Issuu

Volume 43 • Fall 2026

O MA

HAIR

INE

DRAG

by the BOOKS

on LOC by Diego Hernandez

by Joaquin Madrid

PARTE

hombre, PARTE luchador

The University of Texas at El Paso

por Diego Cruz

Pura Excelencia! by Joaquin Madrid

UTEP

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Volume 43 • Fall 2026

06 DRAG BY THE BOOKS The tale of how this atypical story time could be on its final countdown.

ON THE COVER "Pura Excelencia!" by Joaquin Madrid. Photographed by Iziah Moreno, featuring Aaralyn González of Mariachi Excelencia.

Above photo by Iziah Moreno

Inside

Spring 2026 Staff

MINERO

HAIR ON LOC Hair can be a form of selfexpression, but for Black El Pasoans, the climate and water can make that harder.

FLAWLESS PERIPHERY She’s unafraid to claim her job as a dancer. In fact, it’s something she’d scream at the top of her lungs.

PARTE HOMBRE, PARTE LUCHADOR Lanzando de la cuerda del ring es una vida, y caminando las calles desenmascarado es otra.

PURA EXCELENCIA! A closer look at a promising group of musicians — some of whom barely graduated high school.

From left to right, top to bottom Editor-in-Chief SOFIA SIERRA Art Director/Copy Editor/ GAEL ARAIZA Online Editor Photo Editor IZIAH MORENO Writer DIEGO HERNANDEZ Writer JOAQUIN MADRID Writer BRISA SILVA Photographer SADIE BRIONES Photographer DIEGO CRUZ

@utepminero Minero Magazine @UTEPMinero

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Director VERONICA GONZALEZ Assistant Director/ CRYSTAL HOWARD Editorial Advisor Administrative Associate AMY BOCANEGRA

ADVERTISING A special thank you to our advertisers for supporting Minero Magazine. If you are interested in promoting your business while supporting student journalism, we invite you to advertise with us. For advertising opportunities, please contact Veronica Gonzalez at: vegonzalez@utep.edu Minero Magazine is published by UTEP students through the department of Student Media and Publications. It is published once every fall and spring semester. The magazine is not responsible for any claims made by our advertisers. Additional policy information may be obtained by calling Student Media and Publications at (915) 747 - 5161. Views expressed in this publication are not necessarily those of the University.

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Have you seen this symbol on campus storm drains? It means that drain connects to the river. Do NOT throw anything in it!

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FROM the EDITOR

erformance isn’t strictly limited to a high school drama club’s rendition of Shakespeare’s King Lear. Or even a judgment of a softball player’s hits, bases stolen and strikeouts in a game. In Volume 43 of Minero Magazine, the definition of performance is stretched and squeezed, ripping the bounds of what your typical idea of “performance” might be. Philosophers trumpet that “performance” can be applicable to not only large-scale stage acts but to even the most intimate interactions we have with other human beings. Mid-1960s philosopher Michel Foucault describes an iteration of performance in his book “Discipline and Punish.” His studies circled around our disciplines as humans – what we pour our body and souls into. Our disciplines, Foucault argues, are observed and judged and put to the test in the “examination.” To quote Foucault, “The examination combines the techniques of an observing hierarchy and those of a normalizing judgment. It is a normalizing gaze, a surveillance that makes it possible to qualify, to classify, and to punish. It establishes over individuals a visibility through which one differentiates them and judges them.” That is, everyone in society is judged by their performances – or practice of their disciplines – based on what is considered the norm. Philosopher Judith Butler further explores performance in her essay, “Performative Acts and Gender Constitution.” Butler argues gender is inherently a performance based not on biology but on “a mix of cultural norms, historical formations, family influence, psychic realities, desires and wishes.” “Performance is important to this extent that we do enact who we are,” Butler says. “There are performances that we do in our lives that are not mere performance, they’re not fake.” We implore you to revise your definition of performance, and keep a flexible definition in the back of your mind while reading these stories. (By the way, there is no paradigm definition to performance.) In our opening act, we explore how a drag queen’s work is being hindered at the state-level. We then intertwine performance’s definition with hair, specifically Black hair, and put a spotlight on how hair and identity are synonymous with one another. Next, a stripper’s dichotomous life, on and off the pole, takes center stage. Then, an unmasking of a luchador who fights for the oldest Lucha Libre company in Mexico, written in Spanish. And in our final act, a young mariachi group reveals to us the threads that lie between music and the connections they have with each other that created the foundation for their success. All these stories dissect the limelight these people are subjected to. Whether in appearance or in action, the word performance means different things for these subjects. Hopefully, reading these stories will allow you, reader, to discover how you perform in your own life. Perhaps you have a more traditional way of performing, strumming away the guitar at your recital, or a more unconventional way when you ham up a presentation for class. I’d like to thank my team for making this issue come to life. Volume 43’s page count jumped up 8 pages from your typical issue of Minero Magazine, and now stands alongside Volume 24 – also 32 pages in length – as the second largest issue, trailing behind the 48-page behemoth that is Volume 19, The Centennial Issue. (You could say this was my attempt at challenging the norm). My team each digested and regurgitated the idea of performance into their own interpretations. To everyone who contributed to this issue, my beloved writers, photographers and editors, this issue is everything I imagined and more. You guys truly perfected my one and only magazine. Finally, fellow reader, I’ll leave you off with another Butler quote: “Accept the invitation to revise your ways of thinking, because that’s the only way of being open to people who are trying to make their claim, sometimes for the very first time to be heard, to be known, to be acknowledged.”

