Tag Archives: writer

Between Names: Yásnaya Aguilar on Being Mixe and the ‘Latino’ Moment

By Estefanía Camacho—

Latin American pride is rooted in a colonial and undeniably hierarchical category. This is how ayuujk (mixe) writer, linguist, and activist Yásnaya Elena Aguilar Gil (1981) described it in an interview during the San Miguel Writers’ Conference & Literary Festival in February 2026.

“If we were to arbitrarily mark the history of our peoples with the domestication of maize 10,000 years ago, we would have spent 10,000 years being Zapotec, Mixe, or Nahua, and of those 10,000 years, 500 as Indians and 200 as Indigenous. So where does ‘Latino’ come from?” questions Yásnaya, with her long, straight black hair, wearing black-framed glasses with a small cat-ear-like detail at the top.

She explains that “Latino” is a label that originated in France in the 19th century, coined to distinguish between two types of colonization in this part of the continent: Anglo-Saxon America and Latin America.

“’Latina’ has to do with the fact that we were oppressed (…) it is a category produced by a colonialist process. Therefore, there are peoples who have not been fully Latinized,” she explains, referring to the different Indigenous populations across the territory, who continue to keep languages alive outside Spanish and their own roots.

“Latino” in Spanish—not to be confused with how it is used in the United States—is a category that has not only regained relevance but has also gained strength in response to racist actions, especially in that country, primarily against Spanish-speaking migrants or racially profiled Americans.

Yásnaya, translator too, also understands the nuance of “Latino” as a “weapon of resistance,” but she asks that it should not be used as a folklorizing essentialization of something that comes from a violent process such as colonization, and that it remains as an external label.

The category of “Latino” and that of “Indigenous”
Yásnaya says that when she travels to other regions, she is invariably categorized as Latina, regardless of the fact that she is ayuujk and—if anything—identifies as Indigenous.

“In Europe I was Mexican, in Mexico I am Oaxacan, in Oaxaca I am Mixe, in the sierra I am usually from Ayutla. At some point I am Indigenous, but that was something I was told or intuited through contrast before the name even arrived. During an extraterrestrial attack, I will surely be an Earthling, and I will be so with passion,” she wrote in her first book “Ää: manifiestos sobre la diversidad lingüística” (Almadía, 2023).

She has frequently pointed out in her research and columns that patriarchal, colonial, and capitalist systems seek to turn “the other” as a mechanism into a homogeneous, monolithic entity in order to oppress them.

Just as with the category “Latina,” the same happens in Mexico when the category “Indigenous” is adopted as a whole, without mentioning the 68 Indigenous peoples who live in the country, including Afro-Mexicans, who represent at least 10% of the total population.
“Indigenous is a category created by a system of oppression; it is not an essence of our peoples. It is a political moment in our history. We were not always Indigenous,” Yásnaya said. “In the end, in the future, hopefully we can be Mixe without being Indigenous. Because that has already happened. That would mean there is no longer oppression,” the writer proposes.

She explained during her keynote lecture at the literary conference that in Mexico there are 11 Indo-American language families within the 68 groupings of languages, and these in turn belong to 365 distinct linguistic systems, according to the National Catalog of Indigenous Languages. “What generalization can be made about such diversity? None. What exists is a diversity of traditions and poetic mechanisms,” she added.

Now everyone wants to be Latino?
“Now everyone wants to be Latino, but they lack flavor,” sang the world’s most famous musician, Bad Bunny, in his song “El Apagón” during the halftime show of the 2026 Super Bowl.

The surge in pride around the “Latino” category was especially visible during this event in the United States, but it was also observed across much of the world. The Puerto Rican singer went on a global tour in 2025, although he skipped performing in the US out of concern that anti-immigrant raids could be organized at his concerts. The Super Bowl was the only performance he gave there, and the performance was loaded with symbolism, alluding to an independent Puerto Rico and America as a continent and not merely as the “country.”

However, Yásnaya questioned the emotional weight and sense of pride attached to the label “latino” in the days following the event: “That America that continues to resist the effects of colonization is not even America; it is Abya Yala,” she wrote a few days after the Super Bowl in her El País column titled “¿América Latina o América latinizada?. Xëëmo’oy”

There is still resistance to European colonization from the territory, just as there is today from communities resisting other processes driven by contemporary imperialism.

