By Carlos Antonio Flores
Many years ago, when I first started my business in the defense contracting world, I was young, ambitious, and full of optimism. I had an idea I believed in: helping my shipmates acquire hard-to-find shipboard parts. At just twenty-five years old, I was excited to build something meaningful.
But I quickly realized that I didn’t fit the typical mold of the industry. Most of my peers and competitors were older white men—retired military officers or seasoned employees from major defense contractors. I was a young Latino entrepreneur, and while I recognized I was different, I never saw it as a disadvantage. At least not at first.
When potential vendors wouldn’t return my calls or emails, I chalked it up to business realities. People are busy. Not everyone sees the value you bring immediately. I didn’t take it personally. Instead, I focused on finding solutions. I decided to bring in two middle-aged white partners with long-standing industry relationships. Almost overnight, doors began to open. Phone calls were returned. Emails were answered. Suddenly, we were taken seriously.
Even then, I didn’t allow myself to question why. I was focused on results. If this partnership helped us break through, that’s all that mattered—or so I thought.
It wasn’t until a year and a half later that I experienced something that forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth. During a particularly tense negotiation, one of my partners received an email that he later showed me—an email I was never supposed to see. The message read: “I see you’re just the bird that sings. Tell ‘Jose’ to call me so we can hammer out a deal.”
My name is Carlos. This individual had spoken with me countless times—well over a hundred phone calls. He knew exactly who I was.
At first, I shrugged it off. I even tried to joke about it with my partner: “You’re more upset than I am, and at least he got your name right.” But my partner wasn’t laughing. He was furious.
He looked me in the eye and said something that I will never forget:
“He’s not calling you ‘Jose’ because he forgot your name. He’s doing it because he’s angry he has to negotiate with you at all. In his world, someone who looks like you—a Mexican-American—isn’t supposed to be sitting across from him as an equal. ‘Jose’ is his subtle jab, his way of reminding you where he thinks you belong.“
A part of my naivety died that day. While I had experienced microaggressions before, this was different. This wasn’t ignorance. It was deliberate, it was meant to cut.
So when I recently heard Vice President Vance refer to Senator Alex Padilla—someone he worked alongside for years—as “Jose,” I recognized the tactic instantly. It wasn’t a stumble; it was calculated, just like the email I once received.
A name is more than just a label—it is deeply personal. When someone intentionally uses the wrong name—especially one that evokes a racial or ethnic stereotype—it’s rarely accidental. It’s a way to diminish, to exert control, to remind you that in their eyes, you are not fully equal. You are “other.” The use of “Jose” was not an accident; it was a calculated act meant to undercut Padilla’s authority and remind him of the racial and cultural hierarchies that still exist, even at the highest levels of American power.
When power dynamics shift and those accustomed to privilege feel threatened, subtle forms of bigotry often emerge. These aren’t always overt slurs or outright discrimination—sometimes it’s in the tone, in the coded language, or in something as seemingly small as intentionally getting someone’s name wrong. It’s an assertion: “Don’t forget who you are and where you belong.”
Microaggressions like these don’t just sting in the moment; they have a cumulative effect. They send a message that no matter your credentials, no matter your accomplishments, your identity remains a barrier in the eyes of some. And when these tactics are used by leaders in public office, they do more than target an individual—they signal to the broader community that such behavior is acceptable.
For Latinos, and for all people of color, these small indignities are a reminder that our fight for true equity and respect continues—not just in politics, but in business, education, and every corner of society. The truth is, racism is not always loud. Sometimes, it whispers. Sometimes, it smiles. Sometimes, it calls you “Jose.”
Our country is changing. Some see progress; others see threats to a power structure they’ve long controlled. But no matter where you stand politically, there should be universal agreement that bigotry—overt or subtle—has no place in our public discourse. When our highest elected officials feel comfortable enough to engage in these kinds of tactics, it reflects not only on them, but on us as a society.
We must call it out. We must share our stories. And we must demand better—not just from our leaders, but from one another. Because dignity starts with something as simple, and as powerful, as calling a person by their rightful name.
About the Author:
Carlos A. Flores is an entrepreneur and defense contractor based in California, and a contributing writer to La Revista Binacional