How Mexican Revolutionaries Were Serenaded, Not Statued

When you think of a revolution, what comes to mind? Dusty battlegrounds? Charging cavalry? Perhaps the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air? For Mexico, the revolution wasn’t just fought with rifles and bayonets—it was sung, strummed, and serenaded. And it’s through these songs that we get a vivid, visceral sense of a nation clawing its way out of oppression, forging its identity with every note.

This is the story of the Mexican Revolution, told not through history books or heroic murals, but through the music that roared alongside the cries of rebellion. A story where European influences waltzed awkwardly with native rhythms until the people—tired, hungry, and fed up—rewrote the tune.

Let’s start with the prelude. Before the revolution, music in Mexico had all the personality of a snobby aristocrat at a garden party. European styles dominated the scene—waltzes, minuets, and operettas that catered to the well-heeled elite. It was the kind of music you could sip tea to, delicately, with your pinky finger extended. The instruments were ornate, the compositions meticulous, and the lyrics? About as relatable to the common folk as a silk cravat in a cornfield.

And so, music became yet another tool to highlight the glaring divide between the haves and the have-nots. The orchestras played for the landowners and the well-to-do, while the campesinos (peasants) made do with simple tunes that spoke of their toil, heartbreak, and unyielding hope.

But by 1910, things had reached a boiling point. The revolution wasn’t just about toppling a government—it was about reclaiming an identity. And with that came a new soundtrack, one that ditched the powdered wigs and stiff manners of Europe in favor of something raw, real, and unmistakably Mexican.

Here’s the thing about revolutions: they’re often told as tales of great men doing great deeds. But let’s not kid ourselves. Behind every hero galloping into battle, there was a woman who had patched his wounds, fed his troops, or—more often than not—picked up a rifle herself.

Women weren’t just the quiet, dutiful figures history likes to paint them as. They were warriors, spies, strategists, and muses. And when their contributions were overlooked by history, the songs stepped in to immortalize them.

Take “La Adelita”, for example. She wasn’t just a character in a song—she was the spirit of the soldadera, the female soldier who defied the expectations of her time. The lyrics tell of a brave woman who followed her man into battle, not out of submission, but out of sheer, unrelenting love for freedom.

And then there’s “Valentina,” another iconic tune. But this one’s no soft lullaby. It’s a fiery anthem for a woman who stood her ground, who wouldn’t be told what to do, not by her lover, not by society. If you’ve ever wondered what feminism sounded like in 1910, it’s right there in the strumming of the guitars and the defiance of the lyrics.

Here’s the irony: in a time when women were expected to be seen and not heard, their silence was deafening. The songs didn’t just celebrate their bravery—they also highlighted the hypocrisy of a society that wanted women to stay in the background, even as they held the revolution together.

Music became their loudspeaker. While the men were off shouting slogans and firing shots, the songs carried the stories of the women who fed the hungry, nursed the sick, and fought when the odds were stacked against them.

And let’s not forget the sheer poetry of it all. These weren’t just tunes; they were love letters to a nation, to freedom, to the unsung heroes who gave everything and asked for nothing.

The Mexican Revolution gave birth to a new kind of music, one that was as diverse and resilient as the people it represented. Corridos—narrative ballads—became the genre of the revolution, telling stories of heroism, betrayal, love, and loss.

Each region added its own flavor to the mix. From the haunting melodies of the north to the vibrant rhythms of the south, the music became a tapestry of Mexico’s many voices.

And let’s not forget the instruments. Gone were the polished violins of the aristocracy, replaced by the earthy strum of guitars, the wail of trumpets, and the pulse of percussion. This wasn’t music for the drawing room; it was music for the campfire, the battlefield, the heart.

Over a century later, the songs of the Mexican Revolution still resonate. They’re played at fiestas, sung in schools, and passed down through generations. They remind us of a time when the people refused to be silenced, when the music wasn’t just an accompaniment to history but a force that shaped it. Because in the end, revolutions fade, battles are forgotten, and leaders come and go. But the songs? They’re forever.