SOFIA SIERRA Editor-in-Chief Photo by Iziah Moreno

THE LAST HOUR

DRA RAG G THE E BY TH

BOOK BO OKs s El Paso houses the only official Drag Story Hour Chapter in Texas, but new legislation poses a threat to its existence in the borderland. By JOAQUIN MADRID • Photography by IZIAH MORENO

“

hich book would you all like to read?” a drag queen says. (Our reader for today — tall, brunette and in a bedazzled dress — is known as La Dede Diamante.) “That one,” one child exclaims. Of the three books pressed together by her left hand, La Dede points to the one furthest left. Then, with encouragement from her audience, directs her pointer finger to the center of the spread. “Yes! That one,” another child pleads. “This one’s called ‘My Papi Has a Motorcycle,’” La Dede says. “This one is very special to me because my dad also used to have a motorcycle when I was little.”

earned DeAnda $300 from the organization — a gesture that nearly brought him to tears. “I went and bought food (with the $300) and my mother was like, ‘Where the hell did you get the money?’” DeAnda said. “I was so grateful for that.” DeAnda has since made it a mission to pay that kindness forward, maintaining Drag Story Hour’s three-queen operation in El Paso. He has done so by working to ensure that the organization’s perception in the city and region is a positive one. “We have a track record because we have standards in place,” DeAnda said. “It’s important for us to have a story hour in El Paso because we set the tone for (the rest of) Texas.”

“WE SET THE TONE FOR THE REST OF TEXAS.” “People think that we’re (simply) a nightclub act, that we make our living in the nightclubs — where we do cabaret performances or standup shows,” DeAnda said. “But since we are in that environment, people assume that we’re a bunch of drunk hillbillies. A lot of people don’t understand that drag is a serious art form, and we are professionals.” DeAnda believes his work with Drag Story Hour is centered around creating a “beacon of hope” for those looking for visibility with their communities. For the 36-year-old drag queen, readings are an opportunity to help young minds who are told that they “can’t dress one way or the other” and see that “it’s okay to think outside the box.” With no intention of ceasing to appear as La Dede Diamante, DeAnda remains optimistic in his vision for the future of drag in El Paso and the rest of Texas. “I want to inspire more chapters in the state of Texas. I want to also inspire that they (Texas legislators) should be focused on bills that will help our community,” DeAnda said. “Rather than the 30 minutes that I get to read.” JOAQUIN MADRID is a writer for Minero Magazine. He has covered music and local communities. This is his first semester with the publication.

Lee el artículo en español en mineromagazine.com

Photography by Iziah Moreno

very month, La Dede ceremoniously reads; performances like these are a part of her job as a reader for Drag Story Hour (DSH) El Paso — the only official chapter in Texas. Founded in San Francisco, Drag Story Hour is a nonprofit that supports independently operated chapters around the world. DSH’s current model invites drag performers to lead literary and creative programming, most notably in the form of in-person and virtual readings, aimed at encouraging empathy through drag and LGBTQ+ storytelling. In February, a federal appeals court reaffirmed the passage of Texas Senate Bill 12 (SB 12), a law prohibiting drag performers from dancing suggestively or wearing certain prosthetics on public property or in front of children. The language and implementation of Texas SB 12 pose a direct challenge to DSH El Paso, whose events are often organized with younger audiences in mind. Amidst this increase in Texas legislation targeting the LGBTQ+ community, DSH El Paso remains committed to its mission despite ongoing political and legal efforts to restrict drag performances in public spaces. For the past six years, Moroni DeAnda, 36, has worked under drag persona La Dede Diamante, performing and managing the El Paso chapter of Drag Story Hour. DeAnda was first introduced to the organization while working for the Borderland Rainbow Center, a fellow El Paso-based non-profit, in 2018. The COVID-19 pandemic found DeAnda living with his mother without a “single dollar” to his name. It was during this time DeAnda made his drag story hour debut, virtually. Unbeknownst to him, the performance

Those standards include extensive background checks prior to performances, and any programing is curated with help from a panel, among them El Paso Public Library and National Drag Story Hour affiliates. Examples of the meticulously curated library of books chosen by DSH El Paso are “And Tango Makes Three,” a children’s book aimed at providing a way for parents to address questions about nontraditional family structures, and “My Papi Has a Motorcycle,” a children’s story that dives into communities and the relationships between residents. From performing in nightclubs to leading virtual storybook readings, DeAnda emphasizes that specific audiences demand specific acts. According to DeAnda, these demands include, but are not limited to, the content of the performance, wardrobe choices, language and the use of props.

