With both the 2024 Presidential election and the Puerto Rican Gubernatorial election rapidly approaching, citizens of the Caribbean island once again found themselves in a delicate position and in the headlines. Donald Trump's latest rally was filled with the kind of hate we've come to expect. However, Latinos and Puerto Rico were specifically singled out this time, with comedian Tony Hinchcliffe comparing the island to a "floating pile of trash" after commenting that Latines "don't pull out." Not only did these comments alienate Puerto Ricans, but they also seem to have bolstered support for Vice President Kamala Harris among the community, as only hours later, she received late-game endorsements from Ricky Martin, Jennifer Lopez, and current global phenomenon Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio - AKA Bad Bunny. And while the self-proclaimed "biggest star in the world" is no stranger to political action, prior to his endorsement, his efforts had been more focused on the heated race for the governor's seat on the island.
At the beginning of the month in Puerto Rico, drivers passing over the freeways of San Juan were greeted by a surprising political message that pulled no punches: "Quien vota PNP, no ama a Puerto Rico," which in English translates to, "Anyone who votes for the PNP doesn't love Puerto Rico." The billboard was accompanied by two others around the municipality with equally condemnatory messages for the PNP, the conservative Puerto Rican political party up for reelection for the governorship this November.
At first, the messages seemed like just another round of political gamesmanship by underdog challengers looking to turn the tide of the election against the incumbent. It was later revealed that the ads were Bad Bunny's handiwork. Fresh off the release of his politically charged single "Una Velita," the Puerto Rican reggaetonero was setting his sights on Puerto Rico's ruling party. And now, he's entered into American politics hoping to sway the other half of the equation that determines Puerto Rico's future.
But to understand what's at stake and why Bad Bunny's attack on the PNP and endorsement of Harris are so important, you have to understand what has been going on in Puerto Rico over the past seven years. In 2017, the island was decimated by Hurricane Maria. Almost 3,000 Puerto Ricans lost their lives, 97 percent of the island's power grid was destroyed, and the inept response by both the local and US governments saw emergency relief funds misallocated or outright blocked by the Trump administration.
Frustration from these events led to the ousting of disgraced governor and PNP poster child Ricardo Roselló in 2019. But the victory for his opponents was short-lived. Somehow, the majority of Puerto Ricans weren't tired enough of getting screwed over by their own government and elected Pedro Pierluisi, also of the PNP, as governor in 2020. All the while, the island's electrical grid has continued to falter. Blackouts continue to be the norm, sometimes leaving hundreds of thousands without power for days, and islanders have seen their energy costs soar. If you've been on TikTok lately, you've seen that island schools are in disrepair.
So, going into the 2024 elections, there is an undercurrent of frustration that has been boiling over for seven long years. And Bad Bunny is far from the only artist on the island using his platform to call for change. Artists like Residente and Rauw Alejandro have also been vocal about wanting to see the end of a two-party dichotomy of the PNP and PPD. Both artists support the newly formed party La Alianza, a leftist alliance between the two anti-colonial parties, the PIP and MVC. Others, like future superstar RaiNao, have taken to social media to animate the youth and give messages of hope while also shedding light on the fear-mongering and dirty politicking going on.
But even as they do, a greater question looms on the horizon because no matter who wins this election, Puerto Rico's future as a state, a colony, or an independent nation hinges on the island's relationship with the United States and whoever leads it. And that is an election that Puerto Ricans on the island can only watch and wait for the outcome. This is why Anuel and Nicky Jam coming out in support of Donald Trump - even going as far as to show up at his rallies - has been such a big deal.
Puerto Ricans on the island can't vote. But the diaspora on the mainland can. The policies that the president of the United States sets can have more of an impact on the quality of life on the island than the ones set by the local government. For example, in 2023, when a group of Puerto Rican journalists demanded that the Financial Oversight and Management Board - a US entity that oversees and approves matters related to the colony's budget - make information relating to financial reports, communications, and other important economic data available to the people, the US Supreme Court ruled that the board could have "sovereign immunity." It, therefore, did not have to comply with the request. While the board has reduced the overall debt by a large amount, it has done so at a high cost to the people, with austerity measures that have impacted public services, as well as federally funded healthcare programs across the island.
So yes, no matter what happens during the island's elections, nothing will change overnight. The US still holds a lot of the cards. But the PNP and PDP's grip on power has done nothing but dig the island deeper into debt, deeper into disrepair, and deeper into the pockets of foreigners who come giving nothing and taking everything. It has not provided any opportunity for a clean political slate. And if we can clean house, remove corrupt politicians, and put the country on a path forward, then we'll be able to negotiate our ultimate political fate from a position of power.
Puerto Rico is the oldest colony in the world. Since 1493, we have been passed from one colonial overlord to another, our resources are taken to enrich everyone but our own citizens, watching as our sister colonies all achieved the reality of independence that has forever eluded us. These latest elections won't change the course of Puerto Rico's fate overnight, But in the long run, they will decide whether things get better or worse. With a Harris presidency, we get a Democratic President who is more likely to listen to a Puerto Rican base that largely tracks Democrats. A Trump Presidency almost ensures that the way Puerto Rico has been treated by its colonizer continues. Meanwhile, on the island, a PNP win basically ensures that Puerto Rican life continues on the downward spiral it has for decades. But should La Alianza win, it might not solve all of our problems. It might resolve the issue of our status. But it gives us a chance for progress, the chance to walk into a future written by Puerto Rican hands.
When you start looking for the best paranormal romance books, you'll find countless sexy, swoony, and even funny love stories, featuring all manner of magical beings. We've got the classics, like witches, vampires, and werewolves, plus plenty of others, like merfolk, fae, ghosts, zombies, necromancers, and so much more. These supernatural romance books bring a touch of magic to the romance world, and they're just a little bit different from a few similar genres.
The closest comparison would probably be fantasy romance, or "romantasy," which usually brings in elements of the fantasy genre (epic scale, significant world-building, a complex system of magic) and layers those with a significant romance plot thread. For many readers, the line between these books and paranormal romance books for adults is somewhat blurry, but in most cases, the "paranormal" label indicates that you'll get a heavier focus on the supernatural beings - the vampires, the shifters, and so on - and on the romance, rather than the full-fledged fantasy world-building.
