From consensus on 'Hispanic' to rejection of 'Latinx': The identity that refused to be reinvented

The U.S. government did not adopt the term "Hispanic" out of cultural romanticism or as a result of any kind of mass consultation with the affected communities. It did so primarily for statistical, bureaucratic, and political reasons in the 1970s. Prior to that time, people of Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban, and other Spanish-speaking origins were typically classified simply as "white" on federal forms, or as specific national groups. This statistical invisibility made it difficult to demonstrate poverty rates, educational gaps, health disparities, and instances of discrimination. In light of this, numerous activist organizations lobbied to create a distinct category that would allow them to claim resources and protections.

In 1976, Congress passed Public Law 94-311, which required federal agencies to collect data on "Americans of Spanish origin or descent." An ad hoc committee deliberately chose "Hispanic" over "Latino." Grace Flores-Hughes, who was one of the key participants, explained the reasons years later: the term referred precisely to people of Spanish-speaking origin or with a Spanish cultural background; "Latino" was too broad and could include Italians, Portuguese, or French people; whereas "Hispanic" provided a clear and useful pan-ethnic category to unite Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, and others under a single statistical heading.

The term made its debut in the 1980 Census and was standardized by the Office of Management and Budget. By 1997, "Latino" had been added, and since the 2000 Census, the official category has been "Hispanic or Latino." However, "Hispanic" remains the primary historical and legal term today, even though "Latino" has been growing in popularity despite its origins as a linguistic tool of Napoleon III's French Empire to distort the Hispanic identity of the former Spanish territories in the Americas following their independence movements and thereby expand its influence in the region.

But to the point: the distinction is not trivial. "Hispanic" emphasizes the Spanish language and ties to Spain (it includes Spaniards and generally excludes Brazilians). "Latino," on the other hand, focuses on Latin America (it includes Brazilians and usually excludes Spaniards). Neither term arose from a unanimous popular consensus. They were bureaucratic tools designed to give visibility to a growing population. And yet, they worked reasonably well for decades because, at the very least, they served a practical need: counting people in order to serve them.

The creation of a linguistic monstrosity for political purposes

That pragmatic logic went out the window when the cultural and academic left decided that categorization alone was not enough: it had to be ideologized. The most grotesque result of that impulse is the term "Latinx," which does not exactly originate from the neighborhoods of Los Angeles or the Bronx, but rather was born in academic journals and spread from university faculties as an "inclusive" and "non-binary" alternative to Latino/Latina.

Basically, a group of left-wing academics decided that Spanish—a language with grammatical gender for centuries—was inherently patriarchal, and that they had to correct it in the name of "justice." The result? A word that sounds forced in English, is nearly unpronounceable in Spanish, and provokes widespread rejection among those it purports to represent. Yet another example of how out of touch progressive elites are with anything outside their ideologically driven worldview.

And the data is devastating. According to the Pew Research Center, barely 4% of Hispanics in the United States use "Latinx" to describe themselves or have ever used it. In several surveys, up to 40% consider it offensive. The overwhelming majority prefers "Hispanic" or "Latino," or simply identifies by their country of origin. This is no coincidence. Ordinary people have neither the time nor the interest to rewrite the rules of grammar every time some university theorist discovers a new form of oppression.

This is where the failure of "Latinx" ties into the broader folly of inclusive language. The same logic that produces "Latinx," "Latine," or "elle" seeks to reshape a living language to accommodate the sensibilities of an ideological minority or to find new windmills to fight against. Spanish does not need academics to lecture it on inclusion. Its grammatical gender system does not equate to subordination, just as "el mueble" does not turn tables into victims of patriarchy. Forcing endings in "-x" or "-e" is not progress: it is a form of reverse cultural colonialism that disregards the actual usage of millions of native speakers.

The contrast with certain movements of past decades is glaring: while other activist movements fought for labor rights or education, mobilizing people around tangible or material causes, the activism driving "Latinx" has been fighting to change a vowel. And it fails precisely because it attempts to turn Hispanics into subjects of an identity experiment rather than treating them as citizens with concrete concerns such as employment, safety, their children's education, and orderly immigration.

As expected, part of the American left has attempted to capitalize politically on this operation by seeking to fragment Hispanic identity through increasingly sophisticated and moralizing categories, with the aim of creating a homogeneous, progressive bloc that could be mobilized at the polls. A simple calculation: if people can be persuaded to define themselves first and foremost as "oppressed" and "non-binary," it will be easier to align their vote with the dominant cultural agenda.

Of course, the problem with this strategy is that reality has resisted it. A significant portion of the Hispanic electorate has shown growing skepticism toward this discourse and clearly prefers issues such as jobs and the economy to discussions about pronouns and whether a certain way of speaking might be reinforcing patriarchy.

"Latinx," far from uniting, alienates the very communities it claims to represent. While universities, certain media outlets, and some corporations continue to use the term with solemnity, on the street and at family dinner tables it sounds like a sham. The fact is, Spanish was already a perfectly functional language capable of inclusivity long before anyone invented the "x"—except for those deeply ideologized individuals.

It could be said that this episode offers a broader lesson: statistical categories can be useful when they address real needs in measurement and public policy, but they become toxic when they turn into instruments of social engineering. "Hispanic" began as an imperfect but practical bureaucratic tool. "Latinx" began as an ideological gesture and has ended up being a symbol of the chasm that separates the progressive elite from the people in whose name it claims to speak.

As long as this left continues to prioritize linguistic purity over concrete problems, it will continue to generate rejection among a broad sector of the population that over the past few decades has shown a clear preference for other terms to refer to itself, and has even shaped part of its identity based on these terms.