Mexican

Burnt out buses and trucks lined the highway to Guadalajara, Mexico’s Estadio Akron in what is reportedly a cartel reprisal to an earlier federal law enforcement operation. Burning vehicles causing roadblocks have been reported across the state of Jalisco, including in the major tourist city of Puerto Vallarta.

Carlos Aranibar is a former Downey public works commissioner and remains involved in local Democratic politics. But until a few weeks ago, the son of Bolivian and Mexican immigrants hadn’t joined any actions against the immigration raids that have overwhelmed Southern California.

Life always seemed to get in the way. Downey hadn’t been hit as hard as other cities in Southeast L.A. County, where elected officials and local leaders urged residents to resist and helped them organize. Besides, we’re talking about Downey, a city that advocates and detractors alike hyperbolically call the “Mexican Beverly Hills” for its middle-class Latino life and conservative streak.

Voters recalled a council member in 2023 for being too wokosa, and the council decided the next year to block the Pride flag from flying on city property. A few months later, Donald Trump received an 18.8% increase in voters compared to 2020 — part of a historic shift by Latino voters toward the Republican Party.

That’s now going up in flames. But it took a while for Aranibar to full-on join the anti-migra movement — and people like him are shaping up to be a real threat to President Trump and the GOP in the coming midterms and beyond.

On Jan. 27, Aranibar saw a Customs and Border Protection truck on the way home from work. That jolted Aranibar, an electrician with the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers’ Local 11, into action.

“It’s not something like that I was in a bubble and I was finally mad — I’ve been mad,” the 46-year-old said. “But seeing [immigration patrols] so close to my city, I thought ‘That’s not cool.’”

He Googled and called around to see how best to join others and resist. Someone eventually told him about a meeting that evening in a downtown Downey music venue. It was happening just a few days after Border Patrol agents shot and killed Minneapolis resident Alex Pretti after he tried to shield a fellow protester from pepper spray, and a few weeks after immigration agents tried to detain two Downey gardeners with legal status before residents hounded them away and recorded the encounter.

Aranibar joined more than 200 people standing shoulder to shoulder for the launch of a Downey ICE Watch group. They learned how to spot and track immigration agents and signed up for email updates. A box of whistles was passed around so people could alert their neighbors if la migra was around.

“Who here has been a member of a patrol?” an organizer asked from the stage.

Only a few people raised their hands.

“I saw familiar faces and new faces, energized — it was really nice,” Aranibar said afterward. “I got the sense that people in Downey have been fired up to do something, and now it was happening.”

A similarly unexpected political awakening seemed to be happening just down the street at Downey City Hall, on the other side of the political aisle.

Mayor Claudia Frometa set tongues wagging across town after video emerged of her whooping it up with other Latino Trump supporters the night he won his reelection bid. Activists since have demanded she speak out against the president’s deportation deluge, protesting in front of City Hall and speaking out during council meetings when they didn’t buy her rationale that local government officials couldn’t do much about federal actions.

“Mayor Frometa is not a good Californian right now,” councilmember Mario Trujillo told me before the Jan. 27 council meeting. During the previous meeting, Frometa cut off his mic and called for a recess after Trujillo challenged Frometa to talk to “her president” and stop what’s going on. “It’s not a time to deflect, it’s not a time to hedge — it’s a time to stand up. She’s giving us a bulls—t narrative.”

Even Downey Mayor Claudia Frometa, a supporter of President Trump, has called out his immigation policies.

(Ronaldo Bolanos/Los Angeles Times)

That night, Frometa listened to critics like Trujillo slam her anew while wearing a wearied smile. When it was her turn to speak at the end of the night, she looked down at her desk as if reading from prepared remarks — but her voice and gesticulations felt like she was speaking from somewhere deeper.

“This issue [of deportations] which we have been seeing unfold and morph into something very ugly — it’s not about politics anymore,” Frometa said. “It’s about government actions not aligning with our Constitution, not aligning with our law and basic standards of fairness and humanity.”

As she repeatedly put on and removed her glasses, Frometa encouraged people to film immigration agents and noted the council had just approved extra funding for city-sponsored know-your-rights and legal aid workshops.

“This is beyond party affiliation,” the mayor concluded, “and we will stand together as a community.”