No matter your tastes, there's definitely a good paranormal romance book out there for you! Some authors prefer to put a rom-com twist on the genre, like Lana Harper or April Asher. Others, like Nalini Singh or Kresley Cole, are mainstays of the genre for their sprawling, long-running series filled with all sorts of sexy supernaturals. Whether you take your paranormal romance with a side of chills or a side of laughs, check out these books to add some magic to your reading.
I make a living acting in the machine known as Hollywood - an industry that commodifies me but isn't for me. An industry where if I am using my hands too much on camera, the director shouts in all seriousness, "Not so much of the ethnic hands!" "White hands, Chris, white hands," I whisper to myself while smiling.
By the way - that is a true story.
The essence of what I do is put myself in spaces where I must be chosen, where I must be selected as worthy enough to portray this thing. Beyond the ability to act, a large portion has to do with whether I am physically and aesthetically appealing, and pleasing enough to a certain gaze. When you make a living off your desirability, is the power of your body ever just yours? My body has been turned into an object of desire by whiteness, and as long as the main decision-makers and check signers in Hollywood are white bodies, then I must be desirable to and for them.
This is why I always say that it is nice to receive fat checks (I have rent to pay), but nothing changes until I and people who look like me are signing them. In my opinion, this is the other side of the same coin of being seen as worthless. Because if I am not desirable in some way, then I am worthless. And I fear that if I am too radically different from what they have already deemed acceptable, then I might lose whatever status I have already worked so hard to achieve. I just might not survive.
I made a film about this for The New York Times in 2020. The film was about the paradox of "making it" in Hollywood: to succeed, you need to stand out from the crowd while assimilating to whiteness. You have to strive to be yourself while fitting in. And if you aspire to be like one of those leading men you grew up watching on TV, well, you better look the part. Step one: calm those curls.
This was in 2020 - the whispering of change was all around us. With the George Floyd protests, people seemed to have gotten the message: there's a problem and the old ways are not working. Companies and Hollywood started talking about diversity and hiring DEI professionals, and guess what - it didn't do much of anything.
While there's been a lot of talk, progress has been modest at best. According to a 2020 Pew Research report, Latines accounted for half the US population growth between 2010 and 2019 and made up 18 percent of the population (this has since increased). When will we get to see our nation's diversity reflected on our screens?
I guess until that happens we are forced to fit their model. I'd love to tell you I am 100 percent past caring what they think, but that itch of wondering if I am physically code-switching enough is always in me. I have been a series regular on a network television show. This is a difficult feat for a Dominican, Colombian Brown boy from Queens, and still, in the moments when I am not actively working, I question my own body before the system. I wonder whether I should take all those drug dealer, criminal, day player roles that are still so prominent on our screens.
We live in a world where bodies of culture are constantly asked to give up parts of ourselves in order to move forward. This isn't new information but it's worth reiterating. Black and Latine actors are constantly forced to change themselves.
This is our fight - the fight of loving and being ourselves.
This is our fight - the fight of loving and being ourselves. We fight to love and embrace our curls, our skin tones, and our ethnic features in a world that sells us the idea that simply being ourselves is not good enough. It's a world that sells us the NoseSecret tool, often advertised as "plastic surgery without the surgery." It is a plastic tubing that you manually insert and force into your nose to create a narrower, thinner, and more pointed shape. At only $25, it's a steal!
We consider those who commit self-harm a danger to themselves and to society. We criminalize that act. But what about self-hate? Who is there to protect us from all the pretending we do for someone else's gaze?
When I told my pops I wanted to play pretend for a living, that I wanted to be an actor, that I wanted to go to Hollywood, he said, "It's gonna be tough, but look the part. Pretend. Fake it till you make it."
I have pretended. But at what cost? I kept my hair short and I got the nose job my first manager told me to get. And it worked. I worked a lot more. That's the sad part about all of this. What gets me is when I still hear white actors saying things like, "You're so lucky. You're Latin, everyone wants you right now. I'm just white. I got nothing." Or the man I bought a piano bench from on Craigslist who said to me, "It's great they're looking for more minorities, but now I can't get a role, you know?"
I took a scriptwriting class, and what I learned is a bit disheartening. The longevity of a show is built on the idea that its characters can never really change. For the most part, lead characters need to remain self-sabotaging and can never truly grow because then the show would change. Execs don't like change. This is what we are shoving into people's brains - that we are meant to be stuck in cycles. That we are meant to be trapped by our delusions, poor habits, old stories, old clichés, old abuses, old dogmas, old oppressions, and that that's OK. But it's not.
We must begin to ask ourselves: What images and stories have been placed deep into our minds around race and humanity, rights and fairness? What narratives have we been fed since the day we were born? For so long, Hollywood has denied people of color any depth, authenticity, and meaning because the only way you make a thousand movies a year is if you have a certain level of automation, and cliché stereotypes are part of that automation. Think about what would happen to the industry if it actually produced films that were nuanced, complex, and honest.
Imagine if every script session started with: "Does this story help bring humanity into that space? Does this story marginalize an already marginalized community? Is this story true? Does this person have to be white? Does this story represent society and race and class in an honest way? Does this story help us see and imagine a new, more cooperative and loving world?"
This reimagining must begin behind the camera first because we can't be authentic in our storytelling if we're not being honest about who is telling these stories. Casting up front will not change who is signing the checks.
I need Hollywood to make it commonplace and ordinary, not extraordinary. I'd like to see a Brown "When Harry Met Sally," or an Afro-Dominican futurist fantasy with a bachata score, an Indian and Puerto Rican bromance buddy comedy, two second-generation South Asian kids saving the planet, a meet-cute romance drama about two young Cambodian American kids in college, and all where the Brown leads are just hanging out and talking and not making everything about race. Imagine if that was just commonplace, not exceptional, not a big deal, not the reason to make the movie - it just was.
William Blake called imagination the "divine vision." It involves all the senses, it involves everything: the body, the speech, and the mind. I believe in the media's power to start showing me something divinely different, so we can begin to imagine a new future. Television used to be a sign of everything that wanted to erase me, and now I have been a series regular on a Fox sitcom called "Call Me Kat" - curls and all. To be on TV, a medium I watched with so much awe as a child, feels pretty amazing. Though I must continue to ask: Am I just a guest who can be uninvited as quickly as he was brought in? Or am I an equal?
