs his scrotum.) Stop going soft. HENRY: Who’s going soft? PACHUCO: (Incisively.) You’re hoping for something that isn’t going to happen, ese. These

paddies are leading you by the nose. Do you really believe you stand a chance? HENRY: (Stubborn all the more.) Yeah. I think I got a chance. PACHUCO: Just because that white broad says so? HENRY: Nel, ese, just because Hank Reyna says so. PACHUCO: The classic social victim, eh? HENRY: (Furious but keeping his cool.) Mira, ese. Hank Reyna’s no loser. I’m coming out of

this on top. ¿Me entiendes, Mendez? (HE walks away with a pachuco gait.) PACHUCO: (Forcefully.) Don’t try to out-pachuco ME, ese! We’ll see who comes out on top.

(HE picks up a bundle of newspapers and throws it upstage center. It lands with a thud.) Let’s go to court!

9. OPENING OF THE TRIAL

Music. The JUDGE’s bench, made up of more newpaper bundles piled squarely on a four-wheeled hand truck is pushed in by the batos. The PRESS rides it in, holding the State and Federal Flags. A BAILIFF puts in place a hand cart: the JUDGE’s throne. From the sides, spectators enter, including HENRY’s family and friends: ALICE, DELLA, BERTHA, ELENA.

PRESS: The largest mass trial in the history of Los Angeles. County opens this morning in the Superior Court at ten A.M. The infamous Sleepy Lagoon Murder case involves sixty- six charges against twenty-two defendants with seven lawyers pleading for the

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defense, two for the prosecution. The District Attorney estimates that over a hundred witnesses will be called and has sworn—I quote—“to put an end to Mexican baby gangsterism.” End quote.

BAILIFF: (Bangs a gavel on the bench.) The Superior Court of the State of California. In and For the County of Los Angeles. Department forty-three. The honorable F. W. Charles, presiding. All rise! (JUDGE CHARLES enters. All rise. EL PACHUCO squats. The JUDGE is played by the same actor that portrays EDWARDS.)

JUDGE: Please be seated. (All sit. PACHUCO stands.) Call this case, Bailiff. BAILIFF: (Reading from a sheet.) The people of the State of California Versus Henry Reyna,

Ismael Torres, Thomas Roberts, Jose Castro and eighteen other … (Slight hesitation.) … pa-coo-cos.

JUDGE: Is Counsel for the Defense present? GEORGE: (Rises.) Yes, Your Honor. JUDGE: Please proceed. (Signals the PRESS.) PRESS: Your Honor … GEORGE: (Moving in immediately.) If the Court please, it was reported to me on Friday that

the District Attorney has absolutely forbidden the Sheriff’s Office to permit these boys to have clean clothes or haircuts. Now, it’s been three months since the boys were arrested …

PRESS: (Jumping in.) Your Honor, there is testimony we expect to develop that the 38th Street Gang are characterized by their style of haircuts …

GEORGE: Three months, Your Honor. PRESS: … the thick heavy heads of hair, the ducktail comb, the pachuco pants … GEORGE: Your Honor, I can only infer that the Prosecution … is trying to make these boys

look disreputable, like mobsters. PRESS: Their appearance is distinctive, Your Honor. Essential to the case. GEORGE: You are trying to exploit the fact that these boys look foreign in appearance! Yet

clothes like these are being worn by kids all over America. PRESS: Your Honor … JUDGE: (Bangs the gavel.) I don’t believe we will have any difficulty if their clothing

becomes dirty. GEORGE: What about the haircuts, Your Honor? JUDGE: (Ruling.) The zoot haircuts will be retained throughout the trial for purposes of

identification of defendants by witnesses. PACHUCO: You hear that one, ese? Listen to it again. (Snaps. JUDGE repeats

automatically.) JUDGE: The zoot haircuts will be retained throughout the trial for purposes of identification