Suddenly, the so-called “Mexican Beverly Hills” was blasting Trump from the left and the right. Among Latinos, such a shift is blazing around the country like memes about Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime show. Trump’s support among former voters has collapsed to the point that Florida state senator Ileana Garcia, co-founder of Latinas for Trump, told the New York Times that the president “will lose the midterms” because of his scorched-earth approach to immigrants.

Former Assembly member Hector de la Torre said he’s not surprised by what’s happening in a place like Downey.

“When it hits home like that, it’s not hypothetical anymore — it’s real,” he said. De La Torre was at the Downey ICE Watch meeting and works with Fromenta in his role as executive director of the Gateway Cities Council of Governments, which advocates for 27 cities stretching from Montebello to Long Beach to Cerritos and all the southeast L.A. cities.

“People are coming out the way they maybe didn’t in the past “ he continued. “It’s that realization that [raids] can even happen here.”

Mario Guerra is a longtime chaplain for the Downey police department and former mayor who remains influential in local politics — he helped the entire council win their elections. While he seemed skeptical of the people who attended the Downey ICE Watch — “How many of then were actual residents?” — he noted “frustration” among fellow Latino Republicans over Trump and his raids.

“I didn’t vote for masked men picking people up at random,” Guerra said before mentioning the migra encounter with the gardeners in January. “If that doesn’t weigh on your heart, then you’ve got some issues. All this will definitely weigh on the midterms.”

Even before Frometa’s short speech, I had a hint of what was to to come. Before the council meeting, I met with the termed-out mayor in her office.

The 51-year-old former Democrat is considered a rising GOP star as one of the few Republican Latino elected officials in Los Angeles and the first California Republican to head the nonpartisan National Assn. of Latino Elected and Appointed Officials. Her family moved to Downey from Juarez, Mexico when she was 12. Whites made up the majority of the suburban city back then, and it was most famous in those days as the land that birthed the Carpenters and the Space Shuttle.

Now, Downey is about 75% Latino, and four of its five council members are Latino.

So what did Frometa expect of Trump in his second term?

“I was expecting him to enforce our laws,” she replied. “To close our border so that we didn’t have hundreds of thousands coming in unchecked. I was expecting him to be tough on crime. But the way it’s being played out with that enforcement and the tactics is not what we voted for. No. No.”

Over our 45-minute talk, Frometa described Trump’s wanton deportation policy as “heartbreaking,” “racial profiling,” “problematic,” “devastating” and “not what America stands for.” The mayor said Republicans she knows feel “terrible” about it: “You cannot say you are pro-humanity and be OK with what’s happening.”

Asked if she was carrying a passport like many Latinos are — myself included — she said she was “almost” at that point.

A home in Downey shows support for Trump in 2024.

(Gina Ferazzi/Los Angeles Times)

Frometa defended her relative silence compared to other Latino elected officials over the matter.

“We live in a time that is so polarizing that people want their elected officials to come out fighting,” she said. “And I think much more can be accomplished through different means.”

Part of that is talking with other Southern California Republicans “at different levels within the party” about how best to tell the Trump administration to “change course and change fast,” although she declined to offer details or names of other GOP members involved.

I concluded our interview by asking if she would vote for Trump again if she had the chance.

“It’s a very hard — It’s a hard question to answer,” Frometa said with a sigh. “We want our communities to be treated fairly, and we want our communities to be treated humanely. Are they being treated that way right now? They’re not. And I’m not OK with that.”

So right now you don’t know?

“Mm-hmm.”

You better believe there’s a lot more right-of-center Latinos right now thinking the same.

Dust off your cowboy hats, prepare your tequila shooters and saddle up: Carín León has just announced his 2026 North American tour.

The Grammy-winning Mexican singer-songwriter will kick off the tour May 20 with a performance in Hidalgo, Texas. Over the course of this summer and fall, the Sonoran crooner will visit major U.S. cities including Dallas, Houston, Atlanta and Chicago before wrapping up Oct. 9 in Portland, Ore.

In Los Angeles, the singer is expected to perform Sept. 20 at BMO Stadium, which accommodates over 20,000 fans for concerts.

The tour also includes his highly anticipated Las Vegas residency at the Sphere, which is already sold out on some dates. In September, León will make history as the first Latino artist to headline the one-of-a-kind venue, which will take place across seven nights in Sin City.

León is also doubling his stadium capacity for his singular Canada performance by moving to the TD Coliseum in Hamilton, Ontario, which holds an audience of about 18,000; the “Primera Cita” singer first performed in 2024 at the Coca-Cola Coliseum in Toronto, which holds roughly 9,000 people.