My goal has always been to use Hollywood as a vehicle for getting to a place where I could create the art I wanted to create, say the things I wanted to say, and hopefully help uplift others in telling their stories. It's nice to receive checks, but the real power is in being able to sign those checks, and nothing changes until the people signing checks begin to look a lot different, and a little less like old, straight, white males.
It's not about checking boxes and making sure people of color are cast. It's about honoring the stories that allow these people to be so magnanimous and so worthy of being more than a device for your small-minded white stories.
It's not about checking boxes and making sure people of color are cast. It's about honoring the stories that allow these people to be so magnanimous and so worthy of being more than a device for your small-minded white stories. If we looked beyond checking boxes and actually began telling stories that represent what culture is, we might begin to see that.
Today, my relationship with code-switching has evolved significantly since that 2020 video. I've made a conscious decision to embrace and rock the natural texture of my curls unapologetically. Which is to say I have chosen and keep choosing to be myself. I need reminders of this, but it's my baseline, where I come home to. If I change, it's because a role that is honestly representative of society asks me to - not because some tired plotline needs another reformed gangbanger.
To my fellow Latines and people of color in Hollywood: stay vocal and assertive about boundaries and the representation you wish to see. Create your own art and tell your own stories. Until the lion learns how to write, every story will glorify the hunter. This is why the lion must write.
And try not to just talk about supporting each other and breaking down barriers; actually put your money where your mouth is (you know who you are). Just because there are Brown/Black bodies in the room does not mean we cannot perpetuate harmful systems of power as well, or that we are not capable of exclusion. Are we committed to anti-racist work in all the spaces, no matter how uncomfortable it may make us? By uplifting one another and evolving who signs the checks, we can create a more inclusive and truthful representation of us. We can pave the way for future generations to see themselves on screen without having to compromise who they are. And we all deserve spaces of belonging.
The book of who we are is not a fixed text. It is flowing, it is fluid, it is expansive, we are shaping it, right here, right now.
I had just sent a voice note to my friend when a curious feeling came over me. "Let me listen back to it," I thought to myself. As I did, an even stranger feeling came over me, a lack of recognition of my own voice. You see, I've been code-switching so long that sometimes I'm unsure where the real me begins. Obviously, this was my friend, so I was being genuine in my language. However, as someone who has been a professional for many years, as well as an academic, the voice that I heard on playback was just one of many. And for a lot of modern-day Latines, this is another aspect of the identity politics we have to reconcile with. That's why it's refreshing to see that recently many Latine celebs have been more candid about the pressure they've felt to code-switch or "talk white" and are openly rejecting the practice to embrace their authentic selves.
This is no doubt due to the current selling power Latines are enjoying on a global level. Buoyed by the popularity of reggaetón and Latin trap, Latin music as a whole is outpacing other markets, with artists like Bad Bunny becoming global stars despite refusing to do music in English. For the past couple of years streaming services like Netflix have been investing heavily in dramas like "Casa de Papel," "Narcos," and, most recently, "Griselda," starring Colombian actress Sofía Vergara. But you don't have to go back too far to track down a time when this wasn't the case.
In the early 2000s, the idea that music sung predominantly in Spanish could be successful in the English-speaking market seemed absurd. During that time, you'd also have been hard-pressed to find shows featuring Latine leads or focused on issues in and around our communities. This meant that to have a shot at success, many up-and-coming stars had to approximate whiteness.
Marc Anthony, Ricky Martin, and Thalia all released English-language crossover albums, catering to the US pop market. Puerto Rican actor Freddie Prinze Jr. has spoken about how rare leading roles written exclusively for Latines were at the time. Now, given the current acceptance of Latinidad, he's more open than ever about how proud he is of his heritage. And to hear him talk today is to hear a more authentic person stripped down, complete with all the twangs and inflections code-switching so often tries to cover up. You can hear it in this interview he gave to "The Talk" while on a press tour.
But it's not just Prinze. Recently, a video of Mario Lopez eating some food with a friend went viral for the candid nature of his speech. When I was younger, my parents and I would watch the actor on "Access Hollywood," and the way he talked always felt performative to me. Seeing this side of Lopez in this footage, however, was refreshing. It's nice to know that deep down, at his most relaxed, he's just another homie. Now, that's not to say that code-switching is always performative. Personally, I've always thought of being able to code-switch as a resource, one that allows me not to blend in but to be understood by people who normally wouldn't understand me.
Over the years, I've developed a plurality of accents. I've got my Nuyorican accent that comes out when I'm around my family and cousins. Then there's my Puerto Rican accent that comes out when I'm on the island, stretching the syllables of English-language words so that they fit into Spanish. And then there's my academic side that comes to the table prepared with his $20 words. Years ago, I used to think that having these sides to me made me fake and that I wasn't really Latine or Caribbean enough. But now I'm realizing that everyone's authenticity is different and being Latine doesn't mean being one thing. I'm reminded of the great Desi Arnaz, who never downplayed his heavy Cuban accent. For Arnaz, authenticity became an asset, and it's no wonder that he was the first Latine to cohost an English-language television show in the US. I see parallels to him in Salma Hayek and Vergara, two amazing actors in their own rights who have always embraced their accents and whose stocks have risen because of it.
On the opposite end of the spectrum you have Latines like John Leguizamo, whose heavy New York City accent made it easy for casting agents to offer him stereotypical roles like junkies and criminals. But rather than taking on those roles or code-switching, he simply owned it and carved his own path through Hollywood, even getting the chance to deliver Shakespearean prose in his trademark accent as Tybalt in Baz Luhrmann's "Romeo + Juliet."
Today the groundwork that these Latine icons have laid has set the tone for many of us to reclaim our authenticity and do away with code-switching. Sometimes that looks like speaking with our true accents or using the vocabulary that comes most naturally to us. But we also see it in the way many of us have stopped anglicizing our names or are more willing to express ourselves in Spanish or Spanglish. For example, I love the way Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez pronounces her name every time she introduces herself, even though Spanish isn't her first language. I love the way Oscar Isaac and Pedro Pascal break down their full names in this interview with Wired because it shows that our Latinidad is something we always carry with us.
At the end of the day, being Latine means being part of a group for which no one size fits all. And I'm glad to see that we're no longer feeling as much pressure to squeeze ourselves inside boxes that strip us of our sazón, whatever flavor that may be.