No hard water. No air drying. No sulfates. T

hese aren’t just tips for keeping locs healthy. For some of El Paso’s Black residents, they’re a creed. Conditions in El Paso like its climate and tap water, can make it difficult for Black hair to thrive. On a Sunday afternoon in late March, Lorena “Loc Mami” Bodden, Destiny Nelson and Janace Walker all welcomed the community for a Loc Care Workshop, held inside the Rastas by Loc Mami salon in Northeast El Paso. It was an intimate scene where guests circled around a styling chair on propped up folding chairs. The loc workshop not only allowed guests to learn about the recommended recipe for healthy, happy locs but also introduced them to a community that is culturally akin to one another. “It don’t seem like a lot of us here, but there is,” Nelson said, in reference to the Black community in El Paso — a pool of residents that makes up only about 3.5% of the city’s population according to the U.S. Census Bureau. Arriving to the Sun City at just ten-yearsold, Nelson describes the switch from states like Georgia and Kentucky, where she’d previously lived, jading rather than exciting. Pamphlets told her Fort Bliss was sprouted with greenery, but she said the trees and grass were left back in her hometown.

HAIR ON LOC

Interloc’d: Hair, Identity & the Desert Hair’s a part of identity, even down to the last strand. By DIEGO HERNANDEZ Photography by SADIE BRIONES

Above photo by Sadie Briones

“When we moved here, (my mom) didn’t prepare, she didn’t get the right shampoos or conditioners or anything like that,” Nelson said. “When I moved here it was 2010. That’s when it used to be like 114/115 degrees; you could touch your hair and be like ‘It’s so hot.’” In all hair, the outermost layer of hair, or the cuticle, is prone to heat damage due to its sensitivity, according to science journal Scientific American. Exposure to excessive heat can even lead to breakage and hair loss. Additionally, hard water — the type of water that commonly flows from El Paso’s taps — contains minerals like calcium and magnesium that damages hair because it produces a film and dries hair out, according to medical journal Healthline. The mix of El Paso’s temperatures, which often soar past the double digits, and hard water guaranteed Nelson’s hair would be damaged. “We don’t have sunscreen for our hair,” Nelson said. “So, it was just so hot...it was making my hair fall out.” Heat damage not only came from the sun, but chemically as well. Upon arriving to El Paso, Nelson’s hair had also been freshly relaxed — a practice in which a concoction of chemicals is used to straighten natural hair. Straightening the hair’s natural kinks and curls is not uncommon in the Black community.

“I’VE GONE “I’ THROUGH PHASES WHERE I DIDN’’T LIKE THE DIDN HAIR ON TOP OF MY HEAD.” Jennifer Pitre, a Black resident in El Paso, said “I’ve gone through phases where I didn’t like the hair that was on top of my head and I went through a period where I was straightening it a lot and there was kind of a lot of internalized racism.” To Pitre, being immersed in a predominately white community in her home state of Delaware, she felt straight hair was the standard. Transitions from adolescence to young adulthood served as pivotal for both women. The two felt a call to ditch the straightener and relaxers and embrace their natural hair. For Nelson, that call was as simple as realizing she didn’t “want to look a hot mess.” Pitre, on the other hand, embraced her natural hair thanks to early 2010s content creators who made video tutorials on natural hair routines. Lee el artículo en español en mineromagazine.com

El Paso’s tap and climate can damage hair.

Amid figuring out how to braid and what products would work best for her hair, Nelson found herself somewhere unexpected — an Asian-owned beauty supply store. She discovered Asian-owned stores in El Paso had everything she needed in one place: specialized hair, weaves, bundles with the right types and textures, as well as a vast selection of matching shampoos and conditioners. In high school, Nelson felt confident enough to transfer her hair-weaving skills to others. “The knotless braids came out like 2019, so I started doing that on (my friend),” Nelson said. “She was like ‘You know what? It’s actually good. You can start making money.’” College is when Nelson continued to build and expanded her practice to UTEP athletes. Her efforts have now culminated into her own brand: Journey With Mocha. As a hairstylist, Nelson’s research on hair is continuous. One trick she recently learned buds from an onion; she describes that by taking onion, rose water and hair fertilizer, you can cook up a hair mist that can take your head from patchy to plentiful. But Nelson is also experimenting with her own line of products, specifically engineered to rescue scalp health, a problem she frequently sees in her clientele. At the salon chair, Nelson knits clientele’s hair in a variety of different forms; from passion twists — a protective hairstyle where strands of extension hair curl around strands of natural hair — to traditional cornrows. Black hair can metamorphize into different forms, making some in the community treat it like an art form. Though, with certain hairstyles come certain perceptions. 11

Some Black residents in El Paso must take additional routine steps to protect their hair. Common practices include sleeping with silk pillows and bonnets.

