HAS MEXICO EVER WONE MISS UNIVERS

                             HAS MEXICO EVER WONE MISS UNIVERS

 You wanna know about Mexico and Miss Universe? Okay. But you have to understand, it’s not a sports story. It’s not about who’s the prettiest.

Imagine this. It’s the 80s. You’re a kid, and it’s Sunday night. The whole family is crammed into the living room. The good chairs are for the adults, you’re on the floor, maybe on a scratchy wool blanket. The air… man, the air is a mix of everything. It’s the leftover smell of the carne asada your dad grilled, the sweet scent of your mom’s flan cooling in the kitchen, and the faint, electric smell of the big old console TV that’s probably older than you are.

And every year, it’s the same ritual, the same beautiful, painful dance. The girl from Mexico comes out, and your living room just… lights up. “¡Mira, qué bonita!” your mom whispers, and everyone nods. Your uncle, let's call him Tío Ramón, he puffs out his chest like he’s personally resp Alright, let's try this one more time. Forget the neat paragraphs, forget the clean summary. Let's just talk, like we're sitting on the tailgate of a truck, and the night is getting cool.

You wanna know about Mexico and Miss Universe? Okay. But you gotta understand, it’s not a sports story. It’s not about who’s the prettiest. It’s a story about a feeling. A long, long feeling that sat in the pit of your stomach for, like, forty years.

Imagine this. It’s the 80s. You’re a kid, and it’s Sunday night. The whole family is crammed into the living room. The good chairs are for the adults, you’re on the floor, maybe on a scratchy wool blanket. The air… man, the air is a mix of everything. It’s the leftover smell of the carne asada your dad grilled, the sweet scent of your mom’s flan cooling in the kitchen, and the faint, electric smell of the big old console TV that’s probably older than you are.

And every year, it’s the same ritual, the same beautiful, painful dance. The girl from Mexico comes out, and your living room just… lights up. “¡Mira, qué bonita!” your mom whispers, and everyone nods. Your uncle, let's call him Tío Ramón, he puffs out his chest like he’s personally responsible for how beautiful she is. “Esta vez,” he says. “This time.”

And you believe him. Of course you do. She’s perfect. Her smile is perfect, her dress is amazing. She walks like she’s floating. Then they ask the questions, and she’s smart! She speaks English better than your cousin who’s been taking it for six years. And the pride in that room, it’s so thick you could almost cut it with a knife.

Then comes the part that feels like a little punch in the gut. They start cutting. They call the names for the Top 10. A name is called. Not Mexico. Another name. Not Mexico. With each name, the room gets a little quieter. The nervous energy starts to feel… heavy. Your Tío Ramón stops puffing his chest out and just slumps back into the couch. Your mom starts clearing the plates, a little too loudly. It’s this silent, shared disappointment. We were always right there. Always at the party, but never the guest of honor. It was the story we told ourselves: we’re good, real good, but the big prize? That’s not for us.

And then, in 1991, the universe decided to throw that story in the trash.

Her name was Lupita Jones. And from the second she walked on that stage in Las Vegas, you could feel it in your bones. She was… different. She wasn't just up there smiling and looking pretty. She had this look in her eyes, man. This focus. It was like she was looking at something nobody else could see, and she was walking right toward it. She wasn't a contestant; she was a competitor. Like a boxer before a fight. She had this strength, this "I'm not here to make friends" energy that was just… magnetic.

I remember that night so clear. We were at my cousin’s house. His mom had made enough tamales to feed an army, and they were just sitting there, getting cold. Nobody cared. When they called her for the Top 10, the place went nuts. High-fives, yelling, my cousin’s dad, a big, serious man, was jumping up and down like a little kid. Top 6? More of the same. But now, the feeling had shifted. It wasn't just hope anymore. It was… a certainty. A real, live-wire certainty that this was it. The nervous energy was gone, replaced by this buzzing, electric feeling that something huge was about to happen.

Then, it’s down to two. Her and the girl from the Philippines. I swear, the whole country, every single person watching, just stopped breathing. The host, Bob Barker, he’s fumbling with the envelope. The camera zooms in on Lupita’s face. She’s calm. How is she so calm? My heart is pounding through my chest.

