A wave of documentaries about the lives of Tejanos have found a platform in the past six months, showing just how diverse, nuanced and entertaining our lives can be.

Read more:Latinx Files: ‘Going Varsity in Mariachi’ is the story that deserves the border

You can find the contemplative radicals from “Hummingbirds” trolling the streets of Laredo on PBS; the determined detectives of “The Chicano Squad”solving crimes in Houston on A&E; and a dozen student musicians participating “Going Varsity in Mariachi” on Netflix. On Max, the third episode of the Texan docuseries triptych ‘God Save Texas’ provides an intimate and personal look at frontier life in El Paso, as Tubi has become the new home for ‘As I walk through the valley’ an in-depth look at the history of rock ‘n’ roll in the Rio Grande Valley.

And that’s exactly what you can stream now. “The Between,” a documentary about grief and reconnection set in the small border town of Eagle Pass, is currently making its way through the festival circuit and will air on PBS next spring. Even Texas Monthly is executive producing a documentary about the iconic Tejano television host Johnny Canales. (Disclosure: Los editor Fidel Martinez is featured in this project.)

As a frontiersman, I’ve grown accustomed to a specific type of narrative when it comes to how my homeland is depicted on screen, so this new wave of Tejano filmmaking is not only remarkable, it’s long overdue. But how did we get here?

The mainstreaming of Latino culture in the US over the past decade has certainly helped, making it easier for filmmakers to convince streamers that there is an audience for their films. Alejandra Vasquez, a proud Tejana and one of the directors of the Sundance-winning “Going Varsity in Mariachi,” admits that Bad Bunny and other superstars are helpful to the broader Latinx media consumption moment, but more specifically, she says, people are tired of the same sad story being told over and over again about the border. You know the type (Disney’s National Geographic has been making shows like “Border Security: America’s Front Line” and “Border Wars” since 2010): dour stories about violence, the dangers of immigration and the frustrating politics that follow.

“Those of us who grew up near the border and who are intimately familiar with the cross-cultural exchange that is so inherent to life on the border say, ‘Hey, that’s not the only story, that’s not the only side of this. Vasquez said, adding that she and co-director Sam Osborn deliberately set out to make an underdog sports film that traded the balls and jerseys for music and sombreros. “We wanted to have people on the edge of their seats.”

Mario Diaz, who directed “The Chicano Team”, agrees that there has been a weariness among audiences, but says there is also a desire to be entertained by the stories they consume.

“The Latin American audience wants to have fun,” says Diaz, noting that he worked hard to integrate both the important cultural context of Mexican immigration in Houston and the cool crime-solving swagger into “The Chicano Squad.”

Perhaps the stale story of the frontier, that of tragedy and unrest, has created an ever-growing audience of filmgoers hungry for frontier stories that are both nuanced and, dare I say, fun?

“I just don’t think we’ve had the opportunity to tell these stories before,” Diaz said. “Now, because we created it ourselves, we’re pushing these stories out into the world.”

Diaz, who is from Puerto Rico but has paid close attention to Tejanos and our stories (his next project is also set in Texas), argues that this moment is more than just a trend, and that it is something that the community itself has created. . Vazquez says a small group of like-minded Tejano artists have started a private network online to share resources and knowledge and connect experts to continue growing the field. “No one else gives us that opportunity,” she says. “Once we get together, things happen. We say: okay, let’s do it, vamos!

Charlie Vela had the DIY filmmaking experience when he and co-director Ronnie Garza made “As I Walk Through the Valley” in 2017, a breathtaking sociological journey through the Rio Grande Valley’s punk rock music history. When the duo started filming seriously in 2015, neither had any professional filmmaking experience. However, they did have a deep understanding of their subject and a sloppy ‘get it done, no matter what’ attitude.

“We made our film without any money,” Vela said. The goal, he added, was to tell the story and entertain his friends. “That’s how I’ve approached everything I’ve ever done creatively, and it’s yielded surprising results.”

Vela was shocked when the film was accepted into that year’s South by Southwest Film Festival, where it premiered on his daughter’s first birthday to critical acclaim and national media attention. The film never found a buyer, but thanks to the courage and determination of co-director Garza, the film now has a home on Tubi, where millions of people can stream it for free.

“I’m just relieved that it’s in a place where it’s accessible,” Vela says. “And people no longer have to call us for a link.”

Both Vela and Vasquez point to institutions like the Laredo Film Association And Entrancea cooperative film center in the Rio Grande Valley, as key spaces where production teams can find local staff for projects, filmmakers and artists can network, and audiences can see different types of stories across the border. LFS has been around in some form since 2015, while Entre was founded in 2021.

“We are helping to better define border narratives and stories in this region,” said Andres Sanchez, co-founder of Entre. “Many people tend to speak for the border and this community and use a lot of harmful rhetoric. We try to do justice to this place we call home.”

Filmmaker and former LFS board member Karen Gaytán says these spaces play a crucial role in sustaining and growing the movement, but they are only one piece of the puzzle. “I don’t think we’re there yet,” she says, “but I think we’re seeing a really exciting genesis that I hope continues to grow.”

Everyone I spoke to agreed that even with the success of this wave of films, there are still plenty of obstacles to overcome.

Vasquez says she and her “Going Varsity in Mariachi” team were fortunate to find producers who came on board early to support the production, but they struggled to sell or distribute the film. The documentary, she was told, was both too Mexican and not Mexican enough.

“We hear it over and over again as Tejanos,” she said. Ultimately, they were able to strike a 42-month licensing deal with Netflix, which Vasquez said was a blessing.

Ensuring that audiences know these stories are available is a challenge, says Diaz, whose A&E series is the rare exception: a network-backed story that got a full-on marketing push. More common, he says, are projects that are completed and then put on a platform without a whisper. “Even when productions are financed,” he says, “you would never know about them. It puts the responsibility on the public and the community.”

And so, even though we’re in the golden age of Tejano documentary filmmaking, not everything is completely golden. However, this moment seems to have a name. In March, Carlos A. Gutiérrez, executive director of Cinema Tropical, a New York-based nonprofit focused on highlighting Latin American cinema in the US, said: wrote about how several Tejano filmmakers “defied hegemonic narratives” and dubbed this collective body of work the “Border New Wave.” He says it goes back to 2014, when El Paso native Cristina Ibarra debuted with “Las Marthas,” a film that follows Laredo’s high society set as they prepare for an annual debutante ball and pageant. The doc originally aired on PBS and is now available to stream Kanopy. The marker marks the beginning of a great decade of diverse Tejano films being seen by more people than ever.

“It’s true,” says Vela, creating more and more success examples that help executives understand the gradients of the stories that form the boundary. Not that Tejano filmmakers are making these films for executives anyway. “Even though the economics are complicated, I would hate for someone to want to tell a story on the ground but get discouraged because they think, ‘Oh, I’ll never get it out there,’” Vela says. “If you just want to make it, you can make it.”

It seems there is no better time.

Luis G. Rendon is a Tejano journalist living in New York City and writing about the food and culture of South Texas. He has been published in Texas Monthly, Texas Highways, and the Daily Beast. You can find him on Twitter/X @louiegrendon and Instagram @lrendon.

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This story originally appeared in the Los Angeles Times.