Cultural appropriation is the use, adoption, or exploitation of elements from a culture by someone who does not belong to it, usually without context, without permission, and without benefiting those who originated it. In many cases, it happens for commercial purposes.
This is not simply about “using something Mexican.” Appropriation happens when those elements are stripped of meaning, simplified to make them sellable, or turned into marketing tools disconnected from their origin.
It’s not just a foreigner problem. A Mexican can also fall into appropriation when taking elements from specific communities—language, symbols, processes, or narratives—and using them without truly understanding, respecting, or creating value for those who sustain them.
In the agave spirits industry, where cultural identity is at the core of the product, this line is very easy to cross. And it has been crossed without much hesitation since the late 20th century.
One of the most common offenses is the superficial use of cultural symbols. Skulls, alebrijes, textiles, or generic references to “Mexican-ness” get used as decoration, with no real connection to the product’s origin or process.
Then come the romanticized—or outright invented—narratives. Stories of “ancestral tradition,” “secret recipes,” or family lineages that are exaggerated or fabricated to emotionally connect with the consumer.
If your brand can’t hold its story without makeup, it doesn’t have a story.
Another clear form of appropriation is the invisibilization of the producer. While the brand builds identity and gains recognition, the mezcalero is pushed aside or disappears from the label altogether.
Language also plays a role. Terms like “artisanal,” “ancestral,” “magical,” or “spiritual” are used as empty tags, with no responsibility for what they actually mean.
The aesthetics of poverty are another tool. Images of children, poorly dressed people, or rustic palenques in precarious conditions become symbols of authenticity—without reflecting reality or contributing to improving it.
At a structural level, appropriation also shows up in the disconnect between the value created and how it is distributed. Brands positioned as premium abroad often fail to reflect that value in what they pay producers—or worse, in what they still owe them.
There’s also a more subtle form: the strategic use of cultural processes and language. References to traditional techniques or indigenous languages are used as market differentiators, even when the connection is partial or superficial.
Appropriation happens when reality is edited to make it more attractive, when only what sells is selected, and when value does not return to those who make it possible.
Building a Mexican brand for the U.S. market carries a moral responsibility to the history and culture behind the product: to invest without misleading, without taking what is not yours.
Avoiding appropriation is not about political correctness. It’s about coherence. About ethics. About decency.
There is no cultural appropriation police; however, the new consumer has taken that role: they look for authenticity, history, and identity—and it shows in how they consume.
If the investor is aiming for something beyond dollars, respecting cultural ownership matters. It can be done. It requires honesty. This is not solved with storytelling, but with concrete decisions from the start.
In practice, it means changing the approach: stop treating culture as a marketing asset and start treating it as a living system you are part of.
With concrete actions:
1. Put the producer at the center, not as an accessory.
The mezcalero is not content. He is a partner, a voice, an identity. He is the artist.
That means real visibility, participation, and fair compensation.
2. Avoid the aestheticization of poverty.
Poverty is not a visual tool to emotionally manipulate the consumer. Working with producers in precarious conditions means improving their reality, not using their image to sell.
3. Start from the relationship, not the narrative.
Before branding, define your relationship with producers.
If the story comes after the product, it’s marketing. If it comes from the relationship, it’s real.
4. Align price with message.
You can’t sell premium authenticity and pay commodity prices.
Shelf price is an ethical statement. And the market is starting to read it.
In mezcal especially: cheap mezcal is cheap mezcal.
5. Use language responsibly.
“Artisanal,” “ancestral,” “traditional” are not decoration.
If you use them, you should be able to back them up.
6. Don’t invent stories, even if they sell.
The temptation to polish a story is huge.
But the new consumer doesn’t want perfect stories. They want truth. And with AI, hiding the obvious is no longer an option.
7. Include communities when using their elements.
Language, names, deep cultural references are not borrowed.
They are built with participation, permission, and shared benefit.
There are many brands built on appropriation. And many are successful—yet empty.
They are not examples to follow. In many ways, they are the reason the market is tired of empty narratives and is changing how it consumes.
Representing an honest product is defining what Mexico means to someone else.
MEZCALEANDO 