Spanish, its defense, and shifting contexts
In a context where speaking Spanish can be a risk in a country like the United States, or where it was fiercely defended once it was announced that Bad Bunny would headline the Super Bowl halftime show, Yásnaya explains that it is not a hegemonic language.
“I had always seen Spanish as an enemy because it is erasing my language, right? The first time I went to Los Angeles and spoke with migrant communities, I realized that their experiences were the same as mine in school and with discrimination. So Spanish is not always hegemonic; in reality, we cannot see it only as English versus Spanish and Spanish versus Indigenous languages. There are many layers of complexity,” she said.

During the interview, she also mentioned that as a linguist, she is aware that due to structural asymmetry, she cannot have something as basic as a Mixe dictionary. “Something that is so basic for another language,” she says, “you can go to a bookstore and buy books in Spanish and buy a dictionary where the words are in Spanish and the definitions are also in Spanish. I cannot have a dictionary in Mixe where the definitions are in Mixe. At best, they are bilingual.”
However, she does not see it as far off that a Mixe dictionary with definitions in Mixe could exist.

Defending diversity and multidiversity
“In short, I would not have learned about myself, about what I speak of, through the lens, the eyes, the language of others,” she also wrote in her 2023 book.

Yásnaya has been an activist for linguistic rights, Indigenous autonomy, and the revitalization of indigenous languages, while also consistently advocating against climate change and for the defense of land and resources.

She also writes about celebrating otherness and plurality, as she believes that at this moment in history there are too many “ideological political monocultures” threatening the world, as she warned during the conference.

“Let us remember that monolingual utopias, or futures designed in a monolingual way, are characteristic of the far right.”

Estefanía Camacho is a freelance Mexican journalist working across media and digital magazines. She is a specialist in gender, SMEs, economics, and business.

Editor’s Letter

By Jane Bauer—

“Peace cannot exist without justice, justice cannot exist without fairness, fairness cannot exist without development, development cannot exist without democracy, democracy cannot exist without respect for the identity and worth of cultures and peoples.”
–Rigoberta Menchú Tum (Guatemalan
Indigenous Rights Activist, 1990 UNESCO Prize for Peace Education, 1992 Nobel Peace Prize Winner

Mexico is often misunderstood. For many outsiders, the country exists as a kind of postcard: bright colors, mariachis on every corner, sombreros, tequila, and fiesta. The image has become so exaggerated that it borders on parody. Mexico is reduced to a handful of clichés that flatten the depth and diversity of the country. The reality is much more layered.

One of the things that has struck me most during my years living here is how strongly people identify simply as Mexican. In Canada or the United States, identity is often expressed through hyphenated heritage; Italian-American, Chinese-Canadian, Irish-American. Cultural roots remain visible and frequently celebrated.

In Mexico, those histories are often quieter, woven into the fabric of everyday life rather than worn on the surface. The result is a national identity that feels cohesive, but it can also obscure just how many different cultures have helped shape the country.

Like many countries, Mexico wrestles with questions of identity, belonging, and prejudice. Conversations around gentrification, migration, and “foreigners” have become increasingly heated in recent years. At the same time, Mexico itself has been shaped by centuries of migration.

Indigenous civilizations laid the foundations of this culture long before the arrival of Europeans. Spanish colonization profoundly altered the landscape. Later came immigrants from France, Lebanon, Germany, China, and beyond. Each group left its mark—sometimes subtly, sometimes dramatically. We see these influences in architecture, food, language, music, fashion, and even urban planning.

This month, The Eye explores one of those threads: the French connection. From pastry techniques that transformed Mexican bakeries to artistic exchange, architecture, and politics, the relationship runs deeper than many people realize. Recognizing these influences does not diminish Mexico’s Indigenous heritage. One of the country’s greatest strengths is that Indigenous traditions are visible in daily life in ways that are rare in the rest of North America.

But culture is never static. It evolves, absorbs, adapts, and reinvents itself. Mexican culture, as we know it today, is the result of centuries of exchange layered together into something entirely its own. That complexity is not a weakness. It is one of Mexico’s greatest strengths.

Thanks for reading and see you next month!

 

Editor’s Letter

By Jane Bauer—

“We are here to awaken from our illusion of separateness.”
Thích Nhat Hanh

When you rant or retort obnoxiously on social media, it is like holding a hot coal in your hand and expecting someone else to burn. Your comment affects everyone who reads it — including you. Cortisol rises. Stress follows.

