Put fourteen Mexican guys, one fruit farming family, two
missionaries, and some good food together on September 15th, and
what do you get? Yes, El Grito. The
Yell. Those of you living in Mexico made your way to the nearest public plaza
(or downtown to the zocalo, if you’re into crushing crowds), where after some
ceremony, the municipal president (or the governor, or the president of the
country) walked out onto a balcony before midnight and gave a short, rousing
speech that ended with the triple yell, fists held high, “¡Viva Mexico!” to
which the entire crowd responded in kind, with all the patriotism in its
communal soul. I was yelling “Viva Mexico” myself last night, startling the
staid Canadian fruit farming family. They noted quietly, “That was quite
dramatic. Is it always this way?” Yes. It is always this way. Mexico is nothing
if not dramatic.
The Grito commemorates the struggle for Mexican
Independence. In 1810 the Catholic priest Miguel Hidalgo was involved in a plot
to overthrow the Spanish colonial government and replace it with one run by the
Mexican born criollos. When rumors reached him he was about to be
arrested, he sent his brother with armed men to free his fellow revolutionaries
who were already in jail, and then he rang the church bells to gather his congregation
in the square. There he gave them what is now Mexico’s most famous speech. The
exact words are lost, but the sentiment kept the revolution going for over a
decade until Independence came over a decade later, in 1821.
This is what we were celebrating on the back lawn of a
Canadian fruit farm, surrounded by now barren peach trees. Sadly, the short
season is over, and the men are going to other jobs or back home. The food was
hamburgers and sausages, potato salad and iced tea rather than enchiladas and
taquitos de pollo, tostadas and cerveza, but they all disappeared just as
quickly, and the spirit was the same. These guys had worked in Canada long
enough to be bi-culturally ravenous. They delegated one of their number,
Everardo, as the yeller, because he was from Guanajuato, the same state
as Miguel Hidalgo. When dark fell, the fruit farmer led him through the back
door, up the stairs, through his bedroom, and out onto the balcony. Someone shone
a strong flashlight on him (I wonder who would have one of those) as a spotlight and all fourteen guys erupted into cheers
and yells. They knew what to do.
Everardo waited for silence. Then he raised his fists high in the air
and gave “the speech.”
Mexicans!
Long live the heroes
that gave us the Fatherland!
Long
live Hidalgo!
Long
live Morelos!
Long live Josefa Ortiz de Dominguez!
Long
live Allende!
Long
live Aldama and Matamoros!
Long
live National Independence!
Long
Live Mexico! Long Live Mexico! Long Live Mexico!
And the fireworks started. Yes. Fireworks. I didn’t even know that was
legal in Canada. And as they exploded over our heads in bursts of sound and
color, the men yelled even more. It was a grand celebration. And the dogs went
crazy, and the Canadians laughed, and everyone realized it’s good to celebrate
a bit of home together, even when it’s someone else’s home.
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