Marieta: A Bit of Skirt, a Lot of Trouble (According to Me)

Among the battle cries and gunpowder haze, there were songs — melodious little snippets of history, scandal, and drama — that have outlasted the bullets and bayonets. And one such tune is Marieta.

The story of Marieta is as elusive as a well-timed siesta. Was she Marieta Martínez, a femme fatale who swayed Pancho Villa’s hardened troops with a mere flutter of her eyelashes? Or was she Carmen Rubio, a mischief-maker born in Oaxaca? The truth, as it often does in stories like these, has been cheerfully sacrificed on the altar of legend.

What we do know is that Marieta was no wallflower. She had “great physical attributes,” which is history’s delicate way of saying she turned heads faster than a gunshot. She was liberal, daring, and not one to cower behind a curtain. Allegedly, she worked in a nightclub frequented by soldiers. But she wasn’t just serving tequila and coy smiles. No, she was a master of espionage, using her flirtatious charms to extract secrets that would make even James Bond tip his hat.

It’s no wonder then that she inspired a song. And what a song it is. Marieta isn’t just a melody; it’s a cautionary tale wrapped in a cheeky, mischievous tune. The Záizar brothers, Juan and David, composed it with a sense of humor that could make a stone-faced general chuckle. But beneath the playful notes lies a sharp message: being flirtatious in a world of dangerous men can lead to more than a broken heart.

“Marieta, don’t be flirtatious,” the song implores. “Because men are very bad.” Right, let’s pause here. If that isn’t the understatement of the century, I don’t know what is. The men of the revolution weren’t exactly known for their subtlety. Promises of gifts, the song warns, often end in disappointment — or worse, violence.

Marieta’s mother, like mothers everywhere, tries to steer her wayward daughter toward propriety. She nags about growing her hair and wearing longer dresses. Why? Because short dresses and bending over, apparently, make a woman “look very pretty.” This isn’t just a mother-daughter spat; it’s a reflection of societal norms that demanded women be modest while simultaneously punishing them for attracting attention.

But Marieta isn’t one for rules. She’s off to the market, where she promptly gets into trouble with her boyfriend. Upon returning home, she’s met not with understanding but with a thrashing from her mother for losing money during her escapade. And then, in the grand tradition of bad luck and bad decisions, her apron catches fire.

If you think that’s the end of Marieta’s antics, think again. She sneaks off to the bullfights, flirting with the cavalry as if the revolution itself weren’t enough drama.

La Valentina: A Woman Who Made Men Face the Devil (and a Hangover)

Ah, La Valentina. It’s not just a song; it’s a thunderous battle cry wrapped in the seductive tones of tequila-soaked guitars. If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to step into the boots of a revolutionary, ready to trade bullets for freedom and romance for a bullet wound, this song might just be your anthem.

But before we dive into the lyrics, let’s set the stage, shall we? Mexico in the early 20th century wasn’t a land of sleepy cantinas and lazy siestas. It was a land ablaze, its people caught in the whirlwind of revolution, where heroes and heroines emerged from the chaos, clutching rifles in one hand and ideals in the other. And among these fiery figures was María Valentina Ramírez, a woman who, quite frankly, could have put most Hollywood action heroes to shame.

Born in Sinaloa in 1893, María Valentina Ramírez wasn’t just your average rebel. She was a woman who disguised herself as a man, stuffed her hair under her hat, and joined the ranks of the revolutionaries. Why? Because simply watching history unfold wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to shape it. Under the orders of General Ramón Iturbide and later Obregón, she charged into battle like a whirlwind on the Pumarejo Bridge, earning her place as a lieutenant. That’s right, a lieutenant.

This wasn’t a token title handed out for good attendance. Valentina earned her rank with sheer grit, determination, and a knack for surviving skirmishes that would make even the most hardened soldier consider a career in farming. Her bravery earned her the respect of the troops, and her legend grew. It wasn’t long before she became a muse for the people, her story immortalized in song. Enter La Valentina, a tune that captures not just the spirit of the woman but also the undying passion of a nation.