I opened my phone this morning and within minutes my nervous system was lit up. News of a cartel shooting. Messages asking if I was okay. A fire in Xadani. Canadians ranting about Mexicans ripping them off. Mexicans ranting about Canadians being cheap and gentrifying their country.

Stress — the invisible toxin.
Every time we open our phones and consume outrage, our bodies release cortisol. Heart rate increases. Inflammation pathways activate. The nervous system does not distinguish well between physical danger and social conflict; it simply reacts. Living in a constant state of judgment is physiologically corrosive.

Yes, we are living longer than previous generations. Medicine has dramatically extended lifespan over the past century. But we are also surrounded by more environmental toxins than ever — pollutants in our water, plastics in our oceans, chemicals measurable in human blood. Chronic disease now dominates modern life. We have prolonged years, but have we protected vitality?

To be healthy is to be whole — regulated, connected, integrated. Healthcare, at its root, should mean caring for that wholeness.

We often talk about “coexisting,” as if we are separate entities sharing space. In reality, we are deeply interconnected. Like a tree that depends on the quality of the river from which it drinks, the tree and the river are one. Separation is an illusion.

Be more understanding. Be more open. Assume good intentions more often than not. Regulate your nervous system. Put the phone down. Cook something real. Hug a tree and a stranger. Sit across from someone different from you and listen.

Wholeness isn’t optional; it’s essential. And in a time like this, choosing calm may be one of the most radical health decisions we can make.

See you next month,

Jane

Long Journey Home

a personal essay by Bonnie Lee Black, January 2026—

“What does ‘died’ mean?,” I asked my mother when I was four and my best friend Ruthie, who was five, had just died of leukemia. I’d never known anyone who’d died.

My spirited young mother, who was not in any way spiritual or religious –her whole philosophy of life had been, “When you’re alive, you live; when you die, you’re dead” — made up a glowing story for me:
“Ruthie has gone to a better place,” she said convincingly. “She’s gone to live with God in his home in Heaven, where there is no sickness, no pain, and no tears. God saw that Ruthie – such a good girl! – had been very sick and in pain, so he decided she’d be happier with him. She’ll never be sick again.”

My first thought was, “Lucky Ruthie!” My second was, “How is it that my Mom suddenly believes in God?” Always before, the word God had only been an angry epithet in our house. But since that day – since the day my mother made up that story to console me – I’ve never feared death. Something about it felt profoundly true, even to the four-year-old me: This life on earth is not all there is.

Before she became ill, Ruthie had told me a little bit about God. Being a year ahead of me, she had started Catholic school, so every afternoon after school she painstakingly shared with me what she’d learned that day from the nuns.

“Look up there,” Ruthie instructed me, pointing to the sky, as we sat on her front porch side by side. “See that big cloud? God is behind that cloud, looking down at us. He’s like a loving father watching over us.”

This was news to me, and I found it thrilling. In my Protestant family, which never attended church and where my father was always enraged and often belligerently drunk, the thought of a loving, caring, fatherly God up there somewhere was irresistible. I credit my friend Ruthie for putting me on my spiritual path.

It’s been a long and rocky road, I confess. I’m eighty now; and when I look back on my life, I can clearly see the main turning points on this journey that have led me to where I am today, spiritually speaking.

In my adolescence, when World War III was raging at home in the runup to my parents’ overdue divorce, and I felt desperate for some life guidance, I went to a gospel church in a neighboring New Jersey town with my friend Lindy and her family. Even after Lindy and her family moved away, I continued attending that church, faithfully and hungrily – the Sunday school classes, the morning worship services, the evening youth group meetings, the evening services. I went for the music – Bach in the morning and rousing hymns at night – for the Bible lessons, for the warmth of the people, for the messages of love and peace. I went to escape the strife at home and find a haven with the promise of Heaven.

In this small, white, clapboard church, God seemed real to me. Not cold and remote like the farthest star, but as close and vital as one’s own heartbeat. This God was an all-knowing, all-loving, all-forgiving, ever-present friend, who was worshipped, not with repetitive phrases read from a book, but with simple, spontaneous language spoken from the heart.

So I began a daily habit of waking early to read the Bible and pray before getting ready for school. I spoke to God as if He were a caring parent, asking for guidance, help with my homework, strength for the day, more faith. I applied myself to my schoolwork and became an honor student. I strove to grow wings and rise above the battlefield at home.

