Senorita With Her Eyes On Fire

One of my co-workers has decided that I’m 85% Mexican, so with that in mind here is what I’ve learned about Cinco de Mayo.

First of all, Cinco de Mayo is not Mexican Independence Day. Apparently that’s the cultural equivalent of thinking Taco Bell is authentic cuisine because it came with Diablo sauce packets and regret. Mexican Independence Day is actually September 16th, while Cinco de Mayo celebrates the Mexican victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. Which, honestly, sounds like the kind of underdog story Americans should have turned into a movie starring either Chris Pratt or Danny Trejo by now.

This revelation alone has made me question every grocery store sombrero display I’ve ever seen.

See, growing up in the Midwest, Cinco de Mayo was explained to me as “Mexican St. Patrick’s Day,” which I accepted without hesitation because public schools in the 1990s were basically powered by laminated maps and vibes. Every year restaurants would suddenly hang colorful banners, stores would stock industrial quantities of tortilla chips, and somebody’s dad would wear a poncho he bought during the first Bush administration.

Now that I actually know a little more about it, the whole thing feels wonderfully chaotic. In Mexico, the holiday is mostly celebrated in Puebla, where the battle happened. In America, meanwhile, we turned it into a nationwide festival centered around tacos the size of hubcaps and margaritas that glow an unnatural shade of green. Somewhere along the way we collectively said, “You know what this historical military victory needs? Karaoke and queso dip.”

And honestly? Respect.

I’ve also learned that if you mention Cinco de Mayo around certain people, there’s a 75% chance they’ll suddenly become amateur historians. Someone who couldn’t identify France on a map yesterday will immediately launch into a TED Talk about Napoleon III. They’ll be standing there in a sleeveless Corona tank top saying things like, “Well actually, it symbolized resistance against European imperialism,” while holding a plastic cup containing what appears to be antifreeze and tequila.

Then there’s the food discourse. Every Cinco de Mayo somebody starts gatekeeping tacos like they’re protecting classified government secrets.

“Those aren’t real tacos.”

Listen. I’m from Indiana. If you hand me meat in a folded tortilla, I’m not calling the authenticity police. I’m eating it. We have entire counties here where “spicy” means black pepper. Lower your expectations.

But my favorite part of this whole experience is how my co-worker arrived at the conclusion that I’m “85% Mexican” in the first place. Not because of ancestry or cultural background, but because I apparently:

• eat alarming amounts of microwave burritos
• enjoy spicy chocolate cookies
• redacted 
• prefer Mexican coffee

Which, to be fair, is compelling evidence.

At this point I’m just leaning into it. I’ve accepted that every office needs a guy who gets way too excited about street corn and owns three different hot sauces labeled “EXTREME.” If that’s my role in society, so be it.

So this Drinko Cinco de Mayo, maybe take a second to appreciate the actual history behind the holiday. Then immediately ruin that educational moment by consuming an irresponsible amount of chips and salsa like the rest of us.

That, I believe, is what cultural exchange is all about.