In 1862, a poorly armed militia — many of them indigenous Zacapoaxtla farmers who had never seen European military formation — defeated the French Empire at Puebla. France hadn’t lost a battle in fifty years. Mexico handed them one with machetes and muskets.

In the 1960s, Chicano activists on college campuses across the Southwest claimed May 5th as their day. “Viva la raza, viva Cinco de Mayo” — a bold statement of self-determination. The holiday meant resistance to imperialism. It meant the people who were supposed to lose didn’t.

In 1989, Corona launched a targeted marketing campaign. By 1996, Cinco de Mayo meant beer. By 2013, over $600 million in beer sold on a single day — more than the Super Bowl, more than St. Patrick’s Day. The holiday that celebrated indigenous resistance to colonial occupation became a revenue event for Constellation Brands, a New York corporation that made $8.3 billion last year selling Mexican beer to Americans.

That’s the verse they teach: party, tequila, sombrero. Drinko de Mayo.

Here are the verses they don’t sing.

In 2026, the Cinco de Mayo parade in Chicago’s Little Village neighborhood was canceled for the second consecutive year. Not for lack of interest. Because people are afraid to gather in public. “Many families are experiencing fear and uncertainty due to increased immigration enforcement actions and the ongoing threat of raids,” the Cermak Road Chamber of Commerce said.

Philadelphia canceled El Carnaval de Puebla. “The people are being cautious,” organizer Olga Renteria said. “We don’t want to have one incident where people are being detained.”

Houston’s LULAC canceled its parade. “The safety of our children and their parents remains our highest priority.”

The community whose heritage this holiday supposedly celebrates cannot safely walk down a street together to celebrate it.

Meanwhile: the promotions are running. The branded glassware is on shelves. The bar specials are posted. Corona, Modelo, Pacifico — brewed in Mexico, sold by a New York corporation, marketed to an American public that cannot name the Battle of Puebla but can name the drink special. The Latino community has the highest rates of alcohol-related liver disease of any ethnic group in the United States. White Hispanic men have the highest rate of alcohol-related cirrhosis. The beer companies know this. They market anyway. They market harder.

The math: An American company makes $8.3 billion annually selling Mexican beer. The people who brew it, the culture it’s named for, the community it’s marketed to — those people can’t hold a parade because they might get detained.

Constellation Brands’ stock ticker is STZ. Their fiscal year ends in February. Their Cinco de Mayo revenue spike happens every May like clockwork. Somewhere between the branded ice bucket and the limited-edition can, the Zacapoaxtla farmers who charged a French column with farm tools became a logo on a napkin.

This is not an accident. This is how extraction works. You take a people’s victory. You remove the politics. You add lime. You sell it back to the country that is currently deporting them.

The holiday that meant “the people who were supposed to lose didn’t” now means “the people who were supposed to lose are invisible.” They brew the beer. They serve the drinks. They clean the bar. And this year, they can’t even march.

“There is nothing to celebrate,” one organizer said.

He’s wrong. There is everything to celebrate. The Battle of Puebla happened. The Chicano movement happened. The resistance is real and it has a date and a name. But the celebration has been swallowed by the same machine the original battle was fought against: a foreign empire extracting wealth from people who were never asked.

The French wore blue coats. Constellation Brands wears a stock ticker. The extraction didn’t end. It rebranded.

Sources: Newsweek, VinePair, Constellation Brands IR, Salud America, Mexico Solidarity.

// NEON BLOOD