You may find eroticism and horror movies strange bedfellows, but you shouldn't - sexy horror films are absolutely a thing, and with so many good ones to choose from, they probably deserve their own genre. We've picked the sexiest horror movies out there, featuring everything from blood-sucking vampires and carnal werewolves to unhinged serial killers - with a whole lot of sex thrown in.
Ahead, you'll find sexy horror movies by the likes of Gary Oldman, Winona Ryder, and Keanu Reeves's erotic dreamscape of an interpretation of the story of Count Dracula in "Bram Stoker's Dracula." And then, of course, there's Megan Fox and Amanda Seyfried's iconic riff on demonic possession in "Jennifer's Body" shows that any type of monster can make a good subject for a sexy horror film. But perhaps the scariest movies on this list are the realistic ones.
If you have a strong stomach (believe us, some of these movies make the surgeries on "Grey's Anatomy" look like a game of Operation), you just might have some steamy, erotic thrillers to pick from on your next date night. Read ahead for some of the sexiest horror movies of all time, perfect for Halloween viewing and beyond.
- Additional reporting by Lauren Harano and Kalyn Womack
In our Q&A /feature series Tell Me Más, we ask some of our favorite Latine celebs to share some inside info about their lives and some of the ways they are prioritizing their mental health. This month, we spoke with Colombian rising star Elsa y Elmar about dealing with burnout, safeguarding her mental health, and how all this impacted the process of creating her latest album, "PALACIO."
Elsa Margarita Carvajal is no stranger to success. Better known by her stage name, Elsa y Elmar, the Latin Grammy-nominated singer has been making waves in the music scene for more than a decade. But with her latest album "PALACIO" releasing on August 30th, and on the brink of hitting the road for her biggest tour yet, Carvajal is poised to reach a whole new level. To reach that level once meant putting in many years on the indie circuit and playing solo in bars trying to connect to people who had never heard of her. And even though her unknown indie artist days are behind her, the singer admits that the pressure remains. Carvajal says that pressure can be both good and bad. On the one hand it can push artists to achieve bigger and better things, reaching the levels previously reached by their idols.
But on the other hand, the constant pressure to push for more and compare oneself to their peers or those who came before can be detrimental from a mental health perspective. The songstress says that she sometimes found herself in a constant state of work, thinking about what more she can do. This led her to take a much needed break to recharge after her last album "Ya No Somos Los Mismos." However, in the intervening two years, the singer-songwriter has learned valuable lessons about self-care, understanding when she needs to be "on" and when she needs to take time for herself. From this mentality and two years of no labels and A&Rs asking her for new music or what she was going to do next, Carvajal was able to bounce back from her bout of burnout with her new disc "PALACIO." The album is the first to be released on her new label, Elmar Presenta, and tackles various challenges many of us deal with on a daily basis. In a recent interview, she sat down with PS to talk about mental health and creative pressures and dive into some of the sentiments behind the project.
PS: You're about to perform in your biggest venue ever. How does it feel getting to this point in your career?
Elsa y Elmar: You know, it's really interesting because all the odds were against me. I'm not from that generation of women in pop like Belenova, Julieta Venegas, and Natalia Lafourcade. And I'm also not an urbano artist. I'm an artist that, since day one, the people I'd work with would say, "I don't know where you fit in. I don't know how to explain [your sound], whether you're indie or alternative."
PS: What are some things that might surprise people about the reality of being a professional musician?
Elsa y Elmar: It's physically and mentally taxing and requires a lot of patience . . . I feel like I'm always on.
PS: How have you learned to balance the pressure to be creative with the need to turn off and indulge in self-care?
Elsa y Elmar: I try to take maximum advantage of the periods when I'm feeling most creative and make as many ideas, songs, and videos as I can because I know at any given moment, there's going to be a dry spell. But I also try to take advantage of that time when I'm not feeling as creative, and not stress, trusting that the creativity will return.
PS: What were some of the factors that led to your two-year hiatus?
Elsa y Elmar: I was tired of the bureaucracy, of the expectations, of working with the big labels, of just chasing the carrot. I decided that if I was going to chase any carrot, it was going to be my carrot.
PS: The album is filled with songs that tackle real-life issues. But maybe the song that has attracted the most attention so far is "Entre Las Piernas," a song celebrating menstruation. What inspired you to tackle a topic that, to some, is still considered taboo?
Elsa y Elmar: Being honest, the subject hadn't really crossed my mind as song-worthy, until one day it just hit me that half of the population of the planet bleeds once a month. And even today in 2024 it's a subject that's still taboo, that still grosses people out, and we're not supposed to talk about…and I just thought "thousands of love songs have been written and no one's written about this topic that's so common?"
PS: On another standout on the album, you apply incredible sensitivity to the "mini heartbreak" of being left on read with the song "Visto" - a uniquely digital problem that the singer manages to make feel timeless. Why did you think something as simple as being ignored via text can be so painful?
Elsa y Elmar: I mean, obviously there are legitimate reasons that people get left on read . . . but what I'm talking about in the song is when you're being vulnerable with someone and they leave you on read, and that feels horrible, to not understand why the other side of the conversation rather than communicate what they feel, eliminates the possibility of communication and leaves you with a mountain of questions and self-doubt.
PS: Lastly, for those who might be going through what you've passed through in the last two years - heartbreak, pressure to create, being left on read - can you give them any advice on how you kept yourself centered?
Elsa y Elmar: The other day I was listening to a little chat and [heard something] that struck me as very beautiful. If a problem has a solution, it's no problem. And if it doesn't have a solution, it's no problem.
Whether it's her interviews or her work, Carvajal's vulnerability comes across effortlessly. And yet, she also understands that for many of us, vulnerability is a challenge in these modern times. But if she's learned anything over the past two years, it's that in order to make space for love, work, or anything else, we first have to make space for ourselves, make space for ourselves in our "PALACIO."
"PALACIO" drops on August 30th.
About a year ago, J Balvin, whose full name is José Álvaro Osorio Balvín, told PS why he took a year to prioritize his wellness and focus on his family. The Colombian reggaetónero - who has become one of the biggest stars in musica urbano and the second most streamed Latin artist on Spotify - needed some time to recharge after the release of his 2021 album "JOSE." And it looks like taking time to slow down and be present with his partner of six years, model Valentina Ferrer, and their 3-year-old son, Río, has paid off. His latest album, "Rayo," reveals a newly energized Balvin. In this album, we see Balvin fall back in love with reggaetón, and reconnect with his younger self - the boy from Medellín who spearheaded the urbano sound in Colombia.
