United States of America

Cinco de Mayo: A Completely Serious and Accurate Historical Account (Not Really)

Let me begin by saying that I love any holiday that justifies eating guacamole before noon and drinking margaritas the size of birdbaths. Naturally, Cinco de Mayo is high on my list of favorite holidays—right up there with National Pancake Day and whatever Wednesday my local pub decides to call “Trivia Night.”
Like most Americans, I used to think Cinco de Mayo was Mexico’s Independence Day. I believed this confidently and loudly, usually while wearing a sombrero I got from Party City and holding a beer imported no farther than St. Louis. As it turns out, Mexico’s actual Independence Day is September 16th. Oops. Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Mexican victory over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862.
Now, you may ask, “Why would the French invade Mexico?” Good question. Apparently, Napoleon III was bored, couldn’t get a Netflix subscription, and decided that Mexico would look fabulous with a little European flair. But the Mexicans weren’t having it. Despite being outnumbered and outgunned, they beat back the French like a mom slapping a spatula out of your hand before the cake cools. It was a wildly impressive underdog moment—Rocky Balboa but with bayonets and mustaches.
And yet, despite this dramatic military victory, Cinco de Mayo isn’t even a big holiday in most of Mexico. In fact, most Mexicans are like, “You guys are still doing that?” while watching gringos attempt salsa dancing like caffeinated giraffes.
In the United States, however, Cinco de Mayo has become a glorious, guac-fueled celebration of Mexican culture, music, and tortilla-based architecture. It is a day when we collectively remember that tequila has consequences and that wearing a poncho to the office might raise HR questions.
Now, let’s be clear—Cinco de Mayo is not just an excuse to drink margaritas at 11 a.m. on a weekday. It’s also an excuse to eat nachos the size of a futon while pretending you know what a mariachi band is. If you’re lucky, you’ll attend a street festival where toddlers in tiny sombreros throw confetti at your feet like you’re some kind of queso-coated monarch.
And yet, despite all the fun, Cinco de Mayo offers something deeper: the opportunity to celebrate resilience, culture, and the triumph of the underdog. Also, tacos. Lots of tacos.
So this Cinco de Mayo, raise a glass (or three), learn a little history, and try not to refer to your neighbor as “amigo” just because he’s wearing sandals. And remember: the real battle is not against the French—it’s trying to eat a burrito the size of your forearm without it disintegrating into your lap.
¡Viva el guacamole! ¡Viva Cinco de Mayo! And most importantly—viva nap time afterward.

Easter 2025

In this season of renewal and remembrance, we are reminded of two timeless stories—stories that stretch across centuries and traditions, but speak to one truth: that liberation is born of courage, faith, and relentless hope.

Passover tells of a people rising from bondage, defying a brutal empire with nothing but faith and determination. Easter proclaims that even in the face of betrayal, injustice, and death, life and truth cannot be buried for long. In both, we find the fierce reminder that darkness does not have the final word.

Today, we stand in a moment that tests our endurance. The weight of this administration’s policies and rhetoric may feel heavy. It may tempt us to retreat, to grow numb, to give in. But we are not alone—and we are not without power.

This season calls us not only to reflect, but to rise. To be the voices in the wilderness. The hands that reach for justice. The stubborn hearts that refuse to accept cruelty as normal. Like those before us, we persist not because it is easy—but because it is right.

So stand. Speak. Refuse to be silenced. Whether you light candles or lift hallelujahs, let your courage burn bright enough to show others the way. We are descendants of exodus and resurrection. Resistance is in our bones.

Freedom is not a distant promise—it is a daily choice. And we will choose it. Again and again.

April 18: The Ride of Paul Revere and Reflections on Today’s America

On the night of April 18, 1775, Paul Revere set out on his legendary midnight ride to warn the American colonies of the approaching British soldiers. His mission was a critical moment in the lead-up to the American Revolution, an act of defiance that galvanized colonial resistance and ultimately led to the birth of a new nation. As we reflect on Revere’s ride, it is worth considering not just the historical significance of that night, but also the broader context of today’s America—a country grappling with its own crises, divisions, and calls for change.

