What is Cinco de Mayo? How a battle became a bar holiday in the U.S.

Every May 5th in the United States, the same question floats through beer-sticky bar tables and neon-lit cantinas: “Wait, what is Cinco de Mayo actually about?” Most people can’t answer it—at least not without Googling. They know it involves tacos, tequila, and maybe a mariachi playlist on Spotify. They know it’s Mexican. Sort of. But is it Mexico’s independence day? (It’s not.) Is it widely celebrated in Mexico? (Also no.) And why is it such a big deal in the U.S.?

Like many cultural rituals, Cinco de Mayo has become more symbolic than specific—less about what actually happened in Puebla in 1862, and more about how American identity absorbs, remixes, and sometimes forgets the original source material. This isn’t a takedown of margarita night. But it is a map—of how history travels, how marketing shapes memory, and how culture becomes both a bridge and a billboard.

Let’s start with the real story. Cinco de Mayo commemorates the Battle of Puebla, fought on May 5, 1862, between Mexican forces and the French army. It was an unlikely Mexican victory. Napoleon III had sent a highly trained European military force to collect debts and install a French puppet regime. The goal? Expand France’s empire into the Americas.

Mexico was still reeling from decades of conflict: independence from Spain in 1821, a brutal war with the U.S. in the 1840s, and a civil war in 1857. Money was scarce. Morale was worse. Yet in Puebla, 2,000 Mexican fighters held off 6,000 French troops.

It didn’t end the war. It didn’t stop France from eventually installing Archduke Maximilian as emperor. But it became a rallying cry for resistance and a symbol of Mexican grit. Think: David vs. Goliath, but in Spanish, and with bayonets.

Here’s where things get even more interesting.

The first Cinco de Mayo celebrations didn’t happen in Puebla. They happened in California. In the 1860s, Mexican-Americans living in the U.S. watched the events in Mexico closely. Many supported President Benito Juárez’s liberal, anti-imperial government. To them, the Battle of Puebla wasn’t just a patriotic win—it was a stand against monarchy and foreign rule. It resonated with America’s own Civil War, where the struggle between freedom and control was playing out in bloody parallel.

So they marked the day. Not with tacos and beer specials, but with speeches, rallies, music, and poems. These were expressions of ethnic pride and political solidarity. They were also signals: Mexican identity didn’t disappear at the border. That’s the part many people forget. Cinco de Mayo isn’t a holiday imported from Mexico to the U.S. It’s a tradition that grew within Mexican-American communities—before it was re-exported back into pop culture.

This misconception deserves its own paragraph. Mexico’s actual Independence Day is September 16, not May 5. That date honors the 1810 “Grito de Dolores,” when Father Miguel Hidalgo called for revolt against Spanish colonial rule. It’s a nationwide celebration with fireworks, food, and flags.

Cinco de Mayo, by contrast, is only a public holiday in the state of Puebla. The rest of Mexico mostly treats it like any other weekday. So if your Mexican friend in Guadalajara shrugs at the Cinco hype, it’s not a snub. It’s just not their national tradition. The confusion persists because the U.S. version of the holiday outgrew its original boundaries—and because, let’s face it, “Independence Day” sounds more exportable than “Anniversary of a Mid-War Battle.”

Cinco de Mayo might have stayed a regional celebration if not for two key developments: FDR’s diplomacy and Anheuser-Busch’s marketing team. In the 1930s, President Franklin Roosevelt launched the Good Neighbor Policy to improve U.S.-Latin American relations. Cultural appreciation became part of the pitch. Cinco de Mayo gained visibility as a friendly nod to Mexican heritage within the U.S. policy framework.

Then came the 1960s and 70s. The Chicano Movement—a Mexican-American civil rights campaign—reclaimed Cinco de Mayo as a symbol of cultural pride. Events featured folkloric dance, Aztec imagery, and public education about Mexican history. It wasn’t a party. It was a statement. But just as it re-entered the cultural spotlight, corporate America took notice. Especially beer companies.

In the 1980s and 90s, alcohol brands began targeting Latino consumers with Cinco-themed campaigns. Corona, in particular, went all in: posters, commercials, event sponsorships. They tapped into the “fiesta” mood—but skipped over the context. The result? A holiday once rooted in defiance and community became synonymous with discounted shots and plastic sombreros.

This is where the tension lies. Cinco de Mayo, as it’s celebrated in many parts of the U.S., walks a line between homage and stereotype. On one hand, it gives Mexican-Americans a platform to showcase culture, cuisine, and tradition. On the other, it often reduces that culture to party props.

You’ve seen the signs: “Cinco de Drinko.” Mustache straws. DJs in fake accents. It’s kitsch masquerading as appreciation—and it wears thin. But culture isn’t static. Nor is it pure. Traditions evolve. Meanings mutate. And sometimes, reclamation comes in unexpected forms. In recent years, Latinx groups have used Cinco de Mayo to educate, fundraise, and celebrate heritage on their own terms.

Yes, you can still sip a margarita. But maybe also read a bit. Or stream “Cinco de Mayo: La Batalla.” Or support a local taqueria that does more than happy hour.

The good news: Cinco de Mayo is still very much alive—and more diverse than ever. In cities with large Mexican-American populations like Los Angeles, Houston, and Chicago, it’s not unusual to find parades, art exhibits, mariachi concerts, and street festivals that blend food, dance, history, and activism. It’s part education, part celebration.

At the same time, restaurants, bars, and supermarkets still cash in. Sales of tequila, avocados, and tortilla chips spike around the holiday. Some brands do it respectfully. Others... less so.

The internet has complicated things. Social media gives visibility to more authentic voices—but it also fuels meme-ification. A tweet can correct a misconception or perpetuate a parody, depending on the poster’s mood. Still, the conversation around Cinco de Mayo is more nuanced now than it was a decade ago. That’s progress.

So why keep celebrating Cinco de Mayo? Because it’s layered. Because it’s messy. Because it reveals so much about how culture travels, bends, and reshapes. It matters because it started as a military win, morphed into a diaspora tradition, got corporatized, then reclaimed again. It’s a mirror of the Mexican-American experience itself: complicated, resilient, and misread by outsiders.

It also offers a valuable reminder: just because something is fun, doesn’t mean it’s hollow. And just because something is popular, doesn’t mean we understand it. Cinco de Mayo isn’t sacred. But it is meaningful. It’s an invitation to dig deeper—and to dance while doing it.

Here’s the real takeaway: Cinco de Mayo doesn’t have to be either a solemn civic moment or a full-throttle tequila fest. It can be both. Or neither. Or something else entirely. What matters is who gets to define it—and whether we’re listening to the voices that have kept it alive for over 150 years. Next May 5, go ahead and celebrate. But maybe skip the plastic mustache. And ask someone: “Did you know this started in California?” You might just start a better tradition.