Our Zona Rosa

Our Zona Rosa

“Too timid to be red; too frivolous to be white”

but we have

expensive hotels and chic cafes.

What do we imagine in Mexico, New Spain?

Here an Aztec priest danced in the skin of a princess;

the Muxe are not men or women: Zapotec savages.

And in all the world, little boys solicit business from dirty old men, looking for

sex.

 

So we imagine dirt and barbarism

but there is also “culture”:

copies of European architecture and statues of

European characters.

This place would not exist if emulation did not provoke experimentation;

this place would not exist without desire.

 

Our cheap words do little to describe

the flower that grows from the process of composting:

so many years stacked, rotting into each other,

producing the pink zone.

 

“Pink,” how appropriate it is for the gays.

It was not meant for them; it was meant for the rich, for their

cute hypocrisy, for their pretenses:

not wild enough to be red; not good enough to be white.

The drugs, the prostitution, the cheap clubs, the pornographic theaters imported from

the north.

Stripped of its grandest pretensions, it attracted the hidden people of society: the homosexuals, the perverts, the whores.

Still Pink.

 

All the outcasts go together, that is what they tell us, so that they can be

bundled and commoditized: “here is the gayest street in Mexico, and this is the price of the hotel.” “Go to the pink zone, you can get anything there.”

 

These voices allow a person to imagine their own pink zone, one in every home.

These voices

they speak for you. They can make it dirty. They can make it clean. They can reduce it to nothing.

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