On Sunday, September 15th, I sat with my grandpa in our living room. Our dog Max claimed his space between the two of us. And while my main focus was the 300 pages of reading a professor assigned, my grandpa had his eyes on the TV. He watched the current Mexican President, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, give El Grito and ring the bell at the National Palace. 

“Hay fiesta en México ahorita,” my grandpa told me while the Himno Nacional Mexicano played. 

Mexican Independence Day is the 16th of September, but El Grito is celebrated on the night of the 15th to initiate the independence day ceremonies. The 16th marks the revolt against Spain in 1810. El Grito celebrates the heroes of the Mexican War of Independence. 

I asked my grandpa what the 15th looked like for him growing up. Forty years ago, when he still lived in Mexico, he’d stay in his hometown and celebrate with his friends until four or five in the morning. He told me it was an all-night celebration. There were DJs and dancing on the streets, he and his friends would close the roads and burn tires for bonfires. He said he went to el Zocalo once, where the main celebration takes place, and where the President gives El Grito. People come from all over Mexico to hear the President scream, “¡Mexicanos! ¡Vivan los héroes que nos dieron patria!”

I stop reading as he tells me stories of his childhood. I want to hear a story I’ve never heard before. 

September 15th to October 15th marks what has become Hispanic Heritage Month in the US, inaugurated in 1988 when President Reagan expanded National Hispanic Heritage Week. The law was deemed a step toward visibility for Spanish and Latin American descendants living in the US, or those who fall under the blanket term, Hispanics. This term would include me, and for a long time, it did—until I read Jose Antonio Burciaga’s book Drink Cultura.

My friends label themselves differently than the way I labeled myself for a long time. Some call themselves Chicana, some Latina, some Xicana, some Latinx, and other terms I don’t understand. Not all of these friends are Mexican, but all are not white enough to be designated anything but Hispanic by the American government. 

The term Hispanic is a reminder of our connection to Spain and colonization, without acknowledging that our blood comes from both European and indigenous ancestors. 

Burciaga’s book helped define things for me. In part it did so by clarifying terms: “A Chicano is both Hispanic and Indian. The term ‘Hispanic’ alone negates our Indian heritage. Our ancestors were not only the conquistadores but also the conquered. Our vanquished heritage has always haunted us and been ignored. Chicano is more than a political label; it has a link to our indigenous past.”

Yet even writing this down, I fear there is something about my heritage I don’t understand or know enough about. There might be something in this short essay that someone who knows more than I do might read and say, I can’t believe she doesn’t know this. 

There’s a whole month dedicated to my heritage, a fact, I’m sheepish to note, I only recently discovered. My memories of celebrating Mexican Independence Day include this familiar scene—sitting in front of the TV with my grandparents, watching Mexican presidents wave la Bandera de México and ring the bell that represents the one Padre Hidalgo rang all those years ago.

Celebrating Hispanic Heritage Month in a country that doesn’t welcome my heritage feels wrong. I think of the children separated from their parents at the border, or the Border Patrol agents who have stopped my family on the drive from San Diego to LA, or the countless people I’ve seen turn my culture into a costume. This is not a country that celebrates my heritage. 

I didn’t celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month this year. Maybe I will celebrate it next year. But by writing this, I noticed how many of my friends include labels like “Chicano” and “Latina” in their Instagram bios. It gave me the excuse to ask them why. Those conversations were a celebration of our heritage.