“When I have braids, sometimes I’m getting ... a lot more compliments versus my curly hair in it’s like natural state,” Pitre said. Microaggressions toward Black hair are seen even on the biggest stages. Actor Chase Infiniti donned boho braids during the 2026 Oscars. A commentator belittled the hair choice, saying Infiniti wore “almost like undone hair.”

There’s nothing ghetto about wanting to protect your hair at all,” Nelson said. “I don’t even feel like other cultures view it as ghetto.” This is a testament she carried even onto her social media. Adorned in a tutu-like dress in red, black, green and yellow colors, Nelson carried out a photoshoot in downtown El Paso. Her signature piece? A black durag.

“THERE’S NOTHING GHETTO ABOUT WANTING TO PROTECT YOUR HAIR.”

“(The photoshoot) was empowering, because I knew I was making a statement,” Nelson said. “Like we can still be cute even with a durag on.” It’s a statement echoed by Pitre. “Our hair is like part of our identity, honestly,” Pitre said. “It’s a way for us to express ourselves, whether it’s in our natural state, pressed, (or) if it’s braided, there’s so many different things that we can do.”

DIEGO HERNANDEZ is a writer for Minero Magazine. He is drawn to stories that celebrate creativity, identity and culture, and hopes to work with brands and publications that shape the fashion industry.

Lee el artículo en español en mineromagazine.com

Photography by Sadie Briones

The dichotomy in perceptions of Black hair can extend even down to the types of hair products used. Besides homemade recipes, Nelson also talked about products like durags, which can help trap moisture in extreme heat climates like the one in El Paso. But there’s a catch. Nelson said because products like durags and bonnets are normally used at home, people, namely within her own race, can label it as “ghetto” in public places. “I don’t think it should be labelled as ghetto.

eing crowned Ms. Black El Paso 2025, Nelson wants to use that platform to build a strong community where everyone can feel seen. She recently launched a website she refers to as a Black Excellence Hub, a place where anyone interested can easily find the resources they might be looking for. “It’s tailored for the Black community, but it’s not just for the Black community,” Nelson said. “If you want a hair stylist, a braider, you can find it. If you want a church, you can find it. A running group, you can find it.” Efforts like Nelson’s, along with other Black members of the El Paso community, prompted another loc workshop a few months after the first one in March, but this time elevated to a Loc Festival. The El Paso Black Arts Association hosted the Loc Festival on June 27. Locals, including Nelson, gathered to share hair tips, promote businesses and connect with each other. Though another will soon don the Ms. Black El Paso crown, Nelson hopes to leave an everlasting impact amongst the Black community before her reign ends. “I’m trying to bring the Black community together,” Nelson said. “Like, I want them to know that we have people out here and then you have your resources out here too.”

F e m i n i

ne B e a u t y

In an industry that revolves around resilience as much as it does the pole, Mileena Jean Philippe says this career is worth sticking with. By SOFIA SIERRA • Photography by SADIE BRIONES

FLAWLESS PERIPHERY

Graceful

Fairly often will 24-year-old Mileena Jean Philippe

flaunt her earnings on social media.

Photography by Sadie Briones

glut of cash, sometimes displayed as a green arch or “money spread,” is what pays for her rent, groceries and luxuries. Her sea of bills stems from club goers watching her twirl away on the pole under fluorescent lights. Jean Philippe’s unconventional source of income is sometimes whittled down to the title of “stripper,” but it’s not the label she prefers. Instead, she’s branded herself as a “baby dancer” — indicative of her brief time since entering the club circuit in December 2025. Yet her first few strides down the glossed, wooden stage — the grounds which anchor the sterling silver poles — already fulfilled an aspiration she’s had since she was young: embodying a certain poise. “(Pole dancing) is something I’ve always been passionate about ever since I was a kid,” Jean Philippe said. “It’s graceful, it’s beauty, it’s feminine.” About two years ago, Jean Philippe bought a pole, because, how she put it, “what girl doesn’t want a pole in her house?” The pole disrupted her somewhat insipid lifestyle. She worked at an insurance company and wasn’t satisfied. “I was like, ‘Damn, I’m 24, I work from home, (but) I want to party. I want to be beautiful,’” Jean Philippe said. Time spent on the pole molded Jean Philippe in a physical and mental way, even before she worked at the club. She cut almost 70 pounds practicing with her pole at home. This buffed up her confidence, and, in turn, she can now flaunt and bend her body in ways to entice her audience. At the club, her routine can begin with a few simple steps — her hands grab onto the pole and Jean Philippe hoists herself up. She wraps her legs around the pole and spins, an act that requires her to have steel-like strength, with the delicateness of a ballerina. Once she and the pole become one, slow, serpentine movements meant to charm her audience are complimented by slow-tempo hiphop, or R&B symphonies like The Weeknd’s “Call Out My Name.” But this performance isn’t one that stays on the pole. Off the stage the men at her job are greeted with a more “ditzy” version of Jean Philippe. This alter ego and her work uniform, like her fishnetted leggings, work together to attract more clientele. While she said her job can be fruitful, Jean Philippe also faces problems that are rooted simply from the color of her skin. In a predominantly Hispanic city, Jean Philippe exists as a minority within an already marginalized community. At the club, she’s one of the only Black women on the morning shift. According to Philippe, there are days that if she doesn’t arrive at the club, there would be no Black women at all. “It’s a bit of a struggle being a Black woman and a dancer,” Jean Philippe said. “Because we have to work a little bit harder.” Working “a little bit harder” means Jean Philippe will always have her hair and makeup done and be accessorized with jewelry; it means her outfits have to be “ten times more thought out,” but it also means not eating for eight hours. “All I do is drink water and if someone offers me alcohol, I’m not saying no,” Jean Philippe said. “I’d rather be as slim as possible the whole day instead of eating like I’m supposed to.” Lee el artículo en español en mineromagazine.com

