A photo of me hangs on the walls of the Atrevida Beer tasting room.
It’s from 2018, when I was there to profile owner Jess Fierro. At the time, she was one of the few professional Latina brewers in the country.
Although I’m more of a bourbon guy, I loved her story. She and husband Rich, two San Diego kids, fell in love, then weathered his multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan as an Army officer.
Seven days. Seven states. Nearly 3,000 miles. Gustavo Arellano talks to Latinos across the Southwest about their hopes, fears and dreams in this election year.
Once he got out and they settled in Colorado Springs, she said it was his time to follow her. A former cosmetologist, she had adopted brewing as a hobby while he was stationed in Germany. It turned into a passion, then a mission.
She won a Vice TV reality series, using the prize — a distribution deal — and the attention to open Atrevida (Spanish for “daring”) in a small strip mall with a stunning view of the Rockies. She immediately earned accolades, and not just for beers with Mexican flavors — tamarind, Mexican chocolate, chile. Atrevida’s slogan — “Diversity, it’s on tap!” — and Pride flag out front struck a chord with people looking for community in a deeply conservative and evangelical city.
“If you can’t stand in allyship with folks when no one’s looking,” she told me in 2018, “then what kind of person are you?”
I found the quote in one of my old notebooks. My story never published, because my mother was dying of cancer. But I promised the couple that I would return one day.
On a muggy Saturday afternoon — Day 4 of my road trip through the Southwest looking for the political soul of Latinos in a presidential election year — I found a radically transformed brewery.
It was twice as big, and there were more beers than ever. I remembered all the plaques and clippings celebrating Jess’ success. Now, there were new awards. One for “La Familia Valiente” — the Brave Family. Another that deemed Rich “Warrior of the Year.”
If you can’t stand in allyship with folks when no one’s looking, then what kind of person are you?
— Jess Fierro
On Nov. 19, 2022, a gunman stormed Club Q, Colorado Springs’ only LGBTQ+-friendly nightclub, killing five people and injuring 25. The Fierros were there to see a friend of their daughter, Kassy, perform in drag. Among the dead was Kassy’s boyfriend. The toll would have been worse if Rich hadn’t helped subdue the gunman. The national media anointed him with a label he immediately rejected: hero.
Atrevida was swarmed with orders for T-shirts and other memorabilia — a blessing and a curse for the Fierros, because what happens when the nation wants to think of you as anything but your business?
After finishing a delicious strawberry cream ale, I went to the back to greet Jess. The small fermenting tanks from my last visit had been replaced by much larger ones that she was planning to return because their tops wouldn’t open without hitting the ceiling. Rich was busy strapping down a kegerator on the back of his immaculate brown El Camino.
The couple were going to serve Atrevida suds at the summer gala for the Colorado Springs Hispanic Chamber, which calls itself the Concilio. She is the group’s chair, and he is also deeply involved. The Fierros still get requests to speak about their lives and that tragic night at Club Q. They might not like to be called heroes, but they gladly wear the label of leaders — and they want to inspire other Latinos to do the same, even as they’re still learning.
“This is one of those scary rungs of the ladder that I’ve been able to mount,” said Jess, 47. Strong in voice and direct in temperament, she wore thick-framed glasses and a shiny red dress. Rich, also 47, in knee-length shorts and socks, blemish-free Nike Cortezes and a black Atrevida tank top, looked like a defensive lineman ready to kick it at the beach.
“So now I have to be that voice for representation in the areas that I’m at, because that’s where our community needs to be,” she continued. “You have to be loud and proud. It’s not enough to show up and say you’re here for the causa. You have to know why you show up.”
The Concilio gala was at a private country club within the Cheyenne Mountain Resort.
Lowriders lined the parking lot leading to the clubhouse, where the party would spread out next to the swimming pool and a small lake. A youth mariachi band and a baile folklorico troupe performed; a covers band played Chicano favorites such as War and Earth, Wind and Fire. Food and tequila stands offered free samples.
Small-business owners are the lifeblood of communities. A 2023 U.S. Treasury report showed that Latinos owned a quarter of all new businesses nationwide — proof of a people yearning for more. The shindig at first seemed like any other Hispanic chamber of commerce event, with people handing me business cards like dealers at a blackjack table.
