Here's an interesting perspective on the current unrest in Los Angeles that doesn't suit Trump's MAGA agenda given the inconvenient fact that Los Angeles was once part of Mexico.
I was there as protesters flooded the streets of downtown Los Angeles, their chants rising over sirens and the buzz of low-flying helicopters. The air was thick with smoke, and the sharp, acrid sting of chemicals burned the throat and made eyes water. Loud bangs echoed off concrete buildings, followed by the thud of rubber bullets hitting pavement and bodies. A wall of L.A. police officers stood unmoving at the edge of the crowd. And above it all, in the chaos and confrontation, was a sea of raised fists and Mexican flags. Not tucked in a pocket or painted on a cheek, but unfurled and waving high, as if daring the city, the country, to see them.
We know what came next. The outrage. The backlash. Not discomfort, but anger. Real, visceral anger. For many, seeing the Mexican flag waved during a protest against Immigration and Customs Enforcement doesn’t just raise eyebrows; it feels like an affront. They ask: If you’re demanding rights in this country, why wave the flag of another? But that flag, at that moment, is not about rejecting the United States. It’s about refusing to be erased. It’s layered with history, memory and defiance. It calls into question who we are as a country and, more important, who we’re willing to include. It forces a reckoning with a national identity far more complicated than many are ready to admit.
At a time when immigration is no longer merely debated but wielded as a tool to stoke fear, consolidate power and dehumanize an essential part of our society, and when the political cost of empathy has grown prohibitively high, moments like this don’t just spark controversy; they become crucibles. They force us to confront questions without easy answers: Who truly belongs in this country? And at what cost? Can American identity contain this kind of complexity, or is belonging still tethered to silence, assimilation and the quiet erasure of everything that doesn’t conform?
Los Angeles is the perfect place to ask these questions because Mexican identity isn’t foreign there. It’s foundational. This was Mexico once and remains part of the memory, culture, street names, food and families who never crossed a border because the border crossed them. In that context, the Mexican flag isn’t necessarily a symbol of separation or rejection. Sometimes, it’s a claim: We are both. We are Mexican and American, not divided but layered. This is what our identity looks like.
But American pluralism has never been as open-armed as we pretend. It often tolerates presence but punishes visibility. Mexican Americans are deemed essential when the country needs labor — in the fields, in hospitals during the covid pandemic, in our homes, in our schools and in the armed forces — but suspicious when they demand dignity, political voice or the freedom to show pride in where they come from. The message has always been: Contribute, but don’t complicate.