History, Pozole, and the Power of a Well-Timed ‘¡Viva!’

September 16 in Mexico isn’t just another square on the calendar. Oh no, my friends, it’s la gran fiesta! It’s the big shebang. It’s the day when the entire country puts on its metaphorical (and often literal) sombrero and yells into the cosmos with joyful defiance, “¡Viva México!”

Now, before I moved to Mexico, my understanding of Mexican Independence Day was, how do I say this without causing a stir of absolute mortification? Deeply confused, and even more deeply incorrect.

Like many outsiders, I was guilty of the classic mix-up. I thought it was on Cinco de Mayo. I know, I know, and trust me, I can hear the dramatic gasps from every abuelita within a hundred-mile radius. But in my defense, Taco Tuesday has done some real PR damage. And I firmly believe I should get some points for admitting my error with humbling honesty!

But no, September 16 is the real deal. It’s loud, proud, spicy, sparkly, and oh-so-satisfyingly chaotic. It’s a celebration soaked in fireworks, mariachi, tequila, and an unstoppable current of national pride that’ll sweep you up whether you’re ready or not. And let me tell you something! The first time I got swept, I was so not ready.

It was my first September living in Puerto Vallarta, and I had made the classic foreigner mistake of thinking I could just casually “check out the festivities” along the Malecon. I wore cute shoes. I brought a cute bag. I had plans to be home by 10.

Oh, sweet, naive little Charlotte!

By 7 PM, the plaza was heaving with bodies. Families waving flags. Kids in tiny charro outfits. Food stalls steaming with sizzling tacos and hot tamales. Grandmas balancing trays of pozole like professional caterers. The smell alone could make you weep. All the roasted corn, sugar-dusted churros, and fried things I couldn’t name but immediately wanted to eat.

And in the middle of it all? The bandstand. And on the bandstand? A man in a mustache so majestic it may have had its own post code, warming up the crowd for what I would soon learn was the Grito de Dolores. The reenactment of the shout that launched a revolution.

Let’s rewind to 1810, shall we?

Father Miguel Hidalgo, a Catholic priest with an impressive brain and even more impressive bravery, rang the church bells in the town of Dolores and gave a rousing, fiery speech calling for the end of Spanish rule in Mexico. It was rebellious. It was dangerous. It was the ultimate mic drop of the 19th century.

Nobody wrote down his exact words, but today, every town in Mexico reenacts the Grito with its own flavour. The President does it in Mexico City with great pomp and pageantry, and every mayor and governor echoes their version across the country. Bells ring. Flags wave. Everyone shouts back, “¡Viva México!”

It’s one part political theater, one part historical homage, and ninety-eight parts raw national emotion.

So there I was, in the crowd, surrounded by face paint and laughter and someone’s abuelito handing me a small flag with a wink. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but I knew it was important.

Then came the Grito.

An official raised his hand. The crowd quieted. The mayor rang a massive, ceremonial bell and launched into a passionate chant that named heroes of independence, justice, freedom, and the people of Mexico. And after every name, the crowd responded with a shout that shook the cobblestones:

“¡Viva!”

“¡Viva!”

“¡Viva Méxicooooooo!”

I screamed. I screamed like I had been possessed by the spirit of Hidalgo himself. My voice cracked, and I got goosebumps. I even cried! Maybe it was because I was moved, or maybe because someone launched a firework directly over my head and I wasn’t emotionally prepared. Whatever it was, it felt good to have that cry.

After the Grito, it was party time. Full-on fiesta mode engaged. The pavement beneath my feet transformed into an impromptu dance floor.

I switched between dancing and eating. There were chiles en nogada, a seasonal dish that’s basically a stuffed poblano pepper dressed in creamy walnut sauce and pomegranate seeds. It looks like the Mexican flag, and it tastes like victory. There was pozole, a hearty stew that could quite literally bring someone back to life. Red, green, or white, just like the flag.

And then there was the tequila, and the mezcal if you’re feeling poetic and slightly dangerous. I sipped, I toasted, and I shouted “¡Salud!” to strangers who quickly become friends.

I know, I’m making it sound like one giant happy dance with mariachi music. And honestly? A lot of it is. But there’s also a quiet thread of reverence that runs through it.

This day means something. It’s not just glitter and guacamole. It’s history. It’s identity. It’s pride in a country that has weathered storms and still dances in the rain. It’s remembering the courage it took to stand up to empire, to demand something better, to shout into the night and believe that someone would hear you.

Even for an outsider like me, that message resonated. It still does. You don’t have to be born here to feel it. You just have to show up with an open heart, a curious spirit, and a willingness to shout “¡Viva México!” with everything you’ve got.

So now, every September, I mark the calendar. I pull out my red, white, and green earrings. I practice my grito in the mirror. I stock up on antacid because pozole at midnight is both beautiful and slightly dangerous.

And I remind myself of the power of celebration. Of what it means to come together, holding a stranger’s hand and shouting joy into the sky.

If you ever get the chance to be in Mexico on September 16, take it. Don’t make plans. Don’t wear heels. But do bring your appetite, your dancing shoes, and maybe a tissue or two.

Because when the bells ring and the crowd yells “¡Viva!”, you’re going to feel it in your bones and want to yell right along with them.

“¡Viva Hidalgo! ¡Vivan los héroes que nos dieron patria! ¡Y viva, siempre, México!”