Mamí likes to say that there are some people born into this world with a blossomed rose up their ass, such that even their shit is pretty, perfumed. My mother is not one of those people. She has learned to be hard, unflinching, constantly on guard for the next whirlwind to uproot the few remaining comforts of her life.Read More
Men in combat uniforms patrol Grand Central Terminal. Camouflaging with nothing as marble walls expose them. Machine guns clutched tight. When one of them makes eye contact with me, I dart my glance elsewhere. This is power. This is also weakness.
We would never enjoy dancing to salsa, listening to salsa, or merengue, for that matter. While we wanted to love our culture, these important musical and dancing experiences had long been tainted for us.
Pop punk was the escape that set me free. Introduced to me by my brother and subsequently shared with him, I found a home in a kind of music that had just the right balance between aggression and hope.
Perhaps seapunks felt that this unspoken community would be lost altogether if exposed into the mainstream – a mainstream whose audience would just not get it because they happen to be part of a different generation.