Philippe stamped her starvation as a “dumb” but necessary sacrifice. Not only does she ignore the quiet growls in her stomach, but the physical pain too. Sometimes gashes tatter her feet, bruises spot her legs, or her ribs are on fire. Or sometimes the triad affects her all at once.

“ONE OF THE MOST DIFFICULT THINGS IS SMILING THROUGH THE PAIN.”

“Sometimes, I make the most money I’ve ever made when most of the girls have left, and I have 15 minutes left in my shift,” Jean Philippe said. Though the money she makes at the club is not the only thing keeping her afloat.

er life inside and outside the club are polar — and Jean Philippe wants to keep it that way. In her free time, Jean Philippe watches anime, reads manga and plays video games. Her home is blanketed with posters, figures and books she likes. “When I pour into people at work to help save that mask, I pour into myself at home,” Jean Philippe said. “I never do what I don’t want to do when I’m not at home, because I do what I don’t want to do at work.” Despite having different faces in and out of work, Jean Philippe said it’s a job she’s sticking to until she’s “bored and it no longer serves any purpose.”

“One of the most difficult things is smiling through the pain,” Jean Philippe said. She pushes through her shift, with her bleeding feet wrapped up in a ten-inch heel, a stringed bra tied around her chest, while, most importantly, carrying herself gracefully. But Jean Philippe must work the entirety of her eight-hour shift, maximizing every minute, down to the final seconds.

Jean Philippe says being a pole dancer brings out confidence you can’t find at any other job.

SOFIA SIERRA is the Editor-in-Chief for Spring 2026. Her work can be found across outlets like El Paso Matters, The Dallas Morning News and Texas Monthly.

Lee el artículo en español en mineromagazine.com

Photography by Sadie Briones

While she might one day plan to leave the club behind, the pole is here to stay; Jean Philippe said her time as a dancer has set her sights on someday becoming a pole instructor. Of course, it would be incorrect to say Jean Philippe’s job is a pinnacle money-maker, or even the ideal job. But the stage is one you can’t take away from her, even considering its shortcomings. To dance, is to reach the pinnacle of femininity, a peak she can only reach through a job she loves.

Bajo las luces brillantes

e la Arena México es donde la máscara blanca y negra brilla más. Sin aliento, el dueño de la máscara permanece de pie dentro del ring mientras su rival está tirado sobre la lona. El público se levanta junto con él y empieza a gritar su nombre: “¡El Cobarde, El Cobarde, El Cobarde!” Motivado por la afición, El Cobarde sube a la tercera cuerda del ring y se detiene un segundo más de lo normal. Respira profundo y siente cómo la adrenalina recorre todo su cuerpo, igual que lo hicieron sus familiares muchos años atrás. Desde lo más alto del ring, la máscara de El Cobarde queda completamente a la vista del público. Mitad negra y mitad blanca, con una flor de lis al frente, la máscara oculta a la persona que está debajo. Es un diseño que refleja la dualidad que carga todos los días: parte legado familiar y parte identidad propia; parte luchador y parte hombre. Sin pensarlo dos veces, se lanza. Su cuerpo corta el aire y, por un instante, todo parece detenerse: el ruido, la respiración, el peso del momento... hasta que cae sobre su rival. La arena estalla y, una vez más, la gente vuelve a corear su nombre. El Cobarde representa la cuarta generación de una familia de luchadores con una dinastía de más de 80 años. Una tradición en la que su bisabuelo, abuelo, padre, tíos y primos han ido heredando el nombre y la máscara con el paso de los años. Con 31 años, lucha para el Consejo Mundial de Lucha Libre (CMLL), la empresa de lucha libre más antigua de México, y suma 17 años de carrera profesional. Aunque no siempre llevó el nombre de El Cobarde. La historia del nombre El Cobarde se entrelaza con la de toda su familia. Antes de heredar ese nombre, era conocido como El Hijo del Impostor, en referencia al nombre con el que debutó su padre, El Impostor Jr. Pero en su familia, las identidades de lucha siempre han ido cambiando de generación en generación. Conforme unos se retiraban del ring,

PARTE HOMBRE, PARTE LUCHADOR

El que lleva la mascara, carga el legado Nadie sabe quién es el hombre detrás de El Cobarde, pero cuando se quita la máscara vive una vida común. Por DIEGO CRUZ

El Cobarde heredó oficialmente el nombre y la máscara de su abuelo.

