The Return of the Caricature
A mural in Mexico protests the America-first Monroe Doctrine. Photo courtesy of Amilcar Challú.
I grew up in Mexico with a very clear —and very simplistic—image of the United States. It was the empire. The country that overthrew governments, invaded nations, spied on its allies and decided the destiny of the world without asking permission. In school, at home, in the media, this vision appeared over and over again: that of a powerful giant, egotistical and dangerous. Ronald Reagan was the planetary villain and “Rambo,” his military arm, glorified on the screen. One didn’t have to think much about it: the United States was the “other.” The threat.
But even at this early stage of my life, the image was not totally black and white. I remember watching “Love Story” one afternoon on Mexican television. The story had a deep impact on me, but what really stuck in my mind was a word I barely understood: “Harvard.” I asked my mother what that was and she explained that it was a very prestigious university, perhaps the best in the world. That puzzled me. How could this great university be in the same country I’d always been taught to reject? It was the Evil Empire…but it had good schools. This was, perhaps, my first inkling that the United States was not just one thing. It could be many things at the same time, even contradictory things.
The 90s only intensified this sensation. With the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War, the binary narrative lost its meaning. Mexico signed the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), and suddenly the United States was not just a neighbor: it was a partner. We began to see U.S. products in every store, its ideas in every educational reform, its standards in our discussions on quality. It was no longer the far-off aggressor. It was the country we wanted to be, although we didn’t admit it out loud.
Later, I lived for a decade in the United States. I studied, worked and created community. And as it often happens with real-life experiences, what I found was much more complex than any image I had formed previously. I saw close up the vitality of its democracy, but also its fissures. The infinite Americas that coexist—and sometimes collide—within its own borders. I learned that to reduce the United States to a caricature was unfair. And, at the same time, it was impossible to ignore the webs of power that keep on operating as if nothing had changed since the Cold War.
The day that Barack Obama was elected president, I was in Harvard Square. I saw another United States take over the streets: young people, families, immigrants, students, veterans. People embracing, crying, shouting with a mix of relief and hope. This was a country that seemed to be celebrating not only a political victory, but a different identity: more democratic, more inclusive, more peaceful. That night, for a fleeting moment, the caricature seemed to have been completely refuted. I thought that—finally—the country’s soul was inclining towards its better angels.
A poster against McDonalds in downtown Oaxaca. Photo courtesy of Amilcar Challú.
Eight years later, I was visiting Washington D.C. when Donald Trump won the presidency. The city, heavily Democratic, was cloaked in silence. People looked lost, parties were canceled—many had expected Hillary Clinton would win; the bars were empty. A heavy air of deception covered everything. But in my case, it was not only disappointment: it was fear. Fear of what would come for Mexico, of the tone of the Trump campaign, of the brutal return of a discourse I thought had been overcome. The caricature that I had spent years dismantling seemed to have won the elections. And this time, it was not an external projection: it was a self-definition.
I thought the differences between Mexico and the United States could coexist. That a mature relationship was possible between partners, even if we were not equals. For moments, we even experienced this. But over time, and particularly since 2016, I’ve had to accept the possibility that this all was a mirage. That the impulse of domination, of closing ranks against anyone perceived as different, of imposing instead of dialoguing, was still there in a latent form. And today, it is not at the margins: it is at the center of power.
The most worrisome thing is not that this threat exists—it has always been there—but that the other United States, the one I witnessed celebrating with hope in Harvard Square, today seems to be vastly weakened. I don’t doubt that many of those celebrating that night have continued to resist. But, from a distance, this doesn’t seem to be widespread. There doesn’t seem to be a strong alternative, articulate and capable of clearly confronting the discriminatory model that has been gaining ground. One sees, instead, a tendency to adapt, to tone down language, to get close to power in the hopes of moderating it. More of a will to survive than to transform. And Harvard, once again, just as when I watched “Love Story” as a child, seems to be the exception. An island within a nation that still hasn’t decided what it wants to be.
El regreso de la caricatura
Por Sergio Silva Castañeda
Un mural en México protesta contra la Doctrina Monroe, que prioriza a Estados Unidos. Foto cortesía de Amilcar Challú.
Crecí en México con una imagen muy clara —y muy simple— de Estados Unidos. Era el imperio. El país que derrocaba gobiernos, invadía naciones, espiaba a sus aliados y decidía el destino del mundo sin pedir permiso. En la escuela, en casa, en los medios, esa visión aparecía una y otra vez: la de un gigante poderoso, egoísta y peligroso. Ronald Reagan era el villano planetario, y *Rambo*, su brazo armado glorificado en la pantalla. No hacía falta pensar mucho: Estados Unidos era el otro. La amenaza.
