I understand my compatriots abroad, the ones who can’t even sum up a good word for mexicanos en el exterior in English so as to sound exotic or romantic, at least half way decent and unbureaucratic, nope, they call themselves, expats, like gringos do. I suppose the whole ethos of the Hispanic is always rooted to a specific place that does not allow existence beyond the territorial boundaries from whence it originated. Take Hadrian, he though a great Roman emperor, still is referred as Spanish. These mexicans miss our homeland, México. Not the ground they were born in but the traditions and the people. The ground, that is for others to worry about. And therein lies the problem.
We love México, or rather its ways. Whatever else happens to be México it doesn’t matter. If it were up to us and México was a river in the Amazons full of piranhas, so long as waters flow we’d be happy. Whatever the piranhas devour, besides what matters to us, is fair game. In other words, so long there is plenty of guacamole, mole, mariachis, tequila and everything else that accompanies those vittels, say music, clothing and manners, and it’s left untouched by the piranhas, well, alls good. When it comes to the properties of the water of the riverbed, well, it’s all game, like I said.
I have opted to worry about the latter. Which puts me in really serious company if one has understood the mechanisms of how nations are built.
So as the day of Independence fastly approaches, I wonder if am the only one having the idea in its head that there isn’t really much to be independent about nor there is much independence to celebrate, in reality, if one wills, it’s all a matter of perspective.
I experience what the French call chagrin. You should read the etymology to understand what I mean because it is more or less that which I mean. In essence, I guess I’m deeply disappointed at the people that make up México. I expect a lot more of us than perhaps one is expected to expect.
We barely know each other and the Aztec colonialism of the 31 states blurs out ethnic lines no matter how much we allow the expression of other cultures in our ethos. The cohesion of the fabric is all Aztec. Underneath it, we others.
So we celebrate, a banner in the air, a green, a red a white and vivas here and there in a haze of utter confusion with no direction for the masses, the raging bulls, the pamplona with only one arena to end up in, a bottle of tequila with different prices and different results in different classes. The gaiety, the drunkenness, the permission to celebrate in unison, as in a day of raya, haunts us to this day.