El Grito: A Solemn Party?

By now, especially if you are a long-time resident or winter bird, you might have heard the story about the start of the Mexican Revolution of Independence: in the wee hours of September 16^th, 1810, priest Miguel Hidalgo, the informal head of a ring of conspirators, realizes that the plot has been uncovered by the Spanish imperial authorities. So he decides to ring the bells of his parish in Dolores (now officially known with the resounding name of Dolores Hidalgo, Cuna de la Independencia Nacional-Dolores Hidalgo, the Cradle of National Independence!) and calls upon the people to take arms against “bad government”, “those damn Spaniards” and in the name of Our Lady of Guadalupe. This would start an eleven-year long war which would only come to an end by attrition on both sides and the entrance of the merged royalist and insurgent armies in Mexico City on September 27^th, 1821.

When I was a child I was fascinated around the glitter of El Grito. The halls of National Palace in Mexico City, more luxurious than any other room I’d ever dream to be in. The president, with the oversized green-white-red sash across his chest, walking towards the flag, applauded by the diplomatic corps and the cream of the crop of the country, with his wife next to him. Him coming out of the balcony and rallying the crowds in the Vivas in remembrance of the heroes who gave their life for independence. The people chanting as one. The national anthem and then, 10 minutes of glorious fireworks.

Now, staring middle age in the face (not really, but it’s more dramatic this way!) I’ve been to my fair share of Grito parties. They usually involve faux moustaches, guys with enormous sombreros and girls with braided hair and long skirts. Mariachi, norteño and banda music, either live or courtesy of Spotify. Yet not once has the party missed either the national broadcast of El Grito in Mexico City or the host, in varying degrees of intoxication, performing a not so impromptu Grito, starting, of course, with Hidalgo, Morelos and all the heroes with banknotes and streets and whatnot, nut always ending with the meals being served, the tequila brand fueling the party, the fashionable national soccer team player, and his or her mother.

I think the way in which we celebrate our national day is a very telling x-ray of what we may call our “national character”. Compared with the dignified empty streets and stores in France on July 14^th, or the family-like nature of a Fourth of July I experienced in Kenosha, WI some years ago, with veterans parading and marching bands and some ribs in the afternoon (with the occasional wine cooler, of course) the Grito celebrations are both more solemn and severe, even monarchical; but, at the same time, the family and friends gatherings are much more relaxed and even insolent.

Having been born in a country with so many shortcomings, it is always a difficult task to come to terms with reality and understand that everything that goes wrong here is not the result of a divine mandate nor caused by external plots, but a product of the way we all live and behave. When that happens, I find refuge in the fact that the way we choose to celebrate our holidays shows that we are a vibrant culture, filled with contradictions, but in the end, we always take the chance to smile and laugh-and sometimes cry- in the face of events. We always live intensely, and so there is no surprise in the fact that a Grito (a cry, a scream) marks the birthday of our nation.

And -maybe?- I’m proud of that.