Pero incluso en esa etapa temprana, la imagen no era del todo coherente. Recuerdo una tarde viendo *Love Story* en la televisión mexicana. Me impresionó la historia, pero lo que realmente se me quedó grabado fue una palabra que apenas entendía: “Harvard.” Le pregunté a mi mamá qué era eso y me explicó que era una universidad muy prestigiada, quizá la mejor del mundo. Me desconcertó. ¿Cómo podía estar en el mismo país que representaba todo lo que me habían enseñado a rechazar? Era el imperio del mal… pero tenía buenas escuelas. Ese fue, quizás, mi primer atisbo de que Estados Unidos no era una sola cosa. Que podía ser muchas cosas a la vez, incluso contradictorias.
Los años noventa aceleraron esa sensación. Con la caída del Muro de Berlín y el fin de la Guerra Fría, la narrativa binaria perdió sentido. México firmó el Tratado de Libre Comercio de América del Norte (TLCAN), y de pronto Estados Unidos no solo era vecino: era socio. Empezamos a ver sus productos en cada tienda, sus ideas en cada reforma educativa, sus estándares en nuestras conversaciones sobre calidad. Ya no era el agresor lejano. Era el modelo. El referente. El país al que aspirábamos parecernos, aunque no lo dijéramos en voz alta.
Después viví una década en Estados Unidos. Estudié, trabajé, hice comunidad. Y como suele ocurrir con las experiencias reales, lo que encontré fue mucho más complejo que cualquier imagen que me hubiera formado antes. Vi de cerca la vitalidad de su democracia, pero también sus grietas. La apertura de su sociedad, pero también sus desigualdades feroces. Las infinitas Américas que coexisten —y a veces colisionan— dentro de sus fronteras. Aprendí que reducir a Estados Unidos a una caricatura era injusto. Y que, al mismo tiempo, era imposible ignorar los hilos de poder que siguen funcionando como si nada hubiera cambiado desde la Guerra Fría.
El día que Barack Obama fue electo presidente, estaba en Harvard Square. Vi a otro Estados Unidos tomar las calles: jóvenes, familias, migrantes, estudiantes, excombatientes. Gente abrazándose, llorando, gritando con una mezcla de alivio y esperanza. Era un país que parecía festejar no sólo una victoria política, sino una identidad distinta: más democrática, más incluyente, más pacífica. Esa noche, por un momento, la caricatura pareció completamente desmentida. Pensé que finalmente el alma del país se inclinaba hacia sus mejores ángeles.
Un cartel contra McDonald’s en el centro de Oaxaca. Foto cortesía de Amilcar Challú.
Ocho años después, estaba en Washington D.C. cuando Donald Trump ganó la presidencia. La ciudad, abrumadoramente demócrata, amaneció en silencio. Las miradas eran perdidas, las fiestas se cancelaron, los bares estaban vacíos. Un aire espeso de decepción lo cubría todo— muchos habían anticipado que la candidata demócrata Hillary Clinton iba a ganar. Pero en mi caso no era sólo desconcierto: era miedo. Miedo por lo que vendría para México, por el tono de la campaña, por el regreso brutal de un discurso que creí superado. La caricatura que pasé años desarmando parecía haber ganado las elecciones. Y esta vez, no era una proyección externa: era una autodefinición.
Pensé que nuestras diferencias podían coexistir. Que era posible una relación madura, entre socios, aunque no fuéramos iguales. Por momentos, incluso lo vivimos. Pero con el tiempo, y sobre todo desde 2016, he tenido que aceptar que esa posibilidad fue un espejismo. Que el impulso de dominación, de cerrar filas ante lo diferente, de imponer en lugar de dialogar, sigue ahí, latente. Y hoy no está en los márgenes: está en el centro del poder.
Lo más preocupante no es que esa amenaza exista —siempre ha estado ahí—, sino que el otro Estados Unidos, el que vi festejar con esperanza en Harvard Square, hoy parece diluido. No dudo que muchos de los que celebraron aquella noche siguen dando la lucha. Pero a la distancia, se ve poco. No se percibe un proyecto alternativo fuerte, articulado, capaz de confrontar con claridad el modelo excluyente que ha ido ganando terreno. Se ve, en cambio, una tendencia a adaptarse, a suavizar el lenguaje, a acercarse al poder con la esperanza de moderarlo. Más voluntad de sobrevivir que de transformar. Y Harvard, una vez más, como cuando vi “Love Story” siendo niño, vuelve a parecer la excepción. Una isla dentro de una nación que no termina de decidir quién quiere ser.
Sergio Silva Castañeda es economista y historiador, con formación en Harvard, donde desarrolló investigación en historia económica y economía política.
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