The fatal flaw in this rosy self-portrait was my blinkered naivete, which I’ve regretted ever since. When I was nineteen, a much-older, professional man, who was intent on marrying a blond-haired, blue-eyed, naive virgin, and who professed to me the same religious beliefs as mine, charmed me into marrying him. I learned too late that I’d only been a means to an end for him: He wanted something he could not then buy because surrogacy was not yet readily available – a child of his own, a beautiful blond-haired, blue-eyed child “for his mother to raise,” he later told me.

After our divorce and I was given custody of our baby daughter, he took her on a visitation and, along with his aging parents, disappeared.

I saw a lawyer in the office building where I worked, and he counseled me on what to do. At one point he leaned over his desk, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, and said, “From now on you’ve got to live like a f*ckin’ nun. He’s probably having you followed.” This man had known my ex-husband, but he didn’t know me. He didn’t know I already lived like a nun.

The FBI agent who was assigned my case told me coldly one day when I visited his office and begged him for news, “You are just a number in our files.”

An elder of my church took me aside one Sunday evening to inform me I could never marry again because our church didn’t recognize divorce. If I did remarry, I’d be “living in sin,” he said. (I immediately thought: I don’t need to bother to get married again to live in sin.) I never returned to that church.

People who knew me and knew my story treated me pityingly, and I hated them for it. Good people who didn’t know me but learned of my story regarded me with suspicion – because, after all, in their world, and according to their beliefs, bad things only happen to bad people.

Every doctor I visited about my severe stomach pain and weight loss tried to prescribe tranquilizers or antidepressants for me, but I refused them all. I chose to remain clear-headed and not drugged into docility. I chose to harness my pain and fury.

And so began my many years of boxing with God. I moved to New York for its promised anonymity, at the same time the Broadway musical, “Your Arm’s Too Short to Box with God,” had opened. Ha! I thought, seething, MY arm’s NOT too short to box with God! My anger toward my God was incendiary. My prayers were vitriolic. HOW COULD YOU?, I shouted between clenched teeth, WHY DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN TO ME? I WAS A GOOD GIRL! WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS ANGUISH? WHERE IS MY BABY?! BRING BACK MY BABY!!!

I often considered suicide because the pain of not knowing where and how my daughter was, day after day, month after month, year after year, was unbearable. But I knew that if and when she was ever found, she would need me. I had to go on living – eating, sleeping, working. I had to get through this. My marching orders to myself were, “You must be strong, you must go on!” And through it all I never stopped railing at God – Why?! Why?! Why?! This phase lasted for many years.

In New York I attended Columbia University on full scholarships; I enlarged my mind. In New York I met people of all colors, shapes, sizes, stories, ethnicities, abilities, and religions and had many Jewish friends; they enlarged my heart.

In New York I wrote a book in which I shared my personal story for the first time, and a prominent New York publisher published it. That book found my daughter for me and helped thousands of others who’d experienced similar heartbreak and loss due to parental child abduction.

In New York I learned a life-altering lesson: The God whom I’d been railing at for so many years had used me for good. This seeming tragedy had turned to triumph.

In my fifties I joined the Peace Corps and served for two years as a health and nutrition volunteer working with mothers and children in Gabon, Central Africa. After my Peace Corps service, I went up to Mali, West Africa, and created an economic development project working with Malian women and young girls.

Mali is a predominantly Muslim country, and I came to deeply admire the good, kind, generous, God-loving Muslim people I got to know in the three years I lived there. As part of my morning devotions I read N. J. Dawood’s English translation of the Koran, and I was profoundly moved by the beauty of it.

Ten years ago I retired to the beautiful old small city of San Miguel de Allende in the central mountains of Mexico, and this is where I plan to stay. San Miguel is called el corazon de Mexico – the heart of Mexico. Mexico in its entirety to me has enormous heart, so Mexico has become my heart’s home.

Mexico is a predominantly Catholic country, and I highly respect the Mexican people’s adherence to their religious traditions. But I could no more become a Mexican Catholic than I could have become a Malian Muslim or a Jewish New Yorker. So I ask myself, What am I now?

