“Part of our calling is also to be there at the end of life,” a musician named Anthony Medrano told Rolling Stone at the time. Last June, more than 50 drove into Uvalde from all over Texas, hoping to offer strength and solidarity to people they’d never met. At funerals, mariachi musicians serenaded the inconsolable. Over the past year, mariachi’s traditions have served a solemn purpose in Uvalde. Uvalde ‘Flawed’ Medical Response Hampered Victims’ Treatment, New Report Reveals
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“The community - you just don’t know how to deal with it.” “Nothing like this has ever happened before,” says Gloria Cazares, who lost her daughter Jackie, a cheerful nine-year-old who dreamed about going to Paris one day. In a place as small as Uvalde, the pain reverberates, sending aftershocks of trauma and sadness. It just does not change,” says Berlinda Irene Arreola, the step-grandmother of Amerie Jo Garza, a 10-year-old girl who loved art and had a knack for sculpting tiny objects out of clay. There are other tributes to the victims in town, but every loved one mourns individually, carrying their own trove of memories. A troupe of artists flooded into town last summer and painted murals honoring each victim today, an older woman stands in front of one of them and wipes away tears. Just before Easter, colorful plastic eggs and toy rabbits cover the site, a paschal season spent in sorrow. “It’s like we’re all connected somehow.”įamilies, friends, and strangers replenish each cross with an endless supply of handwritten cards, bouquets, and stuffed animals. “Everybody knows a relative of everyone,” one local tells me. Uvalde’s identity is best understood by longtime residents, who agree that this is a small, quiet community - 15,000 people in all - bonded by time, proximity, and routine. Still, many families, even those here for decades, have held on to their roots, contributing to a culture that’s distinctly Mexican American. There’s an immigration checkpoint in town, but Uvalde isn’t a border town, as it’s often painted - it’s more than 60 miles from Piedras Negras, Mexico. The rest of the city is starting the day, too: Cars move up and down Main Street, a short strip dotted with a leafy park, an H-E-B grocery store, and an old-school soda fountain with a mural on the side of it, proudly honoring Uvaldeans like Oscar regular Matthew McConaughey and the Grammy-winning Tejano band Los Palominos. By the time he arrives in Uvalde, the sun has come up. Instead, he makes plans, deciding which song his kids might learn next or thinking through upcoming performances. The radio would be a distraction - it’s almost impossible for him to listen to anything without counting in time or wondering why an instrument wasn’t tuned more tightly. Martinez is a 50-year-old music teacher in Uvalde. 90, which starts near the Mexican border and ends in Florida, is infinitely dark and leaden, the tiny farms along the way covered in shadows. Every weekday at 5:30 a.m., while most of his San Antonio, Texas, neighborhood is still asleep, Albert Martinez gets into his silver Nissan Sentra and starts the drive to Uvalde, 70 miles to the west.
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