“Returning to the United States and Canada to reunite with my people fills me with excitement. I’m returning with new songs and all the history we’ve built together,” said León in a statement. “We’re preparing a very special production so we can feel closer than ever. De Sonora para el mundo… see you soon, mi gente.”

The “Que Vuelvas” singer last toured the states in 2024 following the release of his critically-acclaimed “Boca Chueca, Vol. 1,” which earned him his first Grammy for música mexicana album in 2025.

News of the upcoming North American tour follows another Grammy win for the balladeer, who on Sunday took home the golden gramophone once more in the same category as last year, this time for his 2025 album “Palabra de To’s.”

Throughout his career, León has bent the rules of música mexicana by collaborating with artists across a variety of genres, from Latin pop stars like Maluma and Camilo to U.S. country singers like Kane Brown and Kacey Musgraves.

The 36-year-old has always stood firmly on the idea that música mexicana extends beyond the regional confines of Mexico, sharing with The Times in 2023 that “Mexican music is no longer regional — it’s only become more global.”

Ticket sales for his North American tour begin Feb. 11, but resellers beware! León will be using Openstage Ticket Unlocks, which will reward real fans with personalized presale codes to limit bots.

Before starting a cosmopolitan life as an artist in Mexico City, queer filmmaker Efraín Mojica came of age between Riverside and the rural town of Penjamillo, Michoacán: home to an annual jaripeo, or a Mexican rodeo competition that takes place every Christmas.

Every year, cowboys convene to test-drive their masculinity, namely by swigging handles of tequila and precariously mounting the backs of bucking bulls. These heroic shows of manhood long fascinated Mojica, who frequented jaripeos with family — and quietly forged a community with other locals who diverged from Mexican gender norms.

That community would become the cast of “Jaripeo,” the debut documentary feature film by Mojica and co-director Rebecca Zweig, which premiered at this year’s Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah. Shot in the style of cinéma vérité, Mojica appears as both a narrator and protagonist. Zweig, who first encountered Mojica in Seattle’s punk scene, follows them behind the lens as they interview members of the LGBTQ community in and around Penjamillo.

“[Mojica] invited me to Michoacán in 2018 to spend Christmas with their family,” Zweig tells The Times, the day after the film’s Jan. 25 premiere. “As soon as I was at the rodeo with them, I became obsessed with the performance of masculinity.”

“[Zweig] was like, ‘How do you feel about making a documentary [about] the rodeos?’” Mojica tells The Times. “I said, ‘Yeah, but it’s got to be gay.’”

Produced by Sarah Strunin, the documentary begins with a pastoral scene from Mojica’s pickup truck as they overlook the grasslands of Michoacán. Pink party lights and techno music are woven into scenes of bandas and revelers in tejana hats, who kick up dust as they dance inside the rodeo ring. The crew flashes strobe lights in the cornfields, lighting up the figures of sexy cowboys sifting through the crops to find one another — drawing parallels to queer nightlife in the cities.

“On New Year’s there’s a rodeo in Acuitzeramo, with like 10,000 people and big speakers with heavy bass,” said Mojica. “What’s the big difference between a city rave and a rancho jaripeo, you know? They’re doing the exact same thing.”

“I wanted to blur all the lines and make these abstract sequences,” says Zweig. “And I thought, how much is that gonna be allowed in a formal [film] institution? I want to shout out public media, [because] when we got the Open Call Fund from ITVS, they took a chance on us as first-time filmmakers. [Marlon Riggs’ documentary] ‘Tongues Untied’ was also funded by ITVS — the legacy of queer cinema and documentaries in the U.S. has been supported by public media.”

“We have to deal with these issues in our towns, and [people] are still not open to receiving that kind of help,” says Noé Margarito Zaragoza, center, who stars in the new film “Jaripeo.”

(Cat Cardenas / De Los)

Each interview adds more color and dimension to Mojica’s memories of the village they left long ago, no longer suspended in the past. Mojica visits Arturo Calderón, a local rodeo clown known as “La Pirinola,” who performs in drag; Calderón lets the camera roll as he paints his eyelids electric blue.

They later stop by the local church and the disco with Joseph Cerda Bañales, a bearded makeup artist who brandishes long stiletto nails to the rodeos. Despite efforts from the festival organizers, and even a letter from Sen. John Curtis (R-Utah), Cerda was unfortunately not granted entry into the U.S. for the Sundance premiere.

