Cinco de Mayo landed on a Monday this year. And somehow, in 2025, simply posting a "Feliz Cinco" or bringing mole poblano to a potluck feels less like festive appreciation and more like a quiet act of rebellion.
Because the climate has changed.
We now live in an America where DEI isn’t just under attack—it’s being reshaped into a slur. Diversity, equity, and inclusion—three words that once aimed to expand the table—are now treated like subversive threats to the status quo. Politicians roll their eyes at the mere mention. Corporations quietly walk back pledges. School districts scrub language. DEI is no longer an initiative—it’s a trigger.
And still, we show up. We celebrate. We wear the colors. We share the stories.
We dance anyway.
Because in this current reality, simply acknowledging non-white joy is framed by some as too political. Too radical. Too much. When in fact—it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
What does it mean to live life as a “DEI” in a country that’s trying to ghost the term?
It means your culture, your rituals, your existence are either invisible or performatively tokenized—celebrated one month, erased the next. It means your identity is reduced to a checkbox, your history rewritten, your voice strategically edited for comfort. It means people use “diversity hire” as an insult and think “woke” is something you can catch like a virus.
So yes—this is about Cinco de Mayo.
And yes—it’s about so much more.
It’s about the act of naming and honoring who we are, loudly, even as systems work to silence us. It’s about seeing DEI not as a department or a budget line, but as a life. A lineage. A legacy. It’s about reclaiming celebration as protest, recognition as resistance, joy as justice.
Let’s be honest: those screaming the loudest about erasing DEI are not seeking balance. They’re seeking power. Their vision of “neutrality” is a return to an imbalance where whiteness was standard, difference was threatening, and access was gate kept by the myth of meritocracy.
So we honor Cinco de Mayo. Not just as a holiday, but as a cultural assertion.
A raised glass. A loud drum. A reminder that we are still here. And for many of us, being here is the most radical thing we can do.