To be a Mexican American living in the United States has always meant a deep-rooted fight to be seen. There’s a constant conflict: "We gotta prove to the Mexicans how Mexican we are, and we gotta prove to the Americans how American we are," Abraham Quintanilla Jr.’s character famously put it in the movie Selena. Then there’s the harmful rhetoric fueled by politicians that paints us as criminals, gang members, and worse.
Growing up the daughter of Mexican immigrants who came here in pursuit of a better life, I always felt pressure to assimilate, to be American, to live the “dream” of the country I was privileged enough to be born in. So I tried. I swapped braids for flat irons, and replaced the bold brown liner and fiery red lipstick my aunts wore with light pink gloss. I wanted to be American in the way that felt the most palpable. It wasn’t until college that I began to circle back to my roots—not with some grand cultural awakening, but through small, instinctive moments that felt like returning home. I found myself reaching for that same brown lip liner I once rolled my eyes at; I slipped into plaid flannels I’d sneaked from my brother’s closet, and found armor in the form of chunky gold hoops that made me feel my most comfortable and confident.
In today’s political and cultural climate, with ICE raids sweeping through neighborhoods and rampant anti-immigrant discourse, it’s clear that no amount of fitting in can protect us. The act of blending in, of shrinking ourselves, has never guaranteed safety—It has only cost us connection. So now, many Mexicans and Mexican Americans are choosing to be seen in the loudest, most unmistakable way: by wearing their culture on their sleeves—literally. I’ve noticed this among peers, and I’ve noticed it on TikTok, where other children of Mexican immigrants are documenting this intentional sartorial shift.
“Being in a corporate environment that is predominantly white, I wanted to take space—and use style—to start a conversation about my culture and where I come from, especially because it’s often overlooked,” Michael Anthony N. Gonzalez, a 24-year-old working in fashion merchandising in , tells me of his viral video, in which he wears a blue and white plaid shirt reminiscent of the 1960s Chicano Movement. “Ironically, many of the people who say fashion isn’t political are the same ones who get uncomfortable when I dress in a way that reflects my identity. That alone proves how political fashion really is.”
Gonzalez’s story isn’t unique—it’s part of a broader wave of young Mexican Americans reclaiming space through style, even when it means standing out. For Maritza Ortiz, a 24-year-old legal administrative assistant based in Newport Beach, California, that choice came with a deep desire to honor her family. “With everything happening around ICE raids and mass deportations, I felt hurt,” she says. “Immigrants deserve to be here. We helped build this country.” She began looking for more strategic approaches to showcasing her background at her corporate job. She wore ribbons in her braids in traditional red, white, and green hues, a bold red lip, and even a Virgen María tee tucked into her baggy jeans. Ortiz would be lying if she said she didn’t notice the stares. “I could feel people looking at me like, ‘What are you doing?’” she says. But when she shared her story online, her videos struck a chord. Hundreds of Latinas began responding with their own braid selfies. “It made me feel less alone,” she says. “Like I was part of something bigger.”
Fashion as a vessel for cultural memory runs deep, especially for those living far from home. Ximena Avilez, 28, a Mexican woman living in Maine, tells me that dressing up has always been a bid for connection to her birthplace. After moving to Colorado in her early twenties and encountering blatant racism, she reached for pieces that reminded her of the flea markets and jaripeos she grew up with. "I wore huaraches, hoop earrings, braids, and a spoon ring engraved with the Aztec calendar," she says. She also tattooed her ribs with a line from Pablo Neruda: soy y sigo (I am and I continue). "It became a mantra and a quiet defiance. I refused to let who I was die."
But expressing your heritage through style can come at a cost, too. Especially at a time when policy is being shaped by people who reduce our families to case numbers and statistics. The outfit your grandmother wears can make her a target—a reminder that even existing is a risk. Gonzalez remembers being stared at on the bus while wearing the outfit featured in his video. “Passengers left the seat next to me deliberately empty,” he says, recalling another time when a woman told others that “Mexican men are robbing women in the area”—while looking directly at him. Avilez remembers the sting of middle school ridicule for speaking Spanish or wearing her hair in braids—small choices that made her a target before she could even understand why.
Still, all three—and thousands more under TikTok’s #fashionispolitical page—continue to show up. Not just in cultural markers like flannels, boots, or braids, but in the act of dressing without apology. "We have always used fashion to reclaim space,” says Avilez. “The Zoot Suit Riots of the 1940s are just one example in which young Mexican Americans were targeted for the way they dressed because their style challenged norms and made them visible. Their fashion became a symbol of defiance. I see myself continuing that legacy every time I choose to wear something that reflects my culture.”
That history is heavy and sacred, but it’s also full of joy. As Gonzalez puts it, “I don t need to wear anything specific tied to my culture to make a point. It’s the pride. It’s the boldness. That’s what it feels like to be Chicano and show up in my culture day to day."
Fashion has always had a direct connection to survival for us. For so long, we softened ourselves to stay safe, but now we’re refusing to be diluted and reclaiming our Latinidad. In choosing to be seen, we’re making an effort to make our community heard. To honor who we come from and who we are. It’s how we say we’re proud to be Mexican—even when the country we live in tries to make us feel powerless. And in this moment, as history repeats and borders tighten, that pride matters more than ever.
Aquí estamos y aquí seguimos. Con trabajo, con amor, con orgullo—siempre adelante.