Fotografía por Diego Cruz

“LO HAGO CON MUCHO ORGULLO, PORQUE ES ALGO QUE A MI FAMILIA LE COSTÓ MUCHO”. otros heredaban la máscara. Fue durante la función de despedida de su abuelo en Ciudad Juárez cuando oficialmente se convirtió en el nuevo El Cobarde. “Lo hago con mucho orgullo, porque es algo que a mi familia le costó mucho. Es un nombre reconocido en México y fue gracias a mis familiares que se encargaron de que así fuera. Yo con mucho orgullo lo sigo portando, porque a ellos les costó hacerlo reconocible”. Crecer en una familia donde la lucha libre era mucho más que una profesión hizo que el nombre de El Cobarde nunca fuera solo un personaje. Era un legado que lo rodeaba mucho antes de ponerse la máscara por primera vez. Read the article in English at mineromagazine.com

Generaciones de familiares construyeron el prestigio detrás de ese nombre, convirtiéndolo en uno reconocido en todo México y respetado dentro del mundo de la lucha libre. “Yo fui bendecido al recibirlo ya como un nombre reconocido, pero con un compromiso muy fuerte. No fue un nombre que se hizo de la noche a la mañana, se hizo con mucho trabajo y sacrificio, y yo no puedo dejar que todo ese esfuerzo sea en vano”.

Ahora, como el encargado de representar ese legado y esa dinastía, lleva el nombre a uno de los escenarios más importantes de la lucha libre, donde también ha escrito su propia historia al convertirse en campeón de tercias del CMLL. Para el mundo de la lucha libre es El Cobarde, pero ese nombre solo existe arriba del ring. Cuando se quita la máscara lleva una vida común, lejos de los reflectores. Dentro del ring, El Cobarde representa el legado y el espectáculo. Fuera de él, simplemente es él mismo, tratando de equilibrar el peso de las expectativas con una vida muy distinta a la que el público imagina. “Sí. A veces subimos al ring con problemas personales, pero la lucha libre es mi lugar seguro, mi escape. La gente no sabe si un luchador viene de perder a un familiar o tiene problemas. Pero el público paga un boleto para ver un espectáculo, y nosotros debemos dar el 100%. El show tiene que continuar, y como profesionales debemos cumplir sin que la gente sepa lo que estamos pasando”. Pero esa mezcla entre su vida personal y profesional nunca le impide llegar a los escenarios más importantes. Antes de cada lucha, El Cobarde hace su tradicional caminata rumbo al ring acompañado por una voz muy conocida en la frontera, la del fallecido Juan Gabriel. “Desde mi entrada salgo con mi canción, ‘Juárez Es el No.1’ de Juan Gabriel. Desde ahí trato de transmitir esa esencia de Juárez: algo elegante, maravilloso, que lo tiene todo”. La canción, con un estilo alegre de los 80s, es un homenaje a Juárez con versos como “Juárez que viva por siempre, que viva su historia.” Ese es precisamente el mensaje que El Cobarde quiere transmitir al público. Su entrada es mucho más que un simple recorrido al ring; es una forma de representar a Juárez y El Paso, los lugares donde creció rodeado de lucha libre. Cuando suena la música, no solo escucha a Juan Gabriel; lo siente. Siente que toda la gente de Juárez y El Paso está ahí con él, acompañándolo arriba del ring. Para El Cobarde, una de las primeras lecciones que aprendió fue separar a la persona del personaje. No importa lo que ocurra fuera de la arena; una vez que se pone la máscara, el público espera la misma intensidad, la misma seguridad y esa figura más grande que la vida que fue a ver. Pero esa separación nunca es total. La presión de cargar con el legado de una familia lo acompaña cada vez que sube al ring, mientras que las exigencias físicas y emocionales de la lucha libre lo siguen hasta su casa, ambos mundos siempre terminan encontrándose. DIEGO CRUZ is a photographer for Minero Magazine. He specializes in sports, event and community coverage and has interned with El Paso Times.

