Threads of Two Flags

When I was a kid, I used to think you could only love one flag at a time. 

If you live in the United States, you wave the Stars and Stripes, end of story. That’s how I understood patriotism. One allegiance, one anthem, one nation under God. And make no mistake, I still stand, hand over heart, every time “The Star-Spangled Banner” plays. 

But the older I get, the more I realize that identity isn’t that simple. It’s not either-or. For those of us raised between cultures, patriotism looks like a weaving, not a war, of two truths. The Mexican flag that so many Mexican-Americans raise high isn’t a rejection of the American flag. It’s a love letter to our roots. It’s memory wrapped in color. It’s saying, “This is where I come from. And this is why I fight to belong.” 

Where the Flag Comes From 

The Mexican flag was born out of fire and faith. In 1821, after a decade-long war for independence from Spain, a new symbol was raised: a tricolor of green, white, and red. It flew under the Plan of Iguala, which promised three things, independence, religion, and unity. These were not abstract ideals; they were urgent cries from a people tired of foreign rule and cultural erasure. 

In the center of the white stripe, there’s an emblem: an eagle devouring a snake, perched on a cactus growing from a stone. That image predates any modern republic. It’s pulled from a 14th-century Aztec prophecy. The Mexica people believed their gods would show them where to build a great city, Tenochtitlán, when they saw that exact vision. They saw it in the Valley of Mexico, and the city they built became the heart of an empire. 

That same image now anchors Mexico’s identity. Not just as a nation, but as a survivor. The design has changed, evolved, been reinterpreted, but the spirit has never shifted. It is about resilience in the face of danger, life sprouting from unforgiving ground, and a people who rise again and again, even when the odds look poisonous. 

 What the Flag Means Here 

When my grandparents and parents crossed borders, deserts, rivers, checkpoint stations, they couldn’t carry their homes with them. They couldn’t bring the scent of warm tortillas, the songs sung in candlelit kitchens, or the adobe walls cracked from summer heat, only the memories, memories from their homeland. And the flag, that cloth became a pocket-sized photograph, in their hearts, of everything they left behind. 

For us, waving that green-white-red isn’t about pledging allegiance to a foreign government. I don’t swear fealty to El Colomo, Michoacan or Los Mezcales, Jalisco. With that flag, I pledge allegiance to tamales at Christmas, to Spanish that dances between syllables, to the corridos sung by mi familia, who carry their faith in rosaries and their stories in broken English. 

To wave the Mexican flag here is not a betrayal of the American flag. It is a roll call of ancestors. It says, “I remember you. I carry you. I honor you.” 

It’s culture, not country. It’s not about loyalty to one soil over another. It’s about the two heartbeats that live inside us, beating in rhythm even when others try to split them apart. 

Why Seeing It Bothers Some People 

Every so often, someone sees a Mexican flag waving at a march in Los Angeles or a parade in Texas and cries out, “Go back where you came from!” The irony? We’re already here. We’ve been here. Some of us were here before there was a border to cross. 

And those who wave the American flag while condemning others for doing the same with theirs often forget: the very Constitution they claim to protect defends that right to free expression. Freedom isn’t just for those who look or sound or pray like you. It’s also for the moments that make you uncomfortable. 

Some see the Mexican flag and call it un-American. But I’d argue that expressing your culture freely and proudly, especially when it once faced erasure, is about as American as it gets. This nation wasn’t built by people who blended in. It was built by people who stood out and said, “We belong too.” 

An Invitation, Not a Provocation 

So the next time you see the eagle and serpent waving beside the Stars and Stripes, don’t read it as divided loyalty. Read it as a marriage of identities, two threads, stitched together on the same tapestry we all call America. 

Ask yourself: What dishes, songs, sayings, or customs did your ancestors carry here? What did they hold onto when they left everything else behind? 

And then remember: Every flag on Earth was once a protest. A protest for dignity. For freedom. For the right to exist. 

So maybe next time, when you hear both anthems echo down your neighborhood block, stand. Listen. You might discover that their harmonies fit better than you thought. 

A Call to Understanding 

Patriotism isn’t a zero-sum game. 

My love for the United States grows deeper because I honor the roots my family watered in Mexican soil. My heritage doesn’t dim the stars on Old Glory; it makes them shine brighter, against a richer, fuller backdrop. 

Two flags. 

One story. 

One heart. 

Yours. 

Mine. 

Ours.