And he says it. “The new Miss Universe is… MÉXICO!”

The sound that came out of us, out of every house like ours, from Tijuana to Chiapas… it wasn’t a cheer. It was an explosion. It was a scream that had been waiting for forty years to get out. My cousin’s dad jumped so high he actually smacked his head on the ceiling fan We still laugh about that. My Tía was just crying, big, fat, happy tears, ruining her makeup. People ran out into the streets, honking their horns, waving flags, banging on pots and pans like it was New Year's Eve. It was beautiful, loud, chaotic joy.

Lupita didn’t just win a crown that night. She took that old, tired story about us being the "also-ran" and she just… set it on fire. She got on that stage and, for the whole world to see, she said, "No. We're champions. We belong here." And for the first time, a whole generation of little Mexican kids, kids like me, looked at the TV and didn't just see a pretty face. They saw a possibility. They saw themselves.

Life goes on. Years pass. The internet shows up. Suddenly you’re not just watching with your family, you’re in these crazy online chat rooms, arguing with people from Venezuela at 2 a.m. about who has the better "evening gown walk." It’s a whole new world. And Mexico was different now. We weren't the sad underdog anymore. Thanks to Lupita, and a bunch of other amazing girls who kept getting close, we were a powerhouse. We were the team everyone was scared of.

Which brings us to 2010. And Ximena Navarrete.

If Lupita was a fire, Ximena was… a painting. A beautiful, classic painting. She had this old-Hollywood movie star thing going on. When she walked, it was like the music should swell. She was just… grace. When she got her final question, she answered it so calmly, so smartly. You just sat there nodding, thinking, "Yep. That's our girl."

When she won, the feeling wasn't the same shock as with Lupita. It wasn't an explosion. It was more like… a deep, warm, satisfied breath. It was the feeling of a team that knows it’s good. It was like, "Of course she won. We're not a one-hit wonder. We're a dynasty now." It was the feeling of knowing you weren't a fluke. You were the real deal.

And then… there was 2020.

Oh, man. 2020. You remember. The world just… stopped. It got quiet. And scary. Everyone was inside, watching the news, worrying. The world felt heavy, like a wet blanket. There was no getting together, no parties. Nothing.

The Miss Universe pageant was delayed, and when it finally happened in May of 2021, it was just… strange. No crowd. No cheering. Just a big, empty, echoing hall. It felt like the whole world was holding its breath, you know?

And in that quiet stood Andrea Meza.

From the start, people just… connected with her. And this part is important—she was a software engineer. A woman who built things with her brain. She wasn't just a model; she was a modern woman, smart and strong.

Then came her final question. "If you could change one of your characteristics, what would it be?"

And her answer… it just hit you right in the heart. She said she wouldn't change a thing. That she had built herself with love, and with acceptance of all her own imperfections.

Think about that. In the middle of a global pandemic, when everyone felt so broken and scared, this woman from Mexico gets on a global stage and says, "I'm okay just as I am. Flaws and all." Her words weren't just an answer; they were a gift. They were a warm hug for a world that desperately needed one.

When they called her name, "Miss Universe 2020 is… MEXICO!" the celebration was different. It wasn't loud. It was quiet. It was people on their couches, maybe alone, just letting a few tears fall. It was sending a text to your sister: "Did you see?" "I'm crying." "We needed that." It was a tiny, shimmering moment of light in a very, very dark time. Andrea’s win felt like it belonged to everyone.

So, has Mexico ever won Miss Universe?

Yeah. Three times.

But that’s not the story. The story is the knot in your stomach finally untying. It’s the sound of your uncle hitting his head on a fan. It’s the pride of knowing you’re no longer the underdog. And it’s the quiet tear on your cheek when a woman gives the whole world a hug, right when it needs it most. It’s not about a crown. It’s about those moments when a whole country looks at the TV and sees itself, not just as a participant, but as a winner. And man, that’s a feeling that stays with you. Forever