Now, let’s talk about the song itself. If you’ve ever been to a Mexican fiesta, chances are you’ve heard the first verse belted out with gusto:

Valentina, Valentina, I would like to tell you
That a passion dominates me, and it is what made me come.

Simple, yet devastatingly effective. These lines don’t just tug at your heartstrings—they pluck them like a mariachi guitarist on his third shot of tequila. It’s a declaration of love, sure, but it’s also a declaration of intent. This isn’t your typical romantic ballad where the protagonist pines from afar. This is a full-throated roar of affection, delivered with the kind of fervor usually reserved for battle cries.

And then there’s this gem:

They say that because of your love, evil will follow me,
It doesn't matter if they are the devil; I also know how to die.

You’ve got to admire the swagger. This isn’t just a man in love; this is a man who’s willing to square off against Satan himself, armed with nothing but his devotion and, presumably, a pistol tucked into his waistband. The stakes are high, the emotions higher. And isn’t that what revolution—and love—are all about?

What makes La Valentina truly remarkable is its ability to encapsulate an era. The lyrics, the melody, the raw emotion—it’s all there, preserved like a butterfly in amber. It’s a reminder of a time when life was brutal, but people still found reasons to sing. When the world was on fire, but the flames only seemed to stoke the passions of the human spirit.

It’s also a song that refuses to be tamed. Sure, it’s about love, but it’s also about defiance. Consider this verse:

If because I drink tequila, tomorrow I drink sherry,
If because they see me drunk, tomorrow they will not see me.

Here, the narrator shrugs off societal judgment with the kind of devil-may-care attitude that could only come from someone who’s seen the inside of a revolutionary trench. You want to judge me for my tequila? Fine. But I’ll still be standing tomorrow—well, unless someone shoots me first. And even then, I’ll die with a song in my heart and tequila on my breath.

Coronela, Coronela… What on Earth is That Noise?

The dust of the battlefield settles as the rhythmic beat of a mariachi band’s acoustic box cuts through the silence. Trumpets blare triumphantly, and the air is alive with a sense of arrival—not just any arrival, mind you, but the sort that makes people line the streets, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of heroes marching by. That’s Las Coronelas for you, a musical embodiment of honor and celebration.

Written by Bonifacio Rodríguez Collazo—a man who clearly knew a thing or two about stirring the soul—Las Coronelas pays homage to the colonels, both male and female, who played a pivotal role in the revolution. The song’s name itself is a bit of a difficult question. Officially titled Las Coronelas (plural), it’s often referred to as La Coronela (singular), owing to the way it’s sung. Confused? Don’t be. This is one of those delightful quirks that adds to its charm, much like how you might call a pint "a quick drink" but know full well it’s never going to stop at just one.

The song begins with a martial drumbeat, executed not by an actual drum but by the acoustic box of mariachi instruments. Clever, isn’t it? It’s as if the music itself is dressed in uniform, ready to march into battle. Then come the trumpets, bold and commanding, as if heralding the arrival of a military platoon. You can almost hear the cheer of the crowd, see the flags waving, and feel the surge of national pride. It’s all very cinematic, really, like the opening sequence of a historical epic—only better, because it’s real.

And then there’s the dance. Watching the performers move to Las Coronelas is an experience in itself. They stride with confidence, their bearing firm and haughty, yet joyful. There’s a sense of purpose in every step, a kind of resolute dignity that says, “We will not back down.” The choreography takes you on an emotional journey, much like the music itself. One moment, you’re swelling with pride; the next, you’re swept up in a sense of solemn respect for those who fought for freedom.

Here’s where it gets even more fascinating. Las Coronelas isn’t just a song; it’s a cultural icon. By using mariachi—the most representative Mexican music ensemble—Rodríguez Collazo gave the piece a distinctly national identity. It’s as if he took the very heart of Mexico, wrapped it in a melody, and sent it out into the world. And what a melody it is! Short and simple, yes, but brimming with power and meaning. It’s the kind of song that doesn’t just stick in your head—it lodges itself in your soul.