This moment, despite the many historical myths that have grown around it, embodies the spirit of resistance and a determination to defend one’s rights. The American Revolution was not merely a battle against an external enemy, but a fight for self-determination, liberty, and the right to govern oneself. It was a rejection of oppression, a demand for representation, and the belief that individual freedoms should be protected at all costs.

In some ways, this same spirit of resistance can be seen in the United States today.

Just as Revere’s ride marked the beginning of a fight for justice and self-governance, today’s movements signal an ongoing struggle for fairness and equity. The fight is no longer just against a foreign power or an external monarchy; it’s an internal struggle—one that seeks to address systemic injustices within the fabric of American society. However, much like the days leading up to the American Revolution, there are forces that seek to maintain the status quo. Whether it is political leaders who resist meaningful change, or institutions that perpetuate inequality, there is a tension between those calling for progress and those who fear the implications of such change.

This tension is evident in the national debates over everything from healthcare and climate change to voting rights and immigration reform. In these debates, one can hear echoes of the past—of Revere’s urgent call to arms, of the revolutionary impulse that drives people to take action when they believe their way of life is threatened. It’s important to recognize that the struggles for freedom, justice, and representation are ongoing. While our world is vastly different from the one Revere lived in, the core issues—inequality, division, and the fight for self-determination—remain deeply relevant today.

As we remember Revere’s ride, we should also ask ourselves: what is our responsibility in continuing the fight for justice in America? What are the causes that we must stand for, and how do we, like Revere, contribute to the preservation of liberty? The challenges may have changed, but the call to action is as loud as ever, and the need for courage, resilience, and determination remains paramount.

In many ways, Revere’s ride was not just a historical event—it was a symbol of what is possible when individuals rise to defend what they believe is right. Today, we must continue to heed that call, recognizing that the ride is far from over.

The Quiet Slide: Losing Democracy to Fascism

It doesn’t happen all at once.

We imagine the end of democracy as a great rupture—boots stomping, books burning, a single broadcast replacing the cacophony of free voices. But in truth, the decline is quieter. It is a slow erosion of norms and a steady dulling of public outrage. It is a normalization of cruelty, a reshaping of language, a rerouting of empathy. And perhaps most dangerously, it is a weary public turning its face away—tired, overworked, and convinced that nothing can really change.

Democracy, for all its flaws, is a radical idea: that the many can govern themselves with fairness, with shared power, with the rights of even the smallest voices protected. Fascism, in contrast, offers a dark kind of simplicity—one leader, one story, one enemy. It promises certainty, belonging, and safety in exchange for submission, exclusion, and obedience. And when a people are frightened, when they feel unseen or forgotten or betrayed, that bargain begins to look appealing.

We are living in such a moment. The warning signs are not subtle anymore. We see them in the demonization of the press, in the dehumanization of immigrants, in the rewriting of history, in the celebration of violence, and in the quiet compromises made by those who should know better. We see it in the way truth becomes negotiable, institutions are undermined, and compassion is reframed as weakness.

But still—many people do not feel alarmed. That, too, is part of the danger.

Authoritarianism rarely begins with a coup. It begins with fatigue. With confusion. With people laughing off what they should fear. It begins when civic engagement feels like an act of futility, and when politics becomes another form of entertainment, not a shared responsibility. It begins when neighbors stop talking, when trust fades, and when cynicism becomes easier than hope.

History offers too many examples. Germany. Italy. Chile. Hungary. The patterns are hauntingly familiar. And yet, what we often forget is that resistance, too, is possible. Democracy, even in its fragility, can endure. But only if we choose to see each other—not as enemies, but as fellow citizens, fallible and frightened and full of potential.

What might save us is not another policy or politician, though those matter. It is a reawakening of empathy. A radical recommitment to community. A refusal to abandon the idea that truth exists and that it matters. We must remember what it means to belong to each other.

Fascism feeds on isolation. Democracy breathes through connection.

So we must listen harder. Speak with more care. Call out cruelty. Defend the vulnerable. Vote like our lives depend on it—because for many, they do. And we must do it not just for ourselves, but for the ones who come after us, for whom history is not yet written.

We are not helpless. Not yet. But we must not wait any longer to act as if we are responsible.