It seems as if in all my years of grappling with God and stumbling upward along my spiritual mountainous path I’ve come up with my own religion, which is not a religion at all. “Religion” to me denotes manmade dogma, and mine eschews such dogma. I no longer attend church. I cannot honestly repeat the Apostle’s Creed. I do not believe, as most manmade religions do, that women are meant to be subordinate. I do not believe, as most white men do, that white men are superior. I strongly believe all of us are equally valuable and all of us have important roles to play in this life on earth.

But I’ve never stopped praying – not to a big old white guy in the sky tucked, like the Wizard of Oz, behind a cloud, nor to a young Middle Eastern man being tortured to death on a roughly hewn wooden cross, but to what I like to think of as the Great Spirit, the term indigenous Americans use. A benevolent power available to all, beyond description, beyond definition.
I believe in this God because I must. Where else could I possibly put my trust? Men? Money? Political or religious leaders? No. The God I believe in has brought me through hell on earth and taught me so much: Everyone has heartache. Everyone suffers pain and loss. This life is a test, the Koran says; we must just do our best.

I still pray every day. I pray for the things I lack: patience, tolerance, love, understanding, empathy, compassion, strength, fortitude, grace, wisdom, and more. And every day I get just enough of these to last for that day. I give thanks for my many blessings, especially for bringing me to Mexico, where my ashes will be buried on a mountaintop.

I have no fear of death; in fact, I look forward to the next realm, the last stop on this spiritual journey, where my soul will finally be at home. Maybe — who knows? — I’ll even be reunited with Ruthie.

An honors graduate of Columbia University in New York, Bonnie Lee Black is the author of six books, including the memoir SOMEWHERE CHILD about her daughter’s abduction by her father (Viking Press, 1981). Bonnie’s essays have appeared in numerous literary journals, and for the past ten years she has been writing a weekly blog from her adopted home, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. For more information, please visit: http://www.bonnieleeblack.com

Editor’s Letter

By Jane Bauer—

“I’m going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee
I’m going to Graceland
Poor boys and pilgrims with families
And we are going to Graceland
My traveling companion is nine years old
He is the child of my first marriage
But I’ve reason to believe we both will be received in Graceland”
Paul Simon, singer and songwriter

If you are reading this, you have probably already undertaken a lot of journeys to get here. A pilgrimage is often associated with religion, but there are many other roads than the one to God that lead to salvation. Maybe salvation is too powerful a word for some journeys- communion, perhaps.

It would make sense for this topic to tell of my own journey to my Mexican life almost 30 years ago, but when I think of pilgrimage, I think of a road trip I took with my daughter.

Even though I had already been living in Mexico for close to 15 years, I had several items in Canada that I didn’t want to part with: art my father left me when he died, a few pieces of furniture. We all have things we don’t want to part with just yet. I purchased an old Canada Post truck, filled it up, and my nine-year-old daughter and I took a road trip from Montreal to Huatulco.

It was hot, like driving in a sardine can. The radio didn’t work, but we had an iPod that played music through a speaker. In college, I was briefly obsessed with a book called Reflections on the Birth of the Elvis Faith, which likened the Elvis following to a religious phenomenon. So when my daughter and I found ourselves rumbling along the highway near Memphis, Tennessee, the words to Paul Simon’s Graceland came back to me: “My traveling companion is nine years old.” Without hesitation, we veered towards Graceland.

What back in the 1970s what was considered a mansion now just looked like a large suburban house. I asked people on the shuttle if it was their first time, and for most, it wasn’t. For many, it was an annual pilgrimage; for some, like us, a curiosity. Were we part of the pilgrimage or observers?

We toured the house, and when we reached the Jungle Room, my daughter said, “Like the song.” She meant Walking in Memphis – we had listened to it on some stretch of highway through Ohio.

Saw the ghost of Elvis
On Union Avenue
Followed him up to the gates of Graceland
Then I watched him walk right through
Now security they did not see him
They just hovered ’round his tomb
But there’s a pretty little thing
Waiting for the King
Down in the Jungle Room

As people, journeying, searching, and having faith in something other than our own immediate existence is perhaps the most unifying human experience. Does it really matter if we call this feeling and belief by different names?

See you next month,

Jane

Poem: Parrot’s Roost

By Julie Sullivan

Who made the world
Who made the mango trees and the parrots
Who made this mango tree

Whose branches bend under the heavy weight of green mangoes that hang heavily above my head like big green teardrops ready to fall.

Who made the parrots
the ones who arrive each morning squawking about the new day to roost in the mango tree I see from my bedroom window.

