The Shout That Still Brings Us Together

Oaxaca comes alive with patriotic colors and festive decorations in honor of Mexico's independence.

Every September, without anyone announcing it, Oaxaca begins to change color. Lights cover the facade of the Palacio de Gobierno, the state government palace, with the faces of Mexico's independence heroes, and a giant flag made entirely of lightbulbs rises over the esplanade of the Zócalo, Oaxaca's main square, towering over the plaza. Even the streetlights around it are dressed in small flags made of light. The whole city gets ready for a single night.

I've known that buildup since I was a kid: climbing onto the bus with my mom and my siblings toward downtown, always before it got dark, because by six in the evening the verbena popular was already underway, a community fair where the government hands out free Oaxacan street food, from tamales to roasted corn. We'd eat dinner there for free, surrounded by ranchera music and people dressed head to toe in green, white, and red, waiting for eleven o'clock to strike. When the governor finally stepped onto the balcony and shouted “¡Viva México!”, the whole plaza answered back at once, as if for one second thousands of people became a single voice.

That shout, known as El Grito, always happens on the night of September 15. But it's September 16 that Mexico marks as the true start of that fight for freedom: the early morning of 1810 when the priest Miguel Hidalgo called his people to arms. Two hundred years later, that call hasn't turned into a page in a history book. It's become a celebration that repeats every year, with mariachi music playing on street corners, chiles en nogada, poblano peppers stuffed and covered in a walnut cream sauce, on the table, and friends and families coming together for one night to remember where they come from.

Mexico's national colors illuminate the night in celebration of Mexican Independence Day.

Years have passed since those childhood nights, but every September 15 I still find myself back at the Zócalo, almost like something pulls me there. What hasn't changed is that feeling of walking into the plaza and sensing that something bigger than yourself is about to happen.

Living this date in Oaxaca isn't just about the Grito or the fireworks. It's watching an entire community, generation after generation, pause to celebrate who we are, together. Every September 15, when I hear that first “¡Viva México!” rise from thousands of throats at the same time, I still feel a piece of the kid I once was, holding my mom's hand, understanding for the first time that being Mexican means, above all, this: coming together, if only for one night a year, to shout that we're still here.