Now, let’s talk about the lyrics. They’re not exactly a Tolstoy novel in length, but they don’t need to be. Here’s how they go:

Coronela, coronela,
olerí, olerí ay lara, lara, ra.
Coronela, coronela,
olerí, olerí ay la.

That’s it. Four lines, repeated with the kind of infectious rhythm that makes you want to join in, whether you know what olerí means or not. And before you ask, no one knows what olerí means. It’s not meant to be analyzed; it’s meant to be felt. It’s a rallying cry, a celebration, and a tribute all rolled into one.

La Rielera: Because Every War Needs a Train Song (Apparently)

Now, La Rielera is a cracker of a song. It doesn’t just evoke the spirit of the revolution; it is the revolution. But what makes it so remarkable? Well, pull up a chair, pour yourself a tequila, and let me tell you why this humble little tune about trains, pistols, and love is the musical equivalent of a locomotive roaring down the tracks of history.

Let’s start with the obvious. The title itself, La Rielera, translates to something like “The Rail Worker’s Woman.” It’s a nod to the vital role railroads played during the revolution. Think of them as the Teslas of their time, except louder, dirtier, and without a self-driving mode. These steel beasts weren’t just modes of transport; they were lifelines, carrying troops, weapons, and even animals across the country.

But La Rielera isn’t just about trains. It’s about the people who lived, loved, and fought on them. Specifically, it’s about the women. Picture a tough-as-nails lady, armed to the teeth, bidding farewell to her beloved as he hops aboard the train to join the fight. It’s romantic, tragic, and gritty all at once. It’s like a spaghetti western, but with more tortillas and fewer Italians pretending to be cowboys.

Now, this is where it gets interesting. Unlike most songs of the time, which were all about the blokes—Pancho Villa this, Emiliano Zapata that—La Rielera flips the script. It puts a woman front and center, celebrating her resilience, her passion, and, let’s be honest, her sheer badassery.

Imagine her, pistols at her hips, ivory-handled no less, ready to defend her love and her cause. This isn’t some damsel in distress waiting for her knight in shining armor. No, this is a woman who would probably slap that knight across the face, steal his horse, and ride off into the sunset.

And let’s not overlook the practicality here. The song is often performed with just a harmonica and a guitar. Why? Because when you’re dodging bullets and hopping on and off trains, you’re not lugging around a grand piano, are you? It’s raw, it’s stripped down, and it’s perfect.

Now, the lyrics. They’re simple, sure, but they pack a punch.

Soy rielera y tengo mi Juan
(I am a rail worker’s woman, and I have my Juan)

Right off the bat, it’s personal. This isn’t some abstract anthem; it’s a story. Her story. She loves her Juan, and she’s proud of it.

Tengo mis dos pistolas con sus cachas de marfil
(I have my two pistols with their ivory handles)

This line, for me, is the speciality. It’s like something straight out of a Tarantino film. You can practically hear the harmonica wail as she pulls those pistols out, ready to defend her love and her cause.

Soy una pobre rielera del ferrocarril central
(I am a poor little rail worker of the central railroad)

And there it is—the humble, gritty reality. She’s not a general or a hero in the traditional sense. She’s just a “poor little rail worker.” But in that humility lies her power. She represents the countless nameless, faceless people who kept the revolution rolling—literally. Viva la revolución!

The Soldier's Song: A Tearjerker From the Mexican Revolution

For every grand uprising, there’s a soundtrack—something that stirs the hearts of the fighters and tugs at the souls of those left behind. And few revolutions boast a richer, more emotional playlist than the Mexican Revolution. Among its treasures is the poignant tune “El Adiós del Soldado” (“The Soldier’s Goodbye”).

If you’ve never heard this song, imagine a soldier, silhouetted by the first rays of dawn, stands at the window of his lover’s home. He’s about to march off to God-knows-where, with no promise of returning alive. As he bids her farewell, his words carry the weight of uncertainty and duty, love and sacrifice. It's heartbreak set to music.

To fully grasp the emotional punch of “El Adiós del Soldado,” you’d need to have been at Technical Secondary School No. 37, “Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra,” in Escobedo, Nuevo León, on a day when the universe decided to serve up a little theatrical magic. The school’s folkloric dance group, under the watchful eye of Prof. Rolando Pérez Corral, performed a version of this song so evocative, it left the audience stunned.

