The more than 53 million people living in poverty in Mexico are being insulted in every episode of the new Netflix reality show Made in Mexico. Nine socialites of Mexico's one per cent are the protagonists of a reality show that can only be described as a mishmash of The Real Housewives and Beverly Hills 90210, catty moments included.
Luxurious restaurants, glistening high-rises, high fashion and the dreams of some of the richest people in Mexico City pretend to give substance to a show that exposes its own banality when dealing with issues such as parenthood, career changes and relationships. Most importantly, this show, which in theory was created to showcase a version of Mexico far removed from the drug wars, fails in representing the country's mestizo and indigenous population, the other 99 per cent of the population.
Beautiful, thin and trendy Mexicans and expats populate a neocolonial universe in which the indigenous 'noble savages' are employed as in-house servants, nannies or drivers, or used as props during touristy outings to show Aztec cleansing rituals. Important festivities such as el Día de los Muertos, Day of the Dead, are trivialised, treated almost as high-school Halloween parties. Vital cultural places, such as the Xochimilco Canals and Teotihuacan pyramids, are used as backdrops to impress women.
In 1991 anthropologist Ricardo Bonfil Batalla, in his book Mexico Profundo: Reclaiming a Civilization, coined the terms real and imaginary Mexico. Made in Mexico is a clear example of imaginary Mexico, the one that whitewashes its identity.
In imaginary Mexico, celebrity wannabes aim to include as many English words as possible in their vernacular. They want to make sure they are perceived as global citizens, clase alta, as far removed from any trace of indigeneity as possible. In the show, deep Mexico is forgotten, silenced, used as a prop to talk about resilience in the aftermath of the 19 September 2017, earthquake, in which over 360 people died.
Deep Mexico is Mexico's mother culture; it is the vanished glory of the Mesoamerican civilisation. It is the blood spilt by the colonisers who now parade on Netflix's show, oblivious to their privilege and the abuse and injustice that feeds it. The show denies Mexico's roots, its precolonial past and deeply unequal present. One in which the white class rules, and in which the colour of skin matters.
It's this troubling unequal present that needs to be represented in the media. Representation matters, and