In terms of taking time to shift gears, Balvin says, "I definitely think I needed it." The artist has always been open about prioritizing his wellness and mental health and believes it's exactly what he needed to feel ready to get back in the studio. "I needed to rest and focus on my family and my son," he says. While Balvin might have paused in terms of working on a new album, he never stopped working altogether. "I was touring and doing festivals around the world. Not my own tour but I was touring in festivals, and it was great. It was beautiful," he adds. "But now that we are officially back with an album, it's a totally different vibe because I did this album without any pressure. I just went to the studio and had fun."
"I needed to rest and focus on my family and my son."
Balvin says that spending time with his family and just living life without the pressure of recording an album gave him a major creative boost. In just four months after returning to the studio, he recorded dozens of songs. "I was just going into the studio to do music. One day we were like, 'Oh, we got like 40 songs - we might have an album,'" he says. "That was the beautiful thing about this album. I didn't plan to make an album."
And it's true, "Rayo" is a reflection of how far Balvin has come. The word rayo translates to lightning, the name of his first car back when he lived in his hometown of Medellín as an emerging artist. Much like its title, the album is very much about Balvin returning to his essence. The artist says he went into it less concerned about streams and how it would perform and more dedicated to having fun in the studio, making music that excited him like in the early days of his career.
As he explains it, the album's name "reminds me of when I had my first car that my dad gave me with so much love and a lot of effort because we were going through a bad economic situation. But that car paved the way for me. We both paved the way in Colombia opening a new market of reggaetón. I used to sell my CDs in the truck and in the clubs and different concerts."
The album consists of songs like "Lobo" with Zion, which radiates 2010s reggaetón vibes. Tracks like "Swat, "Gangster, "Gaga" featuring Saiko, "Origami" with Ryan Castro and Blessd, and the hit single "Polvo de tu Vida" with Puerto Rican reggaetónero OG Chencho Corleone are sure to become club bangers this season. Balvin also included a few of his signature melodic tracks where he shows off his vocal skills, like "Cosa de Locos" and "3 Noches."
"It's modern, but I didn't lose my DNA," Balvin says.
One thing that's also been a throughline of Balvin's life is spearheading community initiatives. In 2022, he was honored at the United Nations Latino Impact Summit for his commitment to helping break the stigma around mental health issues that exists in the Latine community. He has also continued to dedicate himself to his Vibra en Alta foundation, which provides education and support for the Colombian youth. So it only makes sense that he recently partnered with Cheetos as their newest ambassador for their ongoing "Deja tu Huella" campaign, which supports young Latines in pursuing their career dreams.
"We want to help the new generations to be better and guide them the right way, because there's a lot of wasted talent that they just don't know where to go," he says. "And we'd like to super-serve them and tell them we're going to help you with your dream, and that's what we're here for."
This October, Balvin will headline Billboard's Latin Music Week while also introducing Cheetos's latest Deja tu Huella ambassador. The ambassador will have the opportunity to hit the road on a three-stop community college tour and be provided with resources to support them throughout their studies and career.
While Balvin might be returning to his own roots with this new album, empowering younger artists is always a key goal. "I'm happy to be there and share my point of view of music right now and what I think might be the future sound and, of course, keep introducing the new generation in music," he says. "It's been part of my DNA to work with new talent and if I can help them to have more exposure. I just do it with love and not thinking about someone [having] to give me back."
Balvin has clearly poured into himself, his family, and his community - an act that has revitalized him. Now, with his latest album, Balvin seems more alive and ready to reinvent himself than ever before. As one of the pioneers who paved the way for the reggaetón wave in Colombia, he has not only cemented his own legacy as a leyenda within the genre but also made room for the next generation.
"I feel, of course, more mature and more connected with myself and really embracing and grateful for what we've done for the culture," he says. "I know that I don't have to prove myself anymore. It's more about having fun."
I have a deep yearning for uniting people. I believe that one of my purposes in this life is to bring people together in a way that transcends status, class, and occupation, creating a space where everyone feels truly united and understood. That's why in 2022, I decided to launch my first El Teteo party in Los Angeles, driven by a longing for something that reminded me of my home in NYC.
I was feeling homesick and needed to feel connected to my roots and my community. El Teteo serves as an extension of what I was taught: to find moments of joy through pain, troubles, and hard work. For me, community is about gathering with the people you love and care for, no matter where you are - whether that's getting together with beach chairs in front of a building or plastic chairs at a park under a bridge. Teteo, which is a Dominican slang word for partying and gathering anywhere, suggests that when it comes to community, all you need is good music, good company, and some beers - and, in some cases, food. It's all about sharing moments that aren't guaranteed tomorrow, and it's something that's very much embedded in Latine culture.
As a New Yorker, I found myself missing my city and its vibrant club scenes and dance parties. At almost every party and club I'd been to in Los Angeles, people stood around with a drink in hand instead of getting on the dance floor. Through El Teteo, I wanted to bring the East Coast vibe to the West Coast, raise awareness about Latine Caribbean culture, and foster community. As New Yorkers, we experience different cultures like a melting pot. Not only do I get to share other people's cultures, but I also introduce others to mine.
As an unapologetically proud Dominican American, I yearned for our presence to be felt here in Los Angeles, where it felt like there weren't many of us. Moving to LA made me acutely aware of the lack of representation of Dominicans and Caribbean Latines. It was a culture shock. People were often shocked when I spoke in Spanish. Not many folks in Los Angeles were familiar with the Dominican community or Dominican culture overall.
So I kicked off my first El Teteo party on February 26, 2022, to celebrate Dominican Independence Day in Los Angeles. I partnered with Angela Carrasco, a Dominican American realtor in Los Angeles, and Dominican American actress and host Katherine Castro, who both had ties to a venue. Our event reached new heights of success as 600 people gathered to participate. People even traveled from New York to be part of the unforgettable experience.
These parties have been more than just a big fun event; they've become a place for Latine creatives, particularly those in media and entertainment, to network and build community. The success of the parties is measured by the joy and connection they bring. It's a space where Latindad looks different from what the West Coast is used to.
As a Dominican American, I've faced challenges in auditions because Hollywood often expects Latinas to be light-skinned mestizas with straight dark hair, overlooking the diversity within our community. Afro-Latina Caribbeans are still considered "other" or "not Latina enough" in Hollywood. But these events feature Dominican music, artists, and cultural elements like hookah, creating a cultural hub in LA that showcases our rich heritage and fosters representation in a city that often overlooks us.