COVER STORY

Pura ! a i c n e l e c x E Behind the silver-threaded, purple trajes is Mariachi Excelencia, a group of young musicians brought together by music and bound by connection. By JOAQUIN MADRID • Photography by IZIAH MORENO

(From left) Valery Burgos, Maya Murga, Monserrat Hidrogo, Ayden Tapia, Anitzia "CJ" Santos, Aaralyn González, Ayelen Serrano.

fter hearing his director talk about him you might think the way that Jesus “Chuy” Carrera plays the trumpet is enough to make him a superhero. Carrera’s trumpet produces a unique sound. A sound sealed in a record whose sleeve might find itself next to a collection of rituals in the basement of a run-down rarities store. A sound so specific, that it can only be replicated by a superhuman ear whose powers are, for all we know, drawn from the rays of a yellow sun. On this late spring afternoon, Carrera, 21, could be anywhere in the world, maybe even on tour with a major mariachi group. Instead, he is in the middle of a crowded room in the back of V&V Music Co., playing an impromptu version of Julión Álvarez’s “Las Mulas De Moreno,” surrounded by the members of Mariachi Excelencia that he proudly calls, “his people,” joining in and singing alongside him. As Carrera and his groupmates make their way through the song, chants of “Fine, fine, fine! Very, very, very, very good!” spill into the hallway where assistant director of Mariachi Excelencia Ramon “Ray” Acosta stands. 24

Acosta has just arrived after a day of serving as a mariachi and orchestra director at a local high school and takes sips from a can of diet soda as he readies himself for the groups weekly Monday rehearsal. After a full day of work, I watch as Acosta looks out at his students in anticipation for the three-hour rehearsal that lies ahead of him. It’s impossible not to wonder why Acosta, who recently made an effort to take a step back from work, decided to officially take on the job of assistant director for the group. “He (director/owner Emanuel “Manny” González) shared with me his vision for the group (Excelencia),” Acosta says. “He sees them as the type of mariachi that could accompany big artists...we told them this past week that we were looking to get to the point where they’re traveling to play. They don’t think they can do it, but they can (do it).” He pauses, looks back at his students as they continue to talk shop and improvise verses, then looks back at me. “They have done in three years what it took us (me and González) ten (years) to do,” Acosta tells me.

Acosta is referring to Excelencia’s progress, a three-year string of rapid successes since the group’s inception, that has seen the ensemble on the same program with acts such as Mariachi Los Camperos de Chuy Guzmán. For Mariachi Excelencia, what began as a coalition of students gathered to mentor mariachi newcomers at a 2023 summer camp has become an ensemble of ambitious musicians eager to see what mariachi has to offer. One of these young musicians is Edgar Cordero, a trumpet and a three-year member of Mariachi Excelencia. In the circle of musicians singing “Las Mulas de Moreno,” Cordero gives himself the task of handling the song’s verses, a responsibility that his role as the group’s go-to vocalist, frequently demands. When Cordero began in Excelencia, he felt that his skills “weren’t fully developed,” but was convinced to stay after becoming captivated by the group’s spirit of camaraderie, something missing from the “toxic” environment present in his high school mariachi classroom. “There was too much negativity. It’d be rare to find someone you could trust in that (high school) group, in any sort of way, like with perAbove photo by Iziah Moreno

“I’’VE BECOME “I 100 TIMES BETTER OF A PLAYER THANKS TO THIS GROUP.” sonal things or even to help you,” Cordero says. Cordero’s new groupmates welcomed him, helping the trumpet player learn how to read music and practice his singing. In the years since he’s joined, Cordero helped welcome new members of Excelencia. Sixteen-year-old trumpet player, Juan Ornelas, is among these new members. Since joining Excelencia, Ornelas believes that the performances, music and experience offered through the group have gone so far as to shape the person he is today. “I’ve become 100 times better of a player thanks to being in this group, and a lot of it is Lee el artículo en español en mineromagazine.com

due to Manny and all of these people around me,” Ornelas says. Ornelas believes that Excelencia has given him access to resources that his school cannot afford to provide, citing classroom formatting and the additional strain of a recent teaching vacancy as challenges “limiting” his access to resources in the classroom. Multiple members discussed being on the receiving end of jealousy and negativity from peers during their time in class as a direct result of their involvement in the group. Cordero even went as far as to remark that mistakes made in class were often attributed to, by his instructors, his membership in Excelencia. The controversy surrounding the participation of students in ensembles outside of their respective high school programs has not been exclusive to Excelencia. While high school directors have often recruited students to form professional groups, for both developmental and staffing purposes, common practice has not kept directors from advising students to exercise caution while forming part of private groups outside of class. In instances, directors have cited financial

compensation, ensemble demands, as well as student safety in working and learning environments as concerns for students joining private ensembles. In addition, the creation of private groups can at times create an opportunity for students, voluntarily or inadvertently, to tarnish school reputation. Acosta dealt with this problem less than a year ago when students in his classroom took to Reddit to ask if school instructors had the authority to keep them from creating their own mariachi group. After finding the post and seeking support from high school administrators, Acosta sat down with students to provide specific guidelines for his students to follow, requesting that they not use any equipment provided by the campus for business purposes outside of class. Acosta cited school liability and adherence to University Interscholastic League rules as factors contributing to his decision. González has also had to operate with caution. During practices he has encouraged students to obey teachers while in the classroom and stay away from stylistic interpretations and improvisation at the teachers’ request. Not all teachers, however, are convinced that the concessions made by the Excelencia director and his students have made student membership in the ensemble a viable option. Differences in opinion between González and other educators in the region have also led González to refrain from recruiting from a select group of high schools and, in some instances, turning down students coming to him directly for lessons. “If I teach this for free and they (students) succeed, that’s all the satisfaction that I need,” González says. “But again, people are like, ‘He’s taking advantage.’ Taking advantage of what? They (students) want to be here.”