The stage, dimly lit, transforms into a soldier’s camp. There’s no over-the-top set design here—just some straw, a few sarapes, hats, rifles, and a carefully tended bonfire. In the background, the group sits as if around the campfire, their stillness amplifying the gravity of the scene.

Then, a couple steps into the spotlight. Their movements are slow, deliberate, as if every step carries the weight of the soldier’s impending farewell. They don’t need flashy choreography; their restrained grace speaks volumes. And as the song unfolds, the audience feels the ache of separation, the fear of the unknown, and the bittersweet hope of a promised return.

When the performance ends, the silence is deafening. Then, the applause erupts—thunderous, heartfelt, accompanied by shouts of encouragement. It’s the kind of reception that performers dream of, and it’s proof of the song’s enduring power.

The song’s lyrics are deceptively simple, yet devastatingly effective:

Goodbye, goodbye… Star of my nights
said a soldier standing at the foot of a window.
I’m leaving, I’m leaving, don’t cry, my angel,
for I’ll return tomorrow.

These opening lines alone could rival the best of poetry. They paint a vivid picture of a soldier torn between love and duty, a man trying to reassure his beloved even as he faces the grim realities of war.

But it doesn’t end there. The song takes us to the battlefield, where the romantic notions of heroism give way to the stark brutality of combat:

Hours later, when the black night
covered the battlefield in mourning,
and in the light of the pale drink...

You can almost see it: the darkness of the night, the flicker of distant gunfire, the soldier clutching a drink—not in celebration, but perhaps in a futile attempt to forget the horrors around him. It’s a haunting image, one that lingers long after the music stops.

Now, you might be wondering: why does a century-old song still resonate? Why should anyone care about a soldier’s farewell in an era of drones and digital warfare? The answer is simple. “El Adiós del Soldado” isn’t just about one soldier or one war. It’s about the universal experience of love and loss, of saying goodbye and not knowing if you’ll ever say hello again.

This is a song that transcends time and place. It reminds us that, whether you’re a revolutionary in 1910 Mexico or a modern-day soldier stationed halfway across the world, the emotions are the same. The fear of leaving, the hope of returning, the pain of separation—they’re as old as humanity itself. Goodbye, goodbye…

30-30 Carbine: So Good, They Wrote a Song About It (Even Though It’s Just a Gun)

Ah, the 30-30 carbine—a weapon, yes, but far more than that. To the men who carried it, this firearm wasn’t just a tool of destruction; it was a symbol, a shield, and a steadfast companion. It didn’t boast overwhelming firepower or high-tech gadgetry, but what it lacked in sheer force, it more than made up for in rugged reliability. And, as history would have it, it inspired one of the most evocative ballads of the Mexican Revolution, a piece that’s as much about guts and glory as it is about steel and wood.

Now, imagine yourself back in the early 20th century, the air thick with dust and rebellion. Mexico was a nation ablaze, its people rising against the injustices of dictatorship. The revolution was more than a war; it was a seismic cultural shift, a struggle for identity, freedom, and a fairer slice of the proverbial tortilla. And in this cacophony of conflict, the 30-30 carbine stood out like a trusty steed in a battlefield of unruly broncos.

This was no boutique firearm, mind you. The 30-30 wasn’t designed to impress the armchair generals of the world; it was built to serve the hard-bitten revolutionary, the kind of chap who didn’t have time for a weapon that jammed or misfired. General Francisco Villa, the "Centaur of the North," and his troops swore by it. To them, the 30-30 was more than a gun; it was a statement. It said, "We don’t need fancy gear to take you on. All we need is courage, determination, and this bloody marvelous piece of kit."

Enter José Luis Gazcón Godínez, a man who saw the poetic potential in this rugged firearm. Gazcón penned a ballad that captured the spirit of the revolution, a song that’s equal parts anthem and call to arms. The lyrics celebrate not just the weapon but the unyielding spirit of the men who wielded it. It’s a song that doesn’t just tug at the heartstrings; it gives them a full-on revolutionary strum.