At the first Teteo, we had Latines in entertainment from TV shows like "Insecure," "On My Block," "Gentefied," "Station 19 "and "How I Met Your Father" attend. It was a dream come true because people who look like us don't move to Hollywood often, and for Latines, being engaged in community plays a big part when it comes to our mental health. I often hear stories of Caribbean actors, directors, producers, and screenwriters who leave Los Angeles because they can't find community. I wanted to bridge that gap within the Latine diaspora, from Mexicans to Dominicans. My goal was to foster the representation lacking in Hollywood, making our voices heard in the actual city of Hollywood.
The pain of Hollywood has been constantly trying to fit into a mold that asks you to erase parts of yourself, only to be rejected. Despite this pain and uncertainty, one thing they can't take away from me is joy. That's why Teteo was born, out of a desire to challenge the narrative that we don't exist and to celebrate every facet of who we are, including our humanity and the gift of life. Dominican culture is often celebrated without proper recognition, from viral dembow songs to James Bond being inspired by Porfirio Rubirosa, to bachata being sung in different languages across the globe. Yet, despite these cultural contributions, we are often overlooked in the larger Latine conversation. Executives often don't invest in us because they don't believe we exist. However, seeing diverse crowds at Juan Luis Guerra and Romeo Santos concerts made me question why we aren't part of the broader conversation.
I see El Teteo as a moment and a movement that has inspired a new Caribbean ecosystem in LA. It puts Caribbean and Afro-Latino culture at the forefront without relying on executives and investors who aren't interested in us. I wanted to create a space where our presence and culture is acknowledged and celebrated. El Teteo has carved its path by spreading joy and awareness of our vibrant culture, created by us for all to enjoy.
This summer, I'm inspired to bring El Teteo to NYC and make it a global event in an effort to elevate Latine culture and put Dominicans on the map worldwide. I also wanted to use El Teteo as an opportunity to give back to the Dominican community. We are partnering with the Dream Project to support educational opportunities for Dominican youth. It was important for us to create something that not only brings joy but also gives back to people in need.
The Dominican spirit is more than just NYC and my island. It's a way of life and a subculture celebrated by many. It's about taking the positive parts of my culture and sharing them with the world. Like my father says, you never know when God will call you, so enjoy the life you have today. My hope is to bring this joy worldwide through my culture, to elevate and celebrate the community, and to create the representation we're not seeing - all through community gatherings.
There's no time like back-to-school season to give your book stack the refresh it needs. But if you're anything like me, your "want to read" shelf continues to grow with beach reads, sexy romance novels, and much-anticipated releases. To help us decide what to read next, we tapped the experts: folks who read and write for a living.
Ahead of the new school year, we asked some of our favorite Black authors to share their must-reads by fellow Black writers. We asked bestselling authors like Nicola Yoon, Tia Williams, Mateo Askaripour, and more for their suggestions. Whether it's a book they've been inspired by, one they recommend to everyone around them, or one that's stuck with them for years, these books have made an impact on these authors in some way or another. As
In our Q&A /feature series Tell Me Más, we ask some of our favorite Latine celebs to share some inside info about their lives and some of the ways they are prioritizing their mental health. This month, we spoke with reggaetón artist Moffa on how being adopted by his Puerto Rican parents impacted his music, identity and the way he navigates the world.
It's impossible to talk about rising acts of reggaetón in 2024 without mentioning Moffa. The 22-year-old Puerto Rican artist has seen his star power grow at lightspeed over the last two years. In 2022, he was one of the lucky three young acts - along with Alejo and Jotaerre - who teamed up with megastar Karol G on the hit song "Un Viaje," where he was personally flown out to Colombia to work on the track. Since then, he's been dropping music nonstop with bangers like "Bentley Remix," "Sussy," "DAMMN," and "0 Millas," all surpassing millions in combined streams. His versatile flow and catchy lyricism have made other artists flock to him as well, from established stars like Manuel Turizo and paopao to O.G.s like Ñengo Flow.
On July 18th, Moffa's debut album finally made its debut. Titled "Playground," the project reflects his unbridled enthusiasm and curiosity. As he puts it: "Even as an adult, I still feel like a child in lots of ways," which in part inspired the LP's name. Not only are the feelings and experiences he explores over its tracks his own personal playground of emotions, but as an artist, so is the variety of sounds he experiments with. The recording studio, and life itself are both his playground.
For a long time, Moffa has been a person who keeps his cards close to his chest, never delving too much into his personal life. While he's hinted in the past at his roots, he's never spoken out about his backstory in great detail.
Though born and raised in Puerto Rico, he is, in fact, adopted. Moffa is the Afro-Latino son of a Brazilian mother and Dominican father. His mother tragically passed away when he was still an infant, and he and his twin sister were taken in by his Puerto Rican godparents, whom he now considers his parents in full.
In an exclusive chat with PS, Moffa talks about what it felt like to learn he was adopted, the struggle to reconcile with family members from his biological parent's side, if he's ever questioned his identity, how he taps into his roots, and more.
The following quotes have been translated, edited, and condensed for clarity.
PS: Where were you born and raised?
Moffa: I was born in Puerto Rico, in Bayamón. I was raised in the metro area, but I traveled a lot to Isabela and Aguada because my family was from there, from the west side [of the island.] We'd go every weekend or every other weekend, so that's why I feel I was raised on both sides.
PS: When did you find out you and your sister were adopted?
Moffa: I've known since I was little. My biological mother passed away when I was nine months old, from cancer, and I never met my biological father. And so, once she passed, [my godparents] adopted us and became my parents.They were friends with my mom since they were kids. They were all friends together. It wasn't something that was hidden from us, thank God. They let us know that, yeah, we're adopted. And people would've asked us anyway once they saw my mom and dad because we're not the same color at all [laughs]. It would be very hard to convince anyone they're my biological parents.
PS: You said you became aware you were adopted from an early age. How would you describe the way you and your sister were raised by your parents; did they make sure this knowledge never weighed on you or affected you?
Moffa: I think they were always transparent and never hid anything from us, at all. They were always straightforward about our background and history - our roots. And if we ever wanted to travel to those places and get to know them, they would support us and in fact encourage us to explore all the corners and spaces of our family that we didn't know.
