“Foreigners may not in any way participate in the political affairs of the country.“
Articulo 33
I first learned of Article 33 of the 100-year-old Mexican Constitution when I accidentally joined a teachers’ march on Calle Salamanca. I had just recently moved to Mexico City in 2016, and my initial basecamp for apartment hunting was Hotel Roosevelt in the green Condesa district, a WWII-era concrete edifice which demonstrated to Yankees at the time that Mexico was no friend to Germany. One early morning I went for a 7-11 coffee, and the next thing I knew I was holding a banner condemning President Enrique Peña-Nieto.
“Adonde ustedes van?“ I asked the marching teachers. When they said the Zocalo, in the central district, I decided to join them, as I knew of a few apartment rentals in the area.
“Yo soy un maestro tambien,“ I mentioned, to practice my Spanish, so they invited me along as a gesture of solidarity. I did not at the time appreciate the checkered history of the teachers union in Mexico, nor the fact that the President was advocating for a national teaching standard, ostensibly to redress professional issues of cronyism and nepotism. Like the powerful but corrupt notary publics, many teachers simply inherit their jobs from parents. Furthermore, several prominent union leaders were in jail for embezzling union dues. In some rural states, striking school teachers routinely established roadblocks or otherwise disrupted the business of government. In apparent retaliation, armed troops in Iguala made 43 activists disappear in an atrocious case that received international condemnation.
I knew none of this when I joined the parade. Onlookers cheered as thousands marched down Paseo de las Reforma. Shaved-ice venders thrived and tricolor flags waved on a festive summer day. In the din of horns and drums, it was not made clear to my spontaneous compatriots that I did not really speak the language, but my nodding approval seemed to suffice. We raised our banner higher when we reached a row of embassies near the Angel of Independence, and the crowd swelled. This was when a police officer, standing beside his motorcycle, made eye contact and motioned for me to step out of the procession. I handed my banner to someone and followed his order. When he asked for my passport, I only pointed in the direction of my hotel. I never carried my passport on walks.
“Roosevelt,“ I reminded him, hopefully, “Como el Presidente de Estados Unidos.“
The officer grimaced. Fortunately, some kindergarten teacher had accompanied me to the curbside and helpfully explained to him, I think, that I was merely a clueless tourist seeing the town, experiencing the culture, learning his lesson. Lesson numero uno was that Mexicans love to march in protest, to celebrate the unity of dissent—and these communal marches invariably lead to the Zocalo, at the steps of Palacio Nacional. Indeed, this is why Paseo de la Reforma is routinely closed to vehicles—to clear a straight path to Peña-Nieto’s front door.
Lesson numero dos was Article 33 of the Mexican Constitution, as elucidated in English by the young teacher, and in irate Spanish by the cop:
“The Federal Executive shall have the exclusive power to compel any foreigner whose remaining he may deem inexpedient to abandon the national territory immediately and without the necessity of previous legal action.“
The constant foreigner in me realized the implication that such outsider dissent “in the political affairs of the country“ was not only intolerable but downright illegal. A trouble-making Yankee might just be deported, without delay or appeal. He might not even have a chance to return to his hotel room for his passport.
I surrendered without qualification. “Lo siento, entendido, lo mismo en el Estados Unidos.“ I did not try to explain any further the fear of fear itself, nor what Roosevelt ever did to make those Japanese-Americans disappear.
My adventures in the new world