The song opens with a nod to the carbine’s humble yet heroic status:

"30-30 carbine that the rebels carried
and the Maderistas said that with it they could not kill."

Now, it’s a declaration. The Maderistas, loyal to revolutionary leader Francisco Madero, are mocked here, their skepticism about the 30-30 turned into poetic irony. The rebels proved them wrong, wielding the carbine with devastating effectiveness.

The song continues, imbuing the 30-30 with almost mythical qualities:

"With my 30-30 I am going to march to swell the ranks of the rebellion.
If they ask for my blood, I will give them my blood for the inhabitants of our nation."

There’s a raw, unvarnished beauty in these lines. They speak of sacrifice and patriotism, but also of an unshakeable bond between man and weapon. This isn’t some sanitized ode to duty; it’s a gut-punch of a promise: I’ll fight, and I’ll die if I have to, but I’ll do it on my terms, with my trusty 30-30 in hand.

And then comes the verse that could only have been written for a man like Pancho Villa:

"Francisco Villa shouted: Where are you, Aguemedo?
I want to see you face to face, you who are never afraid."

This is Villa at his most audacious, throwing down the gauntlet with all the subtlety of a charging bull. It’s a direct challenge, a call to settle things the old-fashioned way—face to face, no tricks, no cowardice. The carbine, of course, is there as both tool and talisman, a weapon that embodies the very essence of Villa’s defiant spirit.

What makes this song—and indeed, the 30-30 carbine itself—so iconic is the way it captures the ethos of the revolution. The Mexican Revolution wasn’t about shiny uniforms or grandiose strategies; it was about grit, ingenuity, and an unrelenting desire for justice. The 30-30, with its no-nonsense design and proven reliability, was the perfect weapon for such a cause.

La Cucaracha: A Drunken Cockroach, Marijuana, and the Soundtrack of Revolution

When it comes to the Mexican Revolution, a bloody and chaotic fiesta of rebellion, betrayal, and the odd misplaced moustache, one song scuttles its way into the spotlight: La Cucaracha.

Now, if you're imagining a plucky cockroach tap-dancing through the annals of Mexican history, you'd be both wrong and weirdly right. Because while the song’s titular insect might not have donned a pair of spats, it certainly danced its way into the cultural fabric of a revolution that redefined a nation.

In the days before Twitter turned news into an Olympic sport of brevity, Mexicans relied on corridos. These were more than songs; they were audible telegrams, delivering stories of heroes, villains, battles, and scandals. Forget broadsheets; if you wanted the latest gossip on the revolution, you'd grab a guitar, a tequila, and start singing.

La Cucaracha, however, isn’t just another corrido. It’s a song that evolved like a drunken uncle at a wedding—changing verses, swapping meanings, and staggering into various interpretations depending on who was singing it. By the time it became the cheeky anthem we know today, it had shed its original skin to mock one of the Revolution's most controversial figures: Victoriano Huerta. If there’s ever been a man to make moustache-twirling look like a serious career choice, it was him. Known for his love of strong drinks, weaker morals, and a tailcoat that screamed “misplaced elegance,” Huerta was a figure ripe for ridicule.

According to popular lore, his public appearances often showcased his penchant for excess. Picture a staggering Huerta, high on a mix of tequila and what may or may not have been the herb of the moment, looking less like a statesman and more like, well, a cockroach. Add to this his reputation for being despised by pretty much everyone with a pulse, and it’s no surprise the revolutionaries turned him into the butt of their jokes through La Cucaracha.

Here’s where La Cucaracha becomes the life of the revolutionary party. Originally, it was just a jaunty little tune—a lively instrumental number meant for dancing. But, like a rebellious teenager, it refused to stay in its lane. Before long, the revolutionaries slapped on some lyrics, laced with enough satire to make even the sharpest political cartoonist blush.

The version that stuck, written by Rafael Sánchez Escobar, takes the cockroach and gives it a peculiar ailment: a lack of marijuana to smoke. Now, let’s not get bogged down in the obvious question of why a cockroach needs weed. Instead, let’s marvel at how this song managed to combine absurd humor with cutting social commentary.