PS: I know children can be cruel; were you ever bullied as a child because you looked different from your parents? How did you manage that, if so?
Moffa: I wasn't bullied, actually. Here in Puerto Rico, I feel like that kind of discrimination exists, but it's not as strong these days. I think we should all be aware we're all the same. I'm not and never will be different just because I'm adopted or have a different family.
PS: Do you know anything about your biological parent's family now? Have you had any contact or interaction with them? If so, how does it make you feel?
Moffa: To this day, my family from Brazil has always kept an eye on me. They write to me over DMs sometimes, but it's hard to communicate because I don't speak [Portuguese,] so I'm using [translator apps] to write them back.
I haven't mentioned this publicly before, but a few days ago, my biological father actually 'liked' one of my social media posts. And it was, like, "Oh shit" because I've never met him. [...] I've heard I might have seven siblings on my father's side. It's a difficult situation. You don't want to look down on that person because you [exist] because of them. But since there's no relationship there - no affection, no love - then you don't know how to react or what to do. [They say] "We're here if you need anything," but the feeling isn't there. It's strange.
PS: Do you have any curiosity about meeting them or any of your extended family members from that side?
Moffa: Ehhh... for me, you're really focused on your own things, y'know? You discover all this stuff, which thankfully was revealed to me when I was much younger. But I haven't had that curiosity because you sort of feel like you're cheating on your present family - people who dedicated their lives to me, who gave me a roof over my head. I don't have a problem meeting [them,] that would be actually cool, but my family also deserves some respect.
PS: When it comes to your identity, what kind of conversations have you had with other people or with yourself, for that matter? Now that you're older, is that something you've grappled with?
Moffa: Unfortunately, I don't know a lot about Brazilian culture. I do know a bit about the history, but I've never visited to get to know the country fully. Neither the Dominican Republic nor Brazil. But to me, I am Puerto Rican, just with Brazilian and Dominican blood. I have a ton of family in Brazil, but I'm clear about my identity.
PS: The last few years have heated up the conversation around cultural appropriation, even amongst Hispanics and Latinos, and whether they can make songs in genres that are historically and culturally associated with specific countries. You're in a unique spot where you kind of have a hall pass for multiple genres. Have you ever considered doing a Brazilian funk or Dominican dembow?
Moffa: Last year, I came out with my first Brazilian funk, produced by Young Martino and Hokage. It's called "TOKO," and I remember thinking exactly that. Like, "Can I really do this? Am I allowed?" I never felt like, "Oh, this is my birthright, and I must do it," y'know? I wanted to experiment with it, and I love that sound. I can't wait to go to one of their carnivals. I think that's one of my biggest goals, to be able to go to a carnival in Brazil. It's not just one of Brazil's most popular events, but it's famous worldwide, too.
PS: Since your parents knew your mother for so long, I'm sure they've talked to you about her. Is there anything about her personality you think you have? Have you thought about how your life might have been different if she'd raised you?
Moffa: From what I've been told, if she were still here, I probably wouldn't [have the success] I have now in music. Both because of resources available [to her,] but also her character. I probably wouldn't be in music. I probably would have been raised to be more studious and work in something more "proper" like a doctor or engineer. I'm sure I could've followed my dreams, but I think it would've been more difficult.
And also, she looked way more like my sister, [laughs]
PS: There still seems to be a stigma or shock when people find out a person is adopted, in part because of this dated societal idea that "ideal" families conceive their children. I don't agree with that; in my own case, my dad wasn't my biological father, but he was my dad all the same. What would you tell people who find out they're adopted - or anyone who, for any reason, feels like an "other" in their group?
Moffa: Don't pity yourself or feel different. You're a normal person just like all the other people who achieved their dreams, and you can do the same thing. Sometimes, these things will come up in life, in your personal life, at work, or in conversation with people close to you, but you just have to engage with it head-on. Don't feel bad about it. Be yourself, follow your dreams, and live your life as it's happening. Don't pretend it's not real, of course, because it's a part of you. But don't hide it. Be proud of it, even. Don't run from it.
I'm happy and proud of where I came from. I don't think being adopted puts me in a fence or anything. I'm a normal person, just like any other guy... I can do anything I want if I put my mind to it.
PS: What have you learned about mental health that you apply today - not necessarily in regards to your identity, but even within your career? How do you manage anxiety and things of that nature? What advice have you received?
Moffa: In this fast-moving industry, you have to stay grounded above all and be aware of your station in life. You [have to] be patient about what's happening around you and not rush yourself. At times, I find myself asking thousands of questions in my head, but then I have to stop and center myself and my thoughts, and ease up. Sometimes, you simply have to shed tears to release all that anger or anxiety that we feel when faced with adversity in this world where there are many ups and downs. It helps to get it all out and not let emotions get the best of you.
When fellow emerging comedian Glorelys Mora and I first met in the comedy scene - it was an instant connection. I was in awe of her ability to capture and materialize people's need for expression through comedy. Her determination and contagious, guttural laugh drew me in, and we quickly bonded over our shared experiences and challenges as Dominican comedians. As comics, we spent hours discussing how difficult it was to gain support and recognition in an industry that often overlooks voices like ours. Our conversations sparked a vision: to create a dedicated platform that would elevate Dominican voices in comedy.
When we started Morir Soñando, it was a venture born out of necessity and a deep love for our culture. I'd long felt comedy was missing something crucial - an authentic representation of Dominican voices. While the comedy scene is vibrant and diverse, Dominican comedians often lack a platform that celebrates our unique perspectives and experiences. This gap in representation motivated us to create a space where our stories could be told unapologetically.
I sometimes joke about being emotionally constipated. What I mean by that is I don't know how to cry, but I do know how to make a joke about it. Laughter grounds the moment and transcends people's identity and status. It's the very thing that reminds us we are alive and present. Comedy is like feeding medicine with candy; it brings awareness to difficult topics with levity. And as a result, it often supports us with our mental health and through some of life's most challenging moments, including loss and trauma.
Growing up, I often felt lonely as a kid who struggled with depression, but humor was the one thing that kept me from feeling completely isolated. Humor and laughter bring people together. It doesn't matter what you're going through; laughter acknowledges that you are present in the moment with others, whether you know them or not. Making jokes about being an affair child makes me feel like less of a burden to my family because I get to bring levity to such a serious issue. It also lets people like me know they aren't alone. A laugh can heal someone's pain and suffering.
