Musical family bands together in Tijuana
http://www.signonsandiego.com/news/features/20050507-9999-1c...
by Luis Humberto Crosthwaite
May 7, 2005
Every Saturday and Sunday, the Contreras family leaves home in Rosarito, dressed as cowboys, and heads for downtown Tijuana.
They bring along musical instruments, an amplifier and a couple of microphones. Ever since they've had the chance to use the forum at the Plaza Santa
Cecilia, not a weekend goes by that they don't play.
Jos? Contreras and his children diligently set up the amplifier and the microphones. Rafael, 17, the oldest, tunes his guitar and warms up with a rock
ballad. Rigoberto, 14, straps on his accordion. Isabel, 12, sits behind a beat-up drum set.
People begin to gather around. Most are American tourists, eager to take pictures of a little Tijuana folklore.
The star of the Potrillos del Norte is seated, waiting for her moment. As soon as the music starts, she stands up and takes her place behind the
microphone. She is 6 years old, and her name is Dulce Contreras.
The little girl soon takes possession of the stage. She sings corridos and old standards with equal aplomb; there is always at least one old song
about the pain of love that the youngster sings as if she really knew what it felt like: "I pray to God your body dries up and is suddenly carried
away by the wind . . . "
When he was young, Jos? Contreras suffered an accident at work that left him bedridden for several weeks. To pass the time, his father bought him an
old guitar. He practiced night and day. When he was able to walk again, he sang aboard the buses in Zit?cuaro, in the Mexican state of Michoac?n, for
tips.
Years later, now married and with children, the opportunity to work in Atlanta arose, and he took advantage of it. He made the long trek, like so many
others, in search of his daily bread. Thanks to his brother, he got a job at a U.S. poultry plant. But his absence took its toll on his family.
"They wrote me to tell me my kids were running wild,", Contreras says. "I had to return to them."
So he went back to Mexico. He settled in Tijuana and found a job in construction.
Soon, he started looking for a way to bring his family from Michoac?n. His wife, Socorro, found work at a factory.
Some things are inherited. I ask Contreras how he fostered the love of music in his children. He doesn't know quite how to explain it. "They got it on
their own," he tells me. But he knows he had something to do with it. Children can't see their father play guitar and sing and not want to do it
themselves. But it was little Dulce who surprised him the most.
"By the time she was 2 years old, she already knew entire songs," he says with a combination of pride and surprise.
Dulce finishes a set of songs, takes off her hat and walks among the audience, asking for tips. "Whatever you want to give," she says. Meanwhile, her
siblings keep playing.
Jos? keeps a very close eye on his daughter as she walks among the audience. That part of the city is not a good one for children. Not far, one can
see seedy cantinas and prostitutes walking the streets. The father says that, on two occasions, someone has tried to take her away. I don't ask him
why he doesn't let one of her older brothers ask for tips; it's obvious that Dulce is capable of getting a lot more money, simply by smiling.
"I don't want them to suffer like I did when I was a kid," he says, suddenly pouring his heart out to me. "I walked to school without shoes. If I ate
one day I wouldn't eat the next. That's what my life was like in Michoac?n."
Here, at least, they have a dream: Maybe someone will see them and ask them to record a song. "I hope that happens."
Meanwhile, Dulce returns with a few dollars in her hat and ready to belt out the next song.
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