For instance:

The cockroach, the cockroach, can’t walk
Because it doesn’t have, because it lacks, marijuana to smoke.

It’s playful, it’s irreverent, and it’s oddly catchy. But there’s more to this ditty than meets the ear. It’s a masterclass in mockery, a jab at Huerta’s alleged marijuana habit and his general incompetence.

What makes La Cucaracha a masterpiece isn’t just its wit or its danceable rhythm; it’s its adaptability. Over the years, the song has been reworked, remixed, and reimagined countless times. Some versions are tame, while others are packed with enough bite to leave teeth marks.

One popular variation tells the tale of a cockroach in the kitchen, bravely surviving the onslaught of parental flip-flops. Another paints her as a feisty party-goer, rallying her friends for a fiesta despite her many injuries. Through it all, the cockroach remains resilient—a metaphor, perhaps, for the indomitable Mexican spirit.

And that’s the beauty of La Cucaracha. Whether it’s mocking a dictator, celebrating rebellion, or just making us laugh with its absurdity, it captures the heart of a culture that thrives on humor, resilience, and a good tune. Cheers to La Cucaracha, the little cockroach that could. Or, in Huerta’s case, couldn’t.

La Adelita: The Ballad of a Badass Nurse and a Love-struck Soldier

It’s 1913, and Mexico, embroiled in a fiery struggle for justice and land, is a stage where heroes and legends are forged. Forget the grizzled generals and the brash young soldados for a moment—because amidst this chaos, a quiet yet powerful force emerges: Adelita, a name that echoes like a melody through the annals of history.

This isn’t just a song, mind you. Adelita is the soul of a nation, the heartbeat of a revolution, and, dare I say, a love letter to a kind of bravery that defies gender, time, and convention. If the Mexican Revolution were a grand opera, Adelita would be its hauntingly beautiful aria, the one that makes even the grumpiest cynic dab at their eyes with a handkerchief.

Adelita was no shrinking violet. Born Adela Pérez Velarde on September 8, 1900, she was, by all accounts, a force of nature. At an age when most girls were still being told to sit pretty and not speak unless spoken to, she had already donned the white coat of a nurse, striding headfirst into the gritty, testosterone-fueled theater of war. And why? Because she believed in something bigger than herself—a trait as rare then as it is now.

A teenage girl patching up bullet wounds, holding the hands of dying soldiers, and probably giving the odd tongue-lashing to anyone who underestimated her. And then came Antonio del Río Armenta, a soldier who didn’t just notice her—he fell hopelessly, utterly, gloriously in love with her. And what does a lovesick revolutionary do? Compose a corrido, of course. Not just any song, mind you, but the corrido of the Mexican Revolution.

Now, let’s talk about the song itself. La Adelita is a manifesto, a declaration, and a bit of a war cry rolled into one. It opens with a vivid tableau: a regiment of soldiers perched on a rugged mountain range, camping out like a band of scrappy adventurers. Enter Adelita, a young woman so remarkable that even the colonel tips his hat in her direction. She’s brave, beautiful, and beloved by all, but it’s the sergeant who idolizes her, penning words that are as poignant as they are audacious.

The song’s chorus is where things get deliciously theatrical. The sergeant, caught in the throes of his love, proclaims that if Adelita ever left him for another man, he’d follow her to the ends of the earth—by land, by sea, even on a warship. And if she were his wife? Oh, the silk dresses and the grand dances at the barracks that would follow! It’s a love story set against the backdrop of war, a tale as old as time but told with the raw, unvarnished honesty of a soldier’s heart.

Adelita isn’t just one woman. She’s every woman who stood up, stepped forward, and said, “To hell with convention—I’ve got work to do.” In the revolution, women like her were known as soldaderas, a term that doesn’t just describe their role but encapsulates their spirit. These weren’t just camp followers or nurses; they were fighters, strategists, and symbols of resilience. They carried rifles, cooked meals, tended to the wounded, and, when needed, charged into battle alongside their male counterparts.

