Culture & Community | Dance | Immigration | Music | Arts & Culture | Youth Arts Journalism Initiative | Tlaxcala
Alma Mendoza Photos and Video.
As I walk down Hamilton Street onto Vandome Club’s parking lot, I can feel my body vibrate to the music of the blasting speakers. My eyes fill with multi-color feathers in the air. As I step closer, I can see a knot of bodies, everyone resting their attention on the Charros. Everywhere there are people with Horchata, pan con helado, chicharrines in hand. The floor becomes a blur of color, dancing, and screams.
I can’t help but feel remorse for each Charro getting whipped by the cuarta. What seems to be a harsh dance is a small story of our history from Tlaxcala, Mexico.
This is Carnaval, a tradition carried from Tlaxcala and Puebla, Mexico to New Haven by immigrants who now call Connecticut home. With brightly costumed Huehues, traditional dances, and hours of bright celebration, it has become an act of cultural preservation and resistance hundreds of miles from home.
Despite hot sun, heavyweight costumes, masks, and countless pandemic-era wraparounds, organizers from the State of Tlaxcala have worked to keep the tradition alive in New Haven. Last summer, organizers from across Tlaxcala—home to Tetlanohcan, one of New Haven’s eight sister cities—gathered in downtown New Haven to make carnaval happen, even in the shadow of Covid-19.
Every carnaval begins with a head committee that comes from each town. Pre-pandemic, these comprised four to seven voluntary or nominated committee members that organized and represented their own town. Once they were put in place, they were in charge of passing the word on to other towns as a way to expand the dancing, find funding for food and a children’s area, and hire small vendors to sell authentic Mexican bites.
Each committee chose whether to set their performance to music. They were (and are still) mainly known through their towns' saint’s name.
Then Covid-19 hit, putting everything temporarily on pause. Last summer, carnaval returned with the same spirit, and a scaled back form.
Thant's thanks largely to organizer Gorge Cortez. Now a resident of Connecticut, Cortez was born and raised in a town called San Cosme, Mazatecochco, Tlaxcala. Like many others, he wanted to continue dancing in 2021 as a way to tap into the culture he grew up with. After submitting plans, passing ideas back and forth, and getting permissions, he and other committee members finally got the team to dance. Because of Covid-19 restrictions, the group was limited to four or five people.
Not everyone else had that same enthusiasm, Cortez said. Many other towns decided not to commit or simply not do an annual dance.
For those that did, the wait ended in 2021, when the fist carnaval took place indoors in May. It returned in June, bringing the lot at 500 Ella T. Grasso Blvd. to life. Then it traveled to Vandome, where it takes places several weekends throughout the summer months.
A Tradition’s Roots
To understand the importance of the Huehues dancing in New Haven, a reader first has to understand where the tradition comes from. Across Mexico, there are thousands of dance traditions–but this dance only comes from two states of Mexico, Tlaxcala and Puebla. While the two are different states, they are right next to each other, meaning that they share a number of customs. As immigrants have left, the culture has reached cities including New Haven, New York, Philadelphia, and parts of New Jersey.
In New Haven, it makes the state homier; residents have been practicing it every summer since approximately 2007. Though a lot of people don’t know about this tradition, it means a lot to those who can’t visit their home in Mexico.
Los Huehues comes from the indigenous language Nahuatl, which means viejo or “old man” or “wise man” originally called Huehuetl. The Dance of the Huehues is not just an ordinary dance: it folds in history, religion, and tongue-in-cheek commentary on the Spanish conquerors from the 16th century. The Spanish would enslave, beat, and kill Aztecs. When the Spanish would practice their lavish parties, Natives wouldn’t be allowed to do their own dances. This gave birth to the dance, as a form of mimic and mockery.
Every outfit consists of the same items and decorations, imbued with meaning and symbolism. Each Charro has to have its mask, meant to resemble European face features. The masks might have blue or green eyes, beards, white skin, long eyelashes, and rosy cheeks. These are carved and colored by hand in wood, plaster, or cedar, and sometimes even measured for each individual face shape. The only way Charros are able to see is through an opening where the eyebrows of the mask are.
Then comes the vest and “capa” or “cape,” usually sewn and embroidered by hand. It hangs on the dancer’s shoulders and back, usually with the centerpiece of the Mexican flag. Atop the dancer’s head rests what I call the eye-catcher in the air, the plumeron or penacho. The hat isn’t a regular hat, because it’s filled with shorter to longer feathers.
The feathers hang and move into the motion of the dancer. The point of the feathers is to resemble the light feather the Spanish would wear on their own, and the Charros exaggerate it. From the back of the penacho, a mirror hangs from the back then comes the boots, chaparreras or chaps for legs that protect, matching belt, and extra leg covering for the “culebra” dance.
The more details and ornaments on a costume, the more expensive it is. Cortez says he spends about $3,000 each year, since he treats himself to wear something different. But it all depends on the color, borders, and design you want. He pays $1,500 just for the cape alone, plus the shipping onorders that come from Mexico.
The weight of the outfit can be up to 10 pounds.
Cortez, one of many participants, has been dancing since he was 10 years old. He started in Mexico. He said that when he first arrived he felt like it had moved in with him, “more than anything it was excitement, you carry it with you since your a kid.”
For him, the dance of the culebra is one of the most exciting and nerve racking dances of all. Through the loudspeakers, the DJ announces the dance will start and to clear the way especially for kids running around.
The slow rhythm music begins and the Charro lifts his cape with one arm, still dancing to the beat. A snap echos through the parking lot. This sound is whipping the Spanish would do.
The dance is a tradition passed down by generations and involves everyone in the family, not just men.
Women who participate usually dance in groups with men and women, which is called a “quadrilla” or “camada.” Normally, that is a big group filled with about 75 people all dressed in the same vibrant colors and performing the same steps. Men dress up too—they still have their mask and boots—but they forego a cape and exaggerated feathers on top.
Usually, these large groups of dancers practice about five months before they show up in summer. While Covid-19 has temporarily put those groups on hold, Cortez and others are hopeful that they will be able to return in 2022.
Another key role is the music versus live music. When there’s live music, more people tend to come because it’s real and gives a more alive environment. The blasting trumpets trigger people to get excited and build the courage to dance. However, having live music equals is money and it was something not always incorporated, Cortez said.
Last summer, people started arriving at Vandome at noon and stayed through 8 p.m. Organizers arrived before to set up equipment and food stands as well. It’s not only dancing but there are many food stands where you can buy authentic snacks like, Mexican bread, tacos, quesadillas, fruta picada, elotes, and esquites.This is a tradition passed from generations, children as young as five years old, begin dancing with their older parent.
“It’s an indescribable feeling,” Cortez said.
Alma Mendoza is an alum of the Youth Arts Journalism Initiative (YAJI). She is currently a senior at Metropolitan Business Academy.