In Barrio Logan, Hispanic Heritage Month is impossible to miss, and it arrives long before the date appears on the calendar.
You see it in the vendors selling Mexican flags, tricolor horns and embroidered sombreros. You smell it in the air, where the scent of steaming tamales mingles with the smoke from tacos al pastor and the cinnamon-sugar sweetness of freshly made churros.
On any given afternoon, cars cruise slowly along the streets surrounding Chicano Park with their windows down and flags fluttering from doors or antennas. Restaurants advertise Independence Day celebrations, and familiar songs float through the neighborhood.
A ranchera song drifts from a food stand, and several people begin humming along almost instinctively. One man pauses at a table of handmade crafts. A couple circles the block looking for parking. Two children dart between vendor booths carrying small plastic flags. A sudden gust of wind knocks one to the ground, and the younger child retraces several steps to pick it up before taking off again.
As evening approaches, outside a neighborhood bakery, a woman carefully arranges paper flags across a folding table. Her son, who speaks English effortlessly but struggles with Spanish, asks her a question. She answers in Spanish. He replies in English. The conversation continues that way for several minutes, neither seeming to notice the constant switching between languages.
A few weeks ago, I walked these same streets with Raul, a Mexican immigrant from Zacatecas who has spent more than 20 years living in California. Standing in front of a business decorated with an enormous Mexican flag, he stopped and looked for a moment before speaking.
“What’s funny is that you feel more Mexican here, when you’re far away from Mexico.”
He pointed toward a family buying elotes from a street vendor on the corner.
“Back home, we don’t even think about it. Here, we do. Here, you remember every day who you are and where you come from.”
A few days later, I met a Salvadoran immigrant named Carlos during a community celebration in San Diego. He arrived in California nearly three decades ago. A blue-and-white Salvadoran flag was secured to one of his truck windows. A smaller one hung beside a cooler from which he handed out drinks to relatives and friends.
He spoke proudly about Santa Ana, the city where he grew up. He remembered his mother’s pupusas and his neighborhood’s annual patron saint festivals as vividly as if he had left only yesterday.
When his two teenage children joined us, he smiled and offered a warning.
“They understand Spanish, but they barely speak it to me anymore.”
The teenagers answered in English when their father asked them a question. One grabbed a cheese pupusa, took a bite and left the rest unfinished.
“They prefer pizza,” Carlos said with a laugh.
He didn’t sound frustrated. Instead, he sounded like someone familiar with a reality shared by many immigrant families.
“I’m Salvadoran at heart. They’re not so much. They were born here.”
During a recent walk through Barrio Logan, a woman searched for a specific T-shirt size for a Grito celebration. A vendor shuffled through cardboard boxes packed with merchandise while she explained over the phone to a sister in Phoenix which colors she should buy for the entire family.
A few feet away, a man browsed through old photographs displayed on a crafts table. He pointed to a black-and-white image and said it reminded him of his grandfather, though he admitted he barely knew him as a child. The exchange lasted less than a minute before both moved on.
Inside a neighborhood market, José stocked shelves while Vicente Fernández’s “Mujeres Divinas” played softly from a speaker behind the counter. No one seemed to be paying much attention, yet several customers quietly sang along while browsing T-shirts, decorations and keepsakes for the upcoming celebrations.
This year, however, some conversations have drifted toward other concerns.
One mother said she checks her phone constantly whenever her husband leaves for work.
A business owner mentioned that several customers had asked whether ICE agents might be present during parades and community festivities.
Still, life goes on.
Shopping continues. Vendor booths become more crowded as the afternoon wears on. The music never stops.
As the sun begins to sink behind the buildings, a vendor straightens a final row of flags on a plastic table. Down the block, a family waits for an order of tacos while a child runs along the sidewalk carrying a small Mexican flag that nearly drags on the pavement.
Another ranchera starts playing from a nearby speaker.
Hardly anyone seems to notice.
Yet several people continue humming the tune as they make their way down Logan Avenue.