The song La Adelita immortalizes this archetype. It’s why the name Adelita is as synonymous with the Mexican Revolution as Pancho Villa or Emiliano Zapata. It’s a nod to the unsung heroes who, quite frankly, deserve more than a footnote in history books.

You might be tempted to write this off as a quaint bit of folklore, but you’d be missing the point entirely. The story of Adelita is as relevant today as it was over a century ago. It’s about breaking barriers, defying expectations, and doing what needs to be done, not because it’s easy but because it’s right.

In a world that still wrestles with gender inequality and the erasure of women’s contributions, Adelita stands as a beacon. She reminds us that courage isn’t confined to battlefields and that love, even when it’s messy and complicated, can inspire acts of extraordinary bravery.

Even now, the song La Adelita resonates. It’s been performed by countless artists, from mariachi bands to modern singers, each rendition a testament to its enduring appeal. It’s sung at festivals, commemorations, and, if you’re lucky, around a campfire with a bottle of tequila making the rounds. And every time it’s played, it’s not just a song—it’s a tribute, a celebration, and a reminder of what it means to fight for something worth fighting for.

So, Apparently, the Mexican Revolution Was All About… Musical Caresses

There are moments in history when words fail, when the dry ink of textbooks cannot capture the soul of a people. For the Mexican Revolution, a turbulent time of bloodshed, ideals, and transformation, history’s ink often chose to glorify the machismo—the brave men on horseback, their rifles glinting under the unforgiving sun. Their names are carved into statues, splashed across street signs, and recited in the classrooms of elementary schools.

But let’s be honest. That’s just one side of the story, and quite possibly the less interesting one. Because behind the curtain of hero worship, there exists a quieter, more profound narrative—one that doesn’t scream for attention but resonates in every note of the corridos and ballads born from the Revolution. And here’s the twist: these songs are not about men at all. They are about women. Women who didn’t demand statues, or fanfare, or the sycophantic praise that men seem to require as much as air. No, these women simply lived, loved, and fought. And in doing so, they earned the most eternal tribute of all: they became music.

Let’s get one thing straight. The stereotypical image of women from the revolutionary era—the self-sacrificing, obedient soul confined to domesticity—is absolute rubbish. Sure, society may have wanted to package them that way, but reality tells a different story. These women weren’t just passive bystanders; they were strategists, informants, soldiers, and—dare I say it—revolutionaries in their own right. And what’s fascinating is how their contributions, their essence, their very spirit, were immortalized not with chiseled marble or bronze plaques, but through the sweeping romanticism of music.

Think about it. Men might have won battles, but women won hearts. And when it comes to legacy, I’d argue that the latter lasts far longer. A statue crumbles; a song lingers forever. The corridos and ballads of the Revolution—raw, passionate, and profoundly human—sing of women with a depth and sincerity that no monument could ever match.

Here’s the irony, though. For all their strength and significance, the women of the Mexican Revolution often operated in the shadows, their contributions eclipsed by the loud, chest-thumping bravado of their male counterparts. But as the saying goes, actions speak louder than words. And in this case, silence—if you can call it that—was deafening.

The women didn’t need to shout about their achievements; they let their deeds do the talking. And in a way, this quiet power is reflected in the songs themselves. Unlike the bombastic odes to male heroes, the corridos about women are intimate, tender, and deeply personal. They don’t demand your attention; they earn it. Every note, every lyric is a whispered tribute, a gentle caress that says, Thank you. We see you. We remember you.

But let’s not make the mistake of thinking these songs are purely historical artifacts. No, they’re living, breathing testaments to a nation’s soul. They remind us that history isn’t just about wars and treaties; it’s about people. Real people. People who loved and lost, who laughed and cried, who lived and died. And when it comes to the Mexican Revolution, the women in these songs embody all of that and more.

Because here’s the thing: while the men were busy trying to carve their names into history with guns and glory, the women were quietly shaping the future. And if that’s not worth singing about, I don’t know what is.

In-text Citation: (Hernández Martínez, 2020, pp. 56-61)