The green ones who leave each evening flapping and squawking their warning about evening.

Their wings flapping and showing a flash of red under their wings as they soar above my head
I get a glimpse. like a little girl showing off her red underwear on the swing.

I don’t know exactly what prayer is, but I do know how to face the sun as it rises and feel the cool breeze caress my face.

I know how to be still and notice.

How to admire all of creation and be hopeful and patient as life unfolds before me like a mango slowly turning from green to yellow.

I know how to listen to the ocean crashing on the rocks and imagine the colors of the fish swimming over the coral reef. I know how to watch the baby turtle make its journey across the sand only to be swept away by the next wave. Doesn’t everything ripen and fall too soon.

Tell me what will you do with your one wild and precious life.

Julie Sullivan is from Baltimore, Maryland where she taught reading at a private school for many years. Before moving to Huatulco in 2022, she lead a poetry and creative writing group called Women With A Story. This poem was inspired by Mary Oliver’s Summer Day.

Editor’s Letter

By Jane Bauer —

“Buy less. Choose well. Make it last” – Vivienne Westwood, English fashion designer and businesswoman.

Fifteen years ago, the first issue of The Eye rolled off the press. It was nothing more than two sheets of oversized newsprint, and the writers and I sat around a table folding each copy by hand. What pushed us to begin this project? By then, I had already lived in Mexico for more than a decade. I had married a Mexican, my daughter identifies as Mexican, and I’ve always preferred the rhythm of a small, non-touristy village to resort life. I could have continued drifting between two cultures, or I could create something that connected them. I also knew I wasn’t the only one navigating this space.

The Eye became that bridge.

Our mission is simple: to collect and share the stories, history, and layers of Mexico that readers might otherwise miss. We spotlight local businesses and give them a platform to reach new clients. We support organizations doing important work by helping them connect with volunteers and sponsors. At its heart, The Eye is about building community—not a parallel community that sits apart from the Mexican one, but a pathway into it. Learn about this place. Get involved. Participate. That has always been the purpose. And fifteen years later, it still is. We are very excited to announce the launch of The Eye San Miguel de Allende. Be sure to check it out.

This month, our writers explore fashion, a topic that can seem frivolous at first glance but is, in truth, a revealing lens through which to examine human behavior. The choice of what to wear is something each of us makes every day. Our clothes carry meaning, whether cultural, historical, or environmental. What are you wearing right now as you read this? What does your choice of fabric or brand say about you? Like all consumer goods, the items we choose to spend our money on have a rippling effect that, in an increasingly globalized world, can reach as far as the shores of Africa.

As we prepare for the New Year, let each of us take stock of the choices we make and the echoes they create.

Happy New Year, and see you in January.

Jane

Editor’s Letter

By Jane Bauer @livingfoodmexico

Class, race, sexuality, gender and all other categories by which we categorize and dismiss each other need to be excavated from the inside.

Dorothy Allison

This month our writers explore the class system. As humans, we love to categorize. We name things, sort them, put them in their proper place. It’s how we make sense of the world, how we navigate complexity. We do this with plants and animals, with time and space, and, of course, with people. We build systems, hierarchies, and classifications—some useful, others arbitrary, and some deeply entrenched in power and history.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about this as I care for my mother, who has dementia. She was once an avid birdwatcher, able to name and identify countless species at a glance. Now, those names are slipping away. She no longer calls the kiskadee by name, no longer distinguishes between a flycatcher and a warbler in the way she once did. And yet, she still sees the birds. She watches their movements, listens to their calls, notices the shimmer of their feathers in the morning light. In some ways, she is experiencing them more purely, freed from the constraints of classification. It reminds me of Shakespeare’s famous question: would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? While naming things helps humans to make sense of the world, it is also a way that we create divisions between ourselves and the world.

Mexico has long been a place of rigid social categories. The casta system of colonial times assigned people value based on their ancestry, with Spanish blood at the top and Indigenous and African heritage ranked below in an elaborate taxonomy of race and class. Those classifications may no longer be law, but their impact lingers. Social class in Mexico today is still a structure of division—one shaped by wealth, education, and skin color, as well as deeply ingrained perceptions of worth. The categories may have changed, but the impulse to sort people into hierarchies remains.

