When Family Joy Was Loud
This is going to be messy, much like our families — familiar like the nuances in Bad Bunny’s performance, and all over the place, much like my thoughts — but it comes straight from the heart.
Since Saturday, I’ve been processing my feelings on Bad Bunny’s performance. I’ve watched the performance about seven times now. I’ve watched so many people’s reactions, read articles, read comments — went into a Bad Bunny spiral as I laughed, cried, laughed again, and cried some more. It finally dawned on me why it’s made me so emotional. It connects back to a note I posted not too long ago — which I’ll reference here for context.
What Bad Bunny expressed in his performance was pure joy, love, and celebration — the kind that has felt increasingly rare.
I think about how that’s gotten harder and harder to do. Because even when we’re doing it, it still feels heavy. The celebrations I knew growing up don’t exist anymore — not within my family, and not within so many others I know. Bad Bunny’s performance reminded me of the joy our elders once held together. But over time, we’ve grown apart. Family moments are starting to feel like distant memories. Cousins, uncles, and siblings don’t even talk anymore. Reason? So many. Religion and politics created quiet divides — and often, when a matriarch in the family passes, the ties that once held us together loosen. People are reminded of the loss when they’re together, rather than leaning into the beauty of the transition and celebrating one another while we still have each other.
The matriarch in my family was 99 when she passed — that is a hell of a long life — long enough to witness the world change entirely. The world she knew no longer exists, and the world we once knew no longer exists either. So I know she is at peace — even if the rest of us are still learning how to live without her.
Family Christmas 2015
I miss the days of my childhood, when the music was so loud that you had to yell to talk, even though they were sitting right next to you. When we got in trouble for running around and playing tag in the house while the adults drank and laughed. When grandma got up and started dancing, it only gave everyone else permission to do the same. When we took the pots from the stove and banged them like drums.
When the soundtrack to our Christmases, Fourth of July’s, Thanksgiving, New Year’s, and birthday celebrations at the local community center was the same rotation of classic salsa music and freestyle hits of the 80s and 90s. Salsa music that you felt in your soul, and it came out of your body. Freestyle was pronounced in your footwork. That scene represented generations of families that got together and just had THE best time.
I recently had a conversation with a friend about Latino/a representation in media, and how hard it is to tell our stories — not because they aren’t universal, but because they’re so specific. Our very diverse looks are easily misrepresented because we can be mistaken for so many other nationalities. Often, Latinos are playing other nationalities, only for us to later find out that they’re Latino.
But all of that was unpacked and dismantled in one performance — well, not exactly, but enough to continue the conversation. He celebrated the vastness of our color, culture, and diaspora. He united us at a time when it felt like it was impossible. Those that got it, GOT IT.
As I said, this is all over the place — because the performance itself is past words; it transcended language and barriers, it celebrated our culture in a way that felt so nuanced, specific, yet universal. It reminded me of family and joy while being deeply spiritual. Connecting us to our elders and our ancestors. When those drums started to play for El Apagón—literal chills. And the lead up was Ricky Martin, my first love, first concert I ever went to, I was even interviewed after his concert *we’ll save that embarrassing moment for another day* lol.
Now more than ever, we need to continue to tell those stories. I want to name that I’m not just a coach — I’m a storyteller — and this project lives at that intersection. I have a short film called “Spirit Guides Her” that I am working on getting produced this year. I only feel more empowered to tell this story and celebrate the richness of our ancestors.
When mine passed in 2021, my family hasn’t been the same. Those celebrations stopped when she transitioned. Through this project, I hope to honor that joy — and leave a door open for connection, in whatever form it may take.
Thank you, Benito, for proving to the world that it is possible to express the richness of who we are through the lens of joy, nuance, family, and celebration. We feel so seen and empowered to continue to tell the world our stories - well, at least I do —loudly, proudly, and fully.
