Community Is the Origin

They gave me a single word to write this column: community. And although it seems simple, within the world of tequila and agave spirits it is perhaps the biggest word we have. Because without community, nothing we celebrate today would exist. Tequila was born, grew, and survived thanks to entire communities that shared knowledge, tradition, joy, ceremonies, and of course, the drink itself.

The first distilled spirits in Mexico traveled from mouth to mouth, from firepit to firepit, from ceremony to ceremony. They moved not through commercial routes but through human bonds. Even their names confirm this: “vino mezcal de Tequila” was named not for a recipe, but for the community that created it. The origin of the name is a quiet reminder that Mexico’s liquid culture has always been collective.

Work Rooted in People

Community also lives in the fields. A group of jimadores is not just a group of workers: it is an extended family. They are brothers, cousins, neighbors, and compadres who rise before dawn to harvest under the same light and the same stories. That work, as difficult as it is noble, would be much heavier without the network of affection that makes the fields less lonely and more human. Community, there, is literally what sustains the day.

The same happens in the factory. I see it especially in Amatitán, where I have spent a good part of my professional life. There, a distillery is not just an industrial space: it is the heart of a town. In the loading of agave, in the cooking, in the distillation area, and above all, in bottling, a space often ignored when we talk about tequila, you can feel community. In that area, where more than 80% of the team are women, bonds multiply: friends, cousins, comadres, neighbors. Their community sustains the rhythm, the quality, and the spirit of the industry, and it is rarely acknowledged.

Then there is the community that exists far from the fields and factories: the enthusiasts, the curious, the collectors, the passionate. People in Mexico, the United States, and many other countries have found in mezcal and tequila a point of connection. In our own country we are producers and consumers, but sometimes not as knowledgeable as some communities abroad, who have come together through curiosity and shared questions. This “collective ignorance,” far from being negative, has brought them together to learn as one, just like in school, when you teamed up with those who learned at your pace. That union between those who want to learn and those who want to teach is one of the most genuine forces in preserving any culture.

What We Build Together

The same happens with whisky, wine, and beer: communities are the backbone. Without them, fleeting trends and fanaticism could erase in seconds what takes generations to build.

Which is why I return to the beginning: community is not a place. It is a shared bond. It is what we hold in common, from the earth to the glass. Without communities, without the towns, without the jimadores, without the women who bottle, without the engineers, without the enthusiasts, everything we do would be incomplete. What good is a great spirit if it isn’t shared? What good is planting, waiting years, and producing with care if that effort doesn’t create a human bond, a shared story?

So here is my invitation:

If you are just beginning in this world of tequila, or if you are already part of it, seek to create community. Look for that spark in common with someone else. Share a drink, a question, a story, an experience. Great communities begin with two people who decide to learn or enjoy something together.

In the end, that is tequila: a reminder that Mexico distills history, but it also distills community.