ordero just finished his last “very good” and González’s voice begins to break up ongoing playing. González is not in the room yet, and students are making a half circle to position themselves for the start of rehearsal. By the time González is in the room, Excelencia is ready to play. Most practices start with the director saying a few words to add weight to the importance of the practice. This one is no different; González says a few words and then instructs them to start. All eyes turn to the violin section, and the group jumps into a mariachi version of “Camarón Pelao.” Cordero once again handles the verses and everyone in the group jumps in to sing “camarón pelao tú quieres, camarón pelao te doy.” In the corner is Acosta, this time joined by González. Both directors watch their students make their way through the song. 25

For the three years that the group has spent active, González and Acosta have frequently formed part of the ensemble. The two have performed with the group at both private and public events. The weekend before this May rehearsal, nearly one year since Excelencia “officially” began gigging, marks the first time that González chose not to perform at a private event without the group. This decision was not easy for González. As the director sees it, his “livelihood” and “reputation” are at stake when the group takes the stage in any setting. To mitigate the risk, González takes any available opportunity to get Excelencia on stage. Not all performances, however, are paid. A week after Mother’s Day, Excelencia performed for senior living homes. The group spent the entirety of the weekend making their way from one home to another, handing out roses to those in attendance. The string of performances is not just another means of gaining experience, it is, as González puts it, a way to “give back.” González hopes that these performances, along with those that are paid, will help members find what he believes all musicians are after — “connection.” For some, like Arturo “Turi” Mercado II, the group’s trumpet section leader, that connection is something he feels with the music he plays. As section leader, Mercado writes musical parts for the other trumpets in the group. For him, the process of writing parts is an opportunity to better understand the intricate details of the thing he loves. Something Mercado chooses to do even as he pursues a mechanical engineering degree at the University of Texas at El Paso.

“MUSIC JUST CAME SO QUICKLY TO ME THAT I CAN’’T LEAVE IT CAN OUT OF LIFE.”

“You get to be very intimate with living people. You get to see them for different kinds of events, graduations, and weddings,” Aaralyn González says. “You’re there for all the sad and happy moments. Moments that are going to have a very big impact on their life, and you (mariachis) get to be a part of them.” These connections are different for each group member. Some members, like Mercado, feel a connection with their music. Others, like Aaralyn González, feel a connection with the people for whom they play. But somehow all members feel a connection with each other. Excelencia, these students believe, has provided a space for members to work through the complexities of life. A space to feel “welcome” when the world, one that seems to be especially hostile to young people, caves in around them.

t’s past 9:45 p.m., well into the evening, and students are beginning to pack up their instruments. On this May afternoon, the sun has teetered above the horizon for a few minutes past 8 p.m. Summer is nearly here. Instruments are now packed, and some members of Mariachi Excelencia huddle together in their rehearsal space. Some wait and sit around, making conversation before their parents call them from the floor below to let them know that it is time to go home. Others kill time together before heading out to a 24/7 fast food restaurant nearby. After a few minutes, González and Acosta enter the room and ask that students leave so that the pair can have a private post-practice debrief. Everyone scurries to the front of the store before González shuts the door. The two men sit across each other and talk about the afternoon before the sound of a creaking frame brings the conversation to a halt. Aaralyn González walks into the room. A few classmates are going to a restaurant nearby and she’s looking for her wallet. The

(From left) Sebastián Britton, Sebastian Gonzalez, Viviana Altamirano, Juan Ornelas.

father-daughter duo exchange a few words and Aaralyn González heads for the door. The door closes and Acosta begins to talk, and González, who spent nearly the past three hours talking, takes a pause. This silence is no longer than a few seconds. It is more than likely that González is just trying to think of what to say. “They just got paid,” he eventually says. “That’s what they spend their money on (food), they like to go out to eat after practices.” He takes a breath, and stops, trying to pinpoint the direction in which the conversation should go next. González is tired, but he is just as eager to find the words to sell another experience taken from the world around him. This one doesn’t require much effort (in part because his students have done much of the work for him), for these students the world is tied to music; everything else is just a consequence. JOAQUIN MADRID is a writer for Minero Magazine. He has covered music and local communities. This is his first semester with the publication.

Lee el artículo en español en mineromagazine.com

Photography by Iziah Moreno

“Music just came so quickly (to me) that I can’t leave it out of life,” Mercado says. “Which is also why I have continued playing my instruments and playing mariachi, even though my career has nothing to do with music.” Mercado isn’t alone wanting to carry the connection that he has made through music into his future. González’s daughter, Aaralyn González, a violin player for Excelencia with plans to become an autopsy technician, hopes her children will take up the mantle as sixth-generation mariachis.

(From left) Emanuel González, Edgar Cordero, Jesus Carrera, Raul Aranda, Arturo Mercado II.

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