by José Antonio Burciaga
Today’s popular “rumpled look” — or even wash and wear clothes — didn’t exist in the late ’40s, so mom would iron the shirts and pants. Some she would starch. Creases on our trousers, which we call tramados or tramos, were highly praised. We paraded about with our hands in our pockets, refusing to sit down lest our knees kill the crease. In school, we had to sit; we did so carefully, stretching our legs to conserve it.
Among Pachucos — Chicano zoot suiters — creases were even more demanded by peers. Their rigid standing pose not only carried a message of proud defiance; it also conserved the crease line. Many young men never sat down; they would lean back and rock back and forth to ease their tired feet and spine.
Pachucos’ clothes were sacred uniforms. Physical confrontations were minimal to avoid messing up their hair, the crease lines and the shoe-shines. There was nothing like a mark on black shoes to ruin someone’s evening, and mussing any clothing items could be reason enough for a fight. “You stepped on my shoes, ese!”
With this country’s involvement in a chain of wars since the ’40s, the military has had a profound effect on the styles and psyche of many young Latinos who also must fight for survival in their neighborhood battlefields.
Back when the military service was “come join us to get drafted” Chicanos had an easy time keeping their military creases. After World War II, many Chicanos who grew up in the service came home with nothing to wear but their khaki pants, white T-shirts and highly polished black shoes. It became a uniform in south El Paso and many towns around the Southwest.
The military neatness was preserved with the hair grown longer, combed back and set with a petroleum-based jelly that smelled of perfume and came in a tin with a picture of a colorful parrot. “La Parrot” was regulation hair dressing for young “Pachukes.”
My brother and I used a Mexican liquid-oil brilliantine that was called — and smelled of — roses. A family friend who sold beauty salon products gave us a gallon of it. Though I used it sparingly, Efraín would drench his head to the point that it sometimes ran down his face and neck.
All our friends used something similar. These were the years when the rest of the country used Wildroot Cream Oil and Vitalis. A head of oily hair pressed against a school blackboard left a row of sweet, oily smudges.
At the other extreme of the ody, shoes were just as important.
According to the style, we called them either tablitas (little wooden slabs), chalupas (Mexican canoes) or calcos, an ancient Spanish- German word for shoes. Metal taps were in – again, some pachucos went all the way with horseshoe taps on the heels and a small one on the tip of each shoe. They were deadly in fights but also dangerous to walk on. Taps made us macho but they also scarred the floors.
Not all Pachucos wore taps. Some preferred the safety, silence and surprise element of tapless shoes. Black ones were favored, along with white socks and, khaki pants. The most popular belts were either gold or silver in color, a quarter of an inch thin. The thinner the belt, the more in you were.
Then there were the shirts, called lisas (plain and unadorned). The best were silk, but more than likely they were loose, thin cotton in light, solid colors. Blue was popular Lisas were the most important piece of dress. They stood out. The best were not from Taiwan, but from California.
It was normal to check out a guy’s shirt, feel the material and recognize the California quality. This lost its meaning when checking a shirt led reaching into the guy’s shirt pocket to steal a smoke.
Not too many kids bought cigarettes. More than likely, it was “Pas alas tres”. (give me three puffs). These code words carried much authority. The three puffs were always granted.
Smoking was cool and elegant. Cigarettes were frajos (not in the dictionary) and matches were metchas or chicanoization of matches or trolas (not in the dictionary). The most popular frajos were filterless Pall Malls.
The other adornment was a gold religious medal, usually given by the one’s own jefita (mother). We weren’t Pachucos, but we approximated that look to some degree, the way we wore our garras (rags).
It was our armor, how we dress for our rite of passage into manhood in a society that has become more accepting of the doctrine that “might makes right”. Those days of youthful bravado seem a long time distant, but really, they were just a few wars ago.
In 1991, the year of the Gulf, neither the styles nor the psyche of our barrio warriors have changed very much.
(This “Cultural Classic” by the late author/muralist José Antonio Burciaga was written for Hispanic Link News Service in 1991.) ©2009
