"Look at what you built, we started with four men and now check this out," Sergio Garcia, the sergeant at arms of the Aztec Rebels club, told Andrés Lucero as he pointed at the packed party, while their kids ran around the space and women chatted at one of the tables. Andrés didn't say anything, but his eyes said it all — the pride of seeing his dream become a reality, surrounded by friends who had become family.
Thanksgiving night. The South Bronx.
A small opening reveals concrete stairs that go down to the basement in a quiet New York City street. But the silence doesn't last too long. The smell of lime and oregano mixes with the faint aroma of beer as the sound of banda music fills the basement space. Tables are filled to the brim with steaming bowls of pozole, and a soft murmur of conversations weaves through the room like an invisible thread.
All the leather-vested men look to the staircase. As Andrés removed his beanie, a bald eagle tattoo was revealed, glistening under the dim lights. He walked down the steps like an old Hollywood movie star entering a bar, eyes fixed on the gathering.
The November wind blew in from the East River on to Intervale Avenue. But here, Andrés' gaze softened as he watched his people together, sharing stories and laughter.
The festivities that night were a testament to how far the club had come, and also spoke of how Latino communities tend to integrate into American culture: While they were celebrating Thanksgiving, there was no turkey or gravy, but rather pozole, chicken and black mole, traditional of Puebla, where most of the Mexican population in New York is from. But to truly understand the Aztec Rebels, you have to look back at how Andrés and his brother, Eddie Lucero, started their journey in a very different South Bronx.
Andrés founded the Aztec Rebels with Eddie after learning the culture and politics in a Bronx motorcycling club called The Roadrunners. They dreamt of creating a space where they could hear their own music, speak their language, and be understood. "I started hanging out with The Roadrunners when I was 19. Eddie was 12, and he would tag along everywhere we went. My brother grew up in that club. He has always lived the life of a biker, so, in a way, we learned what a motorcycle club was. That's why we were able to start our own club on the basis of what an actual club is."
After deciding on brown to be the club's color and designing the Aztec eagle insignia, the Aztec Rebels MC was officially founded in 2016 with five founding members. They've since expanded to over 20 full members and five prospects from every borough of NYC. Most of them live in the Bronx and Staten Island — "La Isla," as they colloquially call it.
Every full member goes through a sometimes years-long process that begins with an invite, becoming a prospect and learning the rules of the club through a current member before gaining their three distinctive vest patches. A flier for the club reads: "We accept every nationality. You don't need a motorcycle to enter, but we do expect you to get one eventually." The Aztecs, nonetheless, are primarily Mexican, speckled by a few Ecuadorians and a Honduran member.
Each has a different story and connection to Mexico.
"For me, the journey here was more of a game, an adventure through the desert," Andrés says when recalling his migratory journey. "I came in '86 and have always been looking for the opportunity to improve my situation, even when I was a kid. I was 12, and for me, it was just normal. I didn't see the danger back then, but if I had to do it again, I would be very scared, because I've heard a lot of horror stories from recent migrants."
His parents had arrived five years earlier from Piaxtla, a town of 15,000 in the mountains of Puebla. They started a fabric factory in uptown Manhattan and rented an apartment on Southern Boulevard in the Bronx. "I come from a pueblo — I was never from the city — so it was a really drastic change to arrive here and see all the people. Especially in that time — the Bronx was in the middle of the drug pandemic. Crack."
In the '80s, the South Bronx still bore the scars of fires that burned entire neighborhoods to the ground the prior decade. "There were a lot of burnt buildings. It looked like a war zone. A lot of people are using drugs in the streets. I adapt quickly, nonetheless. In the end, it didn't scare me; I just had to get used to everything. After a couple of years, it was just normal to see what was going on," Andrés recalls from his youth.
Mexican immigration to the United States the beginning of the 20th century, with undocumented agricultural laborers traveling to work in the Californian fields. In the 1940's, the Bracero program formalized the employment of many of these workers, who were needed to fill the gap created by the demand for men during World War II. Throughout the century, the practice of young men migrating to work in the United States grew more and more common.