And yet, what if we let go of the names? What if, instead of seeing people through the lens of class, we focused on their essence—their kindness, their resilience, their humor? What if we paid attention to the qualities that matter, rather than the labels that confine? My mother may no longer remember the names of birds, but she still finds joy in watching them. Perhaps there’s something to learn from that.

See you next month,

Jane

Editor’s Letter

By Jane Bauer

“Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.” – Maya Angelou

There are a few questions I hear all the time from people traveling to Mexico that drive me absolutely crazy. I get it: people have questions, and the media has done its part to paint a very specific, often inaccurate picture of what to expect in Mexico. But still, these questions speak to outdated assumptions and biases that need to be addressed.

The first one: Can I drink the water? Is the ice safe? We tackled this topic in our water issue back in November, but here’s the short answer—yes, you’ll be fine if you stick to bottled or filtered water, which is the norm. This isn’t the mystery it used to be. Restaurants and hotels understand their clientele, and they’ve adapted accordingly.

The second one, and maybe the most infuriating: How much should I expect to pay for something? Specifically, the cost of a ride from the airport. Whenever I’ve traveled—whether it’s Paris, Chicago, or anywhere else—I’ve never thought to research what a taxi ride should cost to my hotel. The mere act of asking seems rooted in the assumption that you’ll be scammed in some way, which is not only offensive but also highlights a lack of trust and understanding of local culture.

And finally: Is Mexico City safe? Whether I’m talking about how much I love CDMX, how my daughter is thriving there, or asking if someone managed to visit, the knee-jerk response is often a concern for safety. Let’s be clear: Mexico City is one of the most dynamic, exciting, and culturally rich cities in the world. Of course, like any large city, it has its issues—use your street smarts, just as you would in New York, Toronto, or Berlin.

In this issue, we’re diving into all the reasons Mexico City is so special, there are so many things to see, do, and experience. So, if you’ve ever hesitated to explore this extraordinary city, let this be the nudge you need.
Plan a layover in CDMX the next time you travel or even a weekend getaway – you won’t be disappointed and may even discover your new favorite destination.

See you next month,

Jane

 

Editor’s Letter

By Jane Bauer

He that has been bitten by a snake is afraid of a rope.
Edward Albee

As we step into the Year of the Snake, it feels like the perfect time to reflect on the power of shedding—letting go of what no longer serves us. Snakes, with their ancient ability to shed their skin, have long been symbols of transformation and renewal. And in this upcoming year, I find myself asking: How can we, like the snake, release what holds us back and make space for growth, healing, and the things that truly align with who we are becoming?

In Mexican culture, the snake carries a deep and powerful meaning. On Mexico’s flag, the eagle grips a serpent in its beak while perched on a cactus. This image isn’t just about the nation’s founding—it’s about balance, transformation, and the struggle that leads to wisdom. The snake here is not just a symbol of danger; it’s also a symbol of the great god Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent who represents life, knowledge, and the cycles of nature. It reminds us that sometimes, our greatest victories come from the struggles we face, and that embracing change—however uncomfortable—can lead to deeper wisdom.

Compare this with the serpent in the Garden of Eden. In this story, the snake is often seen as the tempter, the one who introduces sin into the world. But, in reality, temptation is a catalyst for change. It’s a break from the old way, a shift that forces us to reconsider, to evolve. Just as the snake sheds its skin to reveal something new beneath, we too can let go of old beliefs, outdated habits, and things that no longer serve our growth. In this Year of the Snake, I think it’s time to ask ourselves: What are we still holding onto that no longer serves us? And not only personal habits, but about the larger mindset we’re living in. Our culture of overconsumption, greed, and constant striving has disconnected us from what truly matters. We’re so focused on acquiring more—more stuff, more money, more distractions—that we’ve forgotten the peace and wisdom that comes from living more simply, from living in harmony with nature. What if we decided to shed that?

What if we let go of the pursuit of more and started reconnecting with the earth, with each other, and with the deeper parts of ourselves that are calling for attention? The snake’s ability to shed its skin is a powerful reminder that, sometimes, we need to let go of the superficial layers in order to reveal what’s underneath—the authentic, the raw, and the life-giving.

So let’s take a cue from the snake and shed the old patterns and return to nature, to what’s real, and to the deeper, quieter truths that sustain us. By letting go of what no longer serves us, we make space for renewal—both in our lives and in the world around us. Because, in the end, shedding isn’t a loss. It’s the beginning of something new.

See you in February,