Every September 15th, at precisely 11 PM, millions of Mexicans gather to scream "¡Viva México!" at the top of their lungs while their neighbors in San Antonio call the cops. This is the Grito de Independencia, a tradition where a politician rings a bell and shouts the names of dead heroes, and everyone else shouts back like they're arguing about the last slice of pizza at a family reunion.
For those of you who stopped paying attention in world history after the Alamo (which, spoiler, Mexico also lost), the Grito commemorates Father Miguel Hidalgo's 1810 call to arms against Spanish rule. The original event was basically a priest with a grudge yelling "let's get these guys" and accidentally launching an 11-year war that killed hundreds of thousands. Very on-brand for a country that later gave us the phrase "no pasa nada" while a volcano erupts behind them.
Fast forward 214 years, and the Grito has evolved into a glorious mess of nationalism, tequila, and questionable decisions. The president stands on a balcony in Mexico City's Zócalo, waves a flag, and shouts the names of independence heroes. The crowd, now approximately 40% drunk and 100% emotional, screams back "¡Viva!" after each one. Then everyone goes home and argues about whether tacos al pastor are technically Lebanese. They are. Google it.
But here's where it gets fun for us gringos. The Grito has migrated north like everything else Mexico exports that we secretly love (looking at you, avocados and Selena). Cities like Los Angeles, Chicago, and San Antonio now host their own gritos, complete with mariachi bands and a DJ who plays "Payaso de Rodeo" at least nine times. It's the one night where your abuela and your tío who voted for Trump can agree on something: screaming "¡Viva México!" while wearing a sombrero they bought at Party City.
Of course, the Grito is not without controversy. Some argue it's become a political circus where presidents use it to distract from, say, the economy being held together by duct tape and remittances. Others point out that the original Grito was about overthrowing a monarchy, and now the guy yelling it lives in a palace with a helipad. The irony is thicker than the crema on your abuela's flan.
Meanwhile, the Spanish are still salty about the whole thing. Every September, the Spanish embassy in Mexico City issues a statement that essentially says, "We're fine. Totally fine. Not mad at all about losing our richest colony." Sure, guys. And I'm sure the British are over the whole Boston Tea Party thing too.
For Mexicans and Mexican-Americans, the Grito is more than a drinking game with historical context. It's a middle finger to colonization, a family reunion, and a reminder that identity is messy and loud and sometimes involves blowing a conch shell at 11 PM. It's also the one time of year where it's socially acceptable to cry while shouting a country's name. Fourth of July could never.
So this September 15th, raise a glass—or a plastic cup of Modelo—and scream "¡Viva México!" even if you're not Mexican. Because nothing says American multiculturalism like appropriating someone else's independence day and turning it into a bar crawl. We're pretty sure Hidalgo would be proud. Or horrified. Probably both.
**Opinion:** The Grito de Independencia is the rare holiday that's simultaneously patriotic, messy, and deeply human. It's not about perfection—it's about showing up, screaming your lungs out, and then eating too many tamales. If your own country's independence day doesn't involve that level of chaos, what are you even doing?