But pride radiated like I’ve rarely seen. Colorado Springs is only 18% Latino, so the Concilio mixer felt like a family reunion, in spite of the location.
During introductions, an announcer pronounced “mariachi” as “marishi” and misgendered legendary East L.A. rockers Los Lobos “Las Lobos.” Country club members, almost all white and middle-aged and tanned, looked on quizzically from poolside lounge chairs.
“We need to show ourselves that we can lead,” said Julissa Soto, vice chair of the Concilio. She came to the U.S. from Mexico 27 years ago in the trunk of a car and now sits on the Colorado public health department’s Health Equity Commission. She jokes that she went “from nada to Prada.”
“I knew this country was not built for us,” she said. “That’s why we all need to step up. When you’re doing something, what goes around comes around, and people see it.”
The Concilio is nonpartisan, and its board members include both Republicans and Democrats. El Paso County, where Colorado Springs is located, has become more liberal as it has diversified but is still resolutely red. More than 50% went for Trump in 2020.
The Fierros are registered Democrats who plan to vote for Kamala Harris, but they don’t consider themselves partisans. This year, Atrevida hosted a taco truck run by a vocal Trump supporter, drawing complaints from some regulars.
“I told them, ‘Go talk to him, and go eat some great tacos,’” Rich said. His grin was almost as wide as his shoulders. “You don’t have to agree, but we do have to learn from each other.”
He and Jess pointed people out. There went a former Orange County public defender who’s now on the Colorado Springs City Council. That guy runs a great restaurant. She’s a professor. He’s a small-business owner.
We were at the Atrevida booth, where workers and friends handed out rainbow-colored wristbands with the brewery’s name.
Suddenly, Rich got up. “I’m going to go fanboy,” he said.
As the Fierros slowly moved through the crowd, they kept getting stopped. There were hugs, there was small talk, there were thanks for their actions during the Club Q massacre. The couple acknowledged everyone but kept moving.
He finally reached a VIP area, where Emilio Rivera — most famous for his roles in “Sons of Anarchy” and its spinoff, “Mayans M.C.” — was signing autographs. The actor didn’t know who Rich was, at first.
“Last name Fierro, like steel,” the brewery owner said as Rivera signed his Mayans M.C. T-shirt. It finally clicked, and the actor’s mood changed.
“I got to ask you a personal question,” Rivera said to Chip Law, a friend of the Fierros who also survived the Club Q massacre along with his wife. “How are you, mentally?”
“We take care of each other,” Law responded.
I knew this country was not built for us. That’s why we all need to step up.
— Julissa Soto
“On 9/11, all of us went to war,” Rich said. He gestured at his friend and referenced the date of the massacre. “On 11/19, we went to war.”
He now works for U.S. Space Command, the Department of Defense branch charged with safeguarding American interests in outer space. He travels around the country to talk to students about joining the program. The day after the Concilio shindig, he was flying to San Diego for a weeklong trek through Southern California schools.
“I’ve always wanted to do education — that was my [college] major,” he said while Rivera continued to greet fans. “But I just cussed too much, so I could never be a teacher. But now, I can. These kids get so excited. No one else from the federal government is talking to them. But we believe in them.”
I mentioned that what he was doing was hero—
“Nope, nope,” he interjected, shaking his head in disagreement.
I clarified that I wasn’t going to call him a hero. But what the couple are doing — stepping up in Colorado Springs, in brewing, leadership and now in education — is heroic, and more Latinos need to follow their lead.
“It’s not about stepping up,” he said. “It’s about showing up.”
His wife joined us as more people approached. One of her former cosmetology students asked for advice on how to start his own salon. Someone invited her husband to talk to students. The Fierros smiled and networked, and networked some more.
I hugged them and took off, as even more people waited to talk about joining the Concilio.
Next time, I promised, my wife — a small-business owner herself — will join us. And I won’t introduce them as Jess and Rich Fierro, Club Q survivors and heroes.
They’re Jess and Rich Fierro, local leaders. We should all follow their lead.