“Joseph is the mayor of his town,” says Mojica. “He’s the president of the church. He runs the folkloric ballet. He does everything. It’s not that there’s no more traditional culture… People just want to keep the community together. [It means] holding a bunch of truths [and] contradictions at the same time.”

Mojica even shares flirtatious moments onscreen while interviewing Noé Margarito Zaragoza, a dashing and stoic ranchero who lives discreetly as a gay man.

“It’s exciting, but at the same time I’m a little nervous,” says Margarito of coming out in the film. “Part of my family doesn’t know what’s going on with my life, so I don’t know how they’re going to take it. But my main family members — my siblings, my dad — well, they feel content and happy [for me], so I’m going forward and giving it my all.”

“We never talked about my queer identity,” says Mojica of their own family, some of whom flew in for the premiere of “Jaripeo” at the Yarrow Theatre in Park City. Mojica planned a belated coming out talk at dinner the night before; the discussion never happened.

“I choked up,” says Mojica. “I thought, ‘OK, I’m just going to give them a little heads up of what the film’s actually about.’ But I could not vocalize a single word. My eyes started tearing up. So I was like, ‘See you tomorrow!’”

It was after the screening, during an open Q&A, when Mojica’s mother quelled the artist’s fears in one fell swoop.

“What was the reception from your family after seeing the film?” an audience member asked Mojica in Spanish — unaware that their family had just watched it for the first time with everyone else in the theater.

To that, Mrs. Mojica Rubio rose from her seat and introduced herself “as a very proud mamá” who loves her child “unconditionally.”

After a beat, she exclaimed: “It’s the 21st century!”

Mrs. Mojica Rubio’s show of support was promptly met with resounding cheers from the audience. “My mom also approached [Margarito] and said, ‘I’m going to give you a mother’s hug, because you deserve it,’” says Mojica, who appears misty-eyed as they recount the scene.

In a time of increasing hostility against LGBTQ people and immigrants in the United States, to behold the strength of a mother’s love — and the solidarity across communities — affirms the purpose of such a film, with a power that transcends states, governments and institutions.

“People in different countries [have] this antiquated idea that Mexico is this little ranchita that’s hateful, that they’re gonna beat you if you’re queer. But we really care for each other,” Mojica says.

“We have to deal with these issues in our towns, and [people] are still not open to receiving that kind of help,” added Margarito. “So let’s hope [the movie is] a success.”

Jan. 26 (UPI) — The Mexican content creator Nicole Pardo Medina, known online as “La Nicholette,” reappeared publicly over the weekend at a church in Culiacán, one day after state authorities confirmed she had been found alive following four days in captivity.

Visibly emotional, Pardo Medina addressed a religious service held in a church in El Salado, a rural area of Culiacán, where she thanked attendees for their support during her disappearance. Videos shared on social media on Sunday show the influencer speaking through tears.

“Thank you to everyone for keeping me in your prayers, for every candle you lit, and for not losing faith,” she said, according to the recordings.

Pardo Medina was reported kidnapped on the afternoon of Jan. 20 in a residential area of Culiacán, the capital of the northwestern Mexican state of Sinaloa. The case quickly drew widespread attention after footage from the security camera of her vehicle circulated online, showing armed men forcing her into another car.

On Jan. 24, the Fiscalía General del Estado de Sinaloa confirmed that the influencer had been located alive. Authorities did not disclose details about the circumstances of her release, identify possible suspects, or provide information about her medical condition. They also did not indicate whether a specific line of investigation has been established.

Unconfirmed reports from local media suggested that Pardo Medina returned to her home in the El Salado area by taxi. That information has not been corroborated by officials.

During the days she remained missing, another video circulated on social media in which the influencer reads a statement accusing a criminal group known as “La Mayiza,” also referred to as “Los Mayos,” a faction linked to the Sinaloa Cartel, of pressuring individuals like her to participate in criminal activities tied to organized crime. In the same video, she alleges being forced to hand over money to state patrols on behalf of a figure identified as “El Mayito Flaco,” among other claims.

Culiacán is considered one of the cities most affected by violence linked to organized crime in Mexico, amid internal disputes between trafficking groups. In recent months, those conflicts have fueled a rise in homicides, kidnappings and disappearances, according to official figures and security analysts.

State authorities have said the investigation remains ongoing but have released no further details.