While it's true that I'm not one to let go much of a celebration on the anniversary of the Battle of Puebla, that doesn't mean that I begrudge those who do. Nor am I going to heap scorn on them in the manner of Oscar Casares who had this to say in today's ChronBlog:
Every year we prefer to celebrate Mexico's history on our terms, whether that history is accurate or only convenient. But then again, isn't the United States' relationship with Mexico all about convenience?Yeah, yeah "fight the man" and "Gringo go home", "Viva la Raza" and all of that. Blah, blah, blah. I, for one, am growing tired of the PC scolds whose self-appointed job it seems is to come around on every celebratory occasion (either real or manufactured) and inform the general public that they're actually cogs in some Rube Goldberg machine that's stripping people of their dignity through some convoluted process involving beer koozies, co-eds in bikinis and watered down Margaritas. Spare me your outrage there sparkita.
Yes, there are serious issues with how (many) Americans view the Mexican immigrant. That goes double for those who have circumvented the official channels of entry and have placed themselves in a situation where they can be easily exploited by a system that looks for the lowest cost without much thought to social impact. From NAFTA to the policies of the Mexican government to a US Federal government sitting around with their PC thumbs up their collective asses it seems that pretty much all official policy is designed to stick it to the poor Mexican laborer, without the benefit of KY.
It's projection and misplaced anger, however, that directs the ire at people spending happy hour at a bar drunkenly belting out "La Cucaracha" before heading home to down two Advil in a desperate attempt to not appear fat-headed at work on Thursday. Hey, at least they're trying to be multi-cultural and diverse right? It's not like every culture who celebrates something from another culture does it the exact same way. There are always going to be nods to the home-team locked up in every celebration that originated elsewhere. It's a universal constant.
So, while you're pounding down watered down horse piss and pretending you like it while contemplating ordering another one of the worst cocktails ever invented by man do it with a clear conscience and a nod to our friends South of the border.
Then get a cab.
Leave the whining and moaning over the supposed injustices to folks like Mr. Casares who could suck the fun out of a Whoopee! cushion by just looking at the chair.
They're just pissed they don't get invited to all of the good parties.