Kids at Work. Emir Estrada

have become very popular.37 As these night markets offer street vendors opportunities to sell a variety of Asian dishes in a designated vending location, it also provides authentic Asian food options to foodies.

      Latinx street vendors have always experienced hostility in Los Angeles due to the city’s ordinance that prohibits sidewalk vending, but it likely has to do as much with the economic climate as it does with the cultural transformations the United States is currently experiencing. In their 2001 study, Nora Hamilton and Norma Stoltz Chinchilla noted an increased hostility toward Latinx vendors during the recession in the early 1990s. While I collected data, moreover, I also witnessed increased concerted hostility from the police and health departments in 2008 during the global economic crisis and the collapse of the U.S. housing market.

      This type of hostility was evident to me from the first day I went to the streets of Los Angeles in search of street vending families to interview in 2008. On a sunny summer afternoon, I ventured to Olvera Street, an iconic Mexican cultural landmark, hoping to find street vendors for my study. I parked my car in one of the lots across Olvera Street. I took a deep breath and marveled at the history of this landmark known as “the birthplace of Los Angeles,” now reminiscent of an old Mexican marketplace. The music, architecture, colonial-style church, colorful walls, cloth awnings at storefronts that protected the various merchandise, and the abundant potted plants nicely positioned along the corridors, balconies, and stairways gave me a sense of traveling through time and space to an imagined quaint town in México. This was in fact the feeling this space was meant to evoke, since Christine Sterling, a privileged White woman, dedicated her life to turning Olvera Street into an “exotic,” “Spanish-Mexican romance” destination she had dreamt about since childhood.38 William D. Estrada states that since its foundation in the midst of the Great Depression in the 1930s, the theme for Olvera Street was an “‘old Mexico,’ pitting a timeless, homogeneous Spanish-Mexican culture against industrialization, immigration, urban decay and modernity itself.”39 This timeless, small-town feel is juxtaposed with the fast-paced traffic that runs through the two major arteries that encapsulate this narrow corridor.

      As I made my way to Olvera Street, I immediately saw signs of street vendors. People ate corn on a stick, churros, hot dogs, and raspados. Only a street vendor could sell this kind of food, I thought. In my mind this added a layer of authenticity to a place where being Mexican or Latinx was safe and even celebrated. As I kept walking toward Olvera Street, my thoughts were interrupted by a big commotion, with women screaming and running. A Latina woman in her mid-forties wearing shorts, a plain T-shirt, and an apron walked away from Olvera Street screaming profanity in Spanish while she pushed an improvised homemade hot dog cart. In a loud voice she complained about the “pinches policías” (damn cops) while her young daughter silently followed her, rolling a large ice chest full of half-melted ice, sodas, water, and juice. On that day, the cops were not allowing vendors near this street. The young girl walked toward the parking lot where I had parked. She hid her ice chest behind the parked cars and later joined her mother and a group of female vendors who had also been pushed out of Olvera Street.

      Suddenly, three other girls came out of hiding, joined their mothers, and tucked their merchandise away behind the parked cars. I walked toward the group and asked whether they were okay. What happened? I asked, expressing sympathy. Only one woman replied, “Pues aquí nomás trabajando y la policía que no nos deja.” (Well, we are here trying to work, but the police are not letting us.) The other women looked away, annoyed at my presence and my questions. While I did not take offense, I felt uncomfortable prying. The young girls seemed comfortable with the situation, as if this was not their first encounter with police altercations. They talked amongst themselves the way girls usually do during recess at school. When I mustered the courage to ask for an interview, they politely declined. Throughout my research, this was not the first time I was rejected. Gaining the trust of the families that I interviewed took time. The girls told me to go to the plaza and that I was sure to find someone to interview there. After three hours at the plaza, I conducted two interviews and then decided to leave. On my way out, I saw them again still trying to go back to the plaza to sell their bacon-wrapped hot dogs and drinks. “A intentarlo otra vez?” (Giving it another try?), I asked. “Pues sí, mija” (Well, yes, my dear), she replied with a tone of resignation. I left Olvera Street that day reflecting how the same people and culture can be celebrated, commodified, and systematically rejected in one place and time. This was a theme that I continued to see throughout my time in the field.