In 1980, there were 39,000 people of Mexican origin in New York state, while 10 years later, the census registered an. It is in this landscape that so many Mexicans have built a home in the United States, finding themselves and creating communities that make them feel safe and with a sense of identity.
In 2020, Andrés handed the president's badge to his brother and now spends most of his time running a deli on Third Avenue. The back of the store, adorned with a Virgen de Guadalupe sprayed in gritty black graffiti, doubles as his tattoo parlor. His home is still the apartment building where his parents settled in the '80s. One of the doors belongs to Eddie.
Stern and serious, Eddie carries an almost military posture in his shoulders — gained by private security training and a lifetime living among the club — along with five commanding officers, they keep the Aztecs riding. Eddie is not only the club president and a commanding presence amongst the Aztecs; he is also father to twin teenagers that often spend time with the club, when they are not playing soccer with the FC Harlem. Eddie, as part of a sort of training, tells his kids of the tough decisions he sometimes has to make as president, and asks them what they would do. Explaining and passing on the most important value of the club: the value of family. He is also the friendliest of the group when playing with the other members' kids. He is loved and respected by everyone.
Riders hold a lot of stigma and stereotypes of machismo and misogyny, sometimes supported by long-held traditions and questionable practices. To illustrate, in most motorcycle clubs, wives and girlfriends of the group wear vests that read "Property of X M.C." As president, Eddie broke that tradition by writing "Protected by Aztec Rebels M.C." on the women's vests.
When looking at one of the Aztecs' gatherings, one must see beyond the vests and the stereotypes surrounding motorcycle culture. Although they might look tough on the outside, the men that form this community are responsible family men. The club also provides a family to those who, in some cases, left their families behind and started a life completely on their own in the United States.
"People are always looking for a family, and that's why sometimes they get into gangs. We want to be that place where Mexicans can come and be in a safe environment, without violence, but with a family," Eddie says.
At 19, 'Diablo,' is the youngest full member in the Aztecs. He asked us not to use his full name because of his immigration status. Most, or rather none, of the members know his actual name; they refer to him by the nickname he earned from his love of speed on his motorbike.
"I went straight into middle school and had a lot of fights. People tried to bully me because I didn't speak English, so I just defended myself, and only then did they respect me and start hanging out with me," Diablo recalls.
He sticks out from the other Aztecs only for his skinny build and the noticeable age difference. But he is just one of them when it comes to the brotherly rowdiness and banter.
"My mother told me that the fights in high school were not irrelevant, but they meant knives and weapons. All my friends went to the same high school, but I didn't tell them and went to a different one. Most of them are now in gangs and some of them are no longer around," he says, while hanging out next to a food truck selling birria and tacos on a highway in Connecticut.
Since 2016, the Rebels have been gathering in their personal apartments, garages and basements, from Yonkers to Staten Island, or "La Isla," as they call it. But they've always wanted to have a permanent home.
As their numbers increased, the commanding officers started looking for potential places to rent, primarily in the South Bronx. They visited more than 20 lots that they could use, but were always turned down.
This year, their efforts finally came to fruition. A remote street next to the Hunts Point "marketa," as the Latino community calls it, finally accepted the Aztec Rebels as tenants. Eddie called an emergency meeting at the new location without giving away the surprise. All the men answered the call. They came thinking that their president was in danger. They climbed up the stairs without removing their helmets, ready for anything. And there stood Eddie: he said. "Welcome to your new house."
In the next couple weeks, they remodeled the space with their bare hands. Most have worked in construction, so it wasn't hard for them. They added a classic pool and foosball table, and a TV, where they watched the Mexican soccer league's final between Club América and Cruz Azul.
"There's a different way to do things. You don't have to follow a straight path. We broke the mold by being Mexican bikers in New York. You can be wholesome and be a family man. And you can be more than just a biker. You can be a leader in your community and help everybody out by being part of something big," Eddie concluded.
Mayolo López Gutiérrez is a photojournalist based in Mexico City. You can see more of Mayolo's work on his website, , or on Instagram at .
Photo edited by Virginia Lozano. Copy edited by Zach Thompson.
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