When it comes to comedy, comedy is such an essential way of communication in my family. That's how we dealt with our trauma. I didn't know I was funny until people told me, and I was able to grow and realize I could make a living off of this. But I also don't see many people like me making strides in this industry. When I first saw Aida Rodriguez on "Last Comic Standing" in 2014, I felt an instant connection because her experiences were so relatable to mine. It wasn't until I became a comedian that I realized how underrepresented we are.
But that also means we constantly face a crossroads in this industry: do we assimilate or pave our own way? In the American market, stand-up comedy is often seen as either Black or white. As an American, I embrace my Blackness, but what about my parents' Dominican identity and my upbringing at home? Should I shut down that part of me to be more palatable for the "mainstream"?
Glorelys and I wanted to create a space for people like us to navigate these questions - similar to what Def Comedy Jam did for the Black American community. I always related more to Black American comics because their comedy was honest and raw, reflecting struggles similar to mine. Still, there was limited space for people who looked like me and also spoke Spanish.
Ultimately, the inspiration for Morir Soñando came from a profound need to see ourselves reflected on stage, not just as a token presence, but as the main event. Over 42 million people in America speak Spanish. It's inevitable for people to be bilingual and speak Spanglish in this country. We wanted to create something that evolves the conversation around Latinidad, showing that it is not a monolith but as diverse as every American in this country. Our comedy shows are not meant to exclude any nationality; quite the opposite. We want to embrace others while creating a place where talent like ours can connect with people who might not have known we exist.
We launched our first show in 2019 to highlight and celebrate Dominican comedians, showcasing our rich cultural heritage and the humor that springs from it. Last year, we made history with a show at the United Palace, an achievement that underscored the importance and impact of our mission. We are returning to United Palace for our next show on July 26 and are thrilled to be moving to the venue's main theater, which seats audiences of up to 3,350, for our November show.
However, producing these events has not been without its challenges. Financially, it has been incredibly demanding. Securing support from the community is crucial to sustain and grow these events. It's notoriously difficult to get Latine events sponsored, so Glorelys and I financed it ourselves, which reflects broader issues of representation and support for minority communities in the arts.
Despite these challenges, we have had significant wins. Our past shows' success and increasing audience support give us hope and motivation. But the road ahead requires a concerted effort from our community. We need to come together to support and uplift each other, recognizing the importance of cultural events like Morir Soñando.
I want to be candid about our frustrations - securing funding, finding the right venues, and battling stereotypes - because these obstacles make our victories sweeter. We are proud of what we have accomplished so far and are excited for the future.
Morir Soñando is not just a comedy show but a celebration of Dominican culture, a platform for underrepresented voices, and a movement towards greater inclusivity in the comedy world. Your support is vital in helping us continue this journey, and we look forward to sharing many more laughs and stories with you.
Last week, Sofia Vergara made history at the Emmys as the first Latina to be nominated for best lead actress in a limited series for her role in Netflix's "Griselda." This nomination comes after years of Vergara battling a double-edged sword: her undeniable talent and her Colombian accent, which were both part of the path she'd carved with her iconic portrayal of Gloria Pritchett on "Modern Family." Despite the success that "Modern Family" had - winning 22 Primetime Emmy Awards and garnering 85 nominations since its 2009 debut - Vergara has been vocal about the limitations the industry placed on her because of her accent.
"I'm always looking for characters because there's not much that I can play with this stupid accent," she told the Los Angeles Times earlier this year. "I can't play a scientist or be in 'Schindler's List.' My acting jobs are kind of limited."
With Salma Hayek being a rare exception, Latina actresses with accents often find themselves relegated to stereotypical roles like fiery maids or sassy best friends. Take Rosie Perez, for instance. The Puerto Rican actress known for her roles in Spike Lee's "Do the Right Thing" and "White Men Can't Jump" has spoken out about how her Puerto Rican Brooklyn accent often limited the roles she landed. Her role in "White Men Can't Jump" was originally intended for an Italian or Irish American actress, but she eventually proved she was the perfect fit for the role.
"Yes, my accent was strong. Yes, I was Brooklyn. Yes, I was poor, but did that mean I should be limited to only playing unintelligent, downtrodden, and humiliating stereotypes?" she wrote in her 2014 memoir "Handbook for an Unpredictable Life.
Americans' tendency to view accents through a biased lens has always been an uphill battle for Latine actors. Judgment towards people with heavy ethnic accents is a persistent issue and a prejudice that actors with British or Australian accents rarely face. This is a form of discrimination that needs to be dismantled.
While Perez, Hayek, and Vergara are undeniable stars, such has been the case for many Latina actresses with strong accents. The industry has been hesitant to embrace the full spectrum of what Latina actresses can offer, creating a barrier for those who couldn't (or wouldn't) shed their accents.
As Vergara herself has said, it was frustrating to be considered less intelligent simply because her English wasn't flawless. "Do you even know how smart I am in Spanish?" is one of her most quoted lines from "Modern Family," highlighting the unfair assumption that an accent is equated to a lack of fluency or intellect.
Then came "Griselda," a limited series on Netflix in which Vergara embraced her heritage and accent, and spoke primarily Spanish. In this role, she wasn't just allowed - she was encouraged to speak Spanish. It was in this role, portraying the ruthless drug lord Griselda Blanco, that the world finally witnessed the full depth of Sofia's acting talent. While it was unfortunate that a drug-trafficking narrative became the platform, her performance was incredible and showcased her talent beyond comedic roles.
This highlights a crucial point. Latinos are an integral part of American society, and Spanish is a widely spoken language. Diversifying representation goes beyond casting; it's about creating stories where Latine experiences take center stage, even if those stories unfold primarily in Spanish. Latines are not a niche audience; they are the very fabric of America, and Spanish is a primary or secondary language for millions.
Vergara's Emmy nomination wasn't just a personal triumph; it was a beacon for change. Shows like "Narcos," "La Casa de Papel," and films like "Roma" have proven that the audience for projects that prominently feature Spanish dialogue not only exists but can indeed be a potent force. It's time to break the mold and embrace the richness of multilingual storytelling, creating possibilities for more productions featuring talents like Vergara as well as up-and-coming Latine stars.
Vergara's historic nomination is a pivotal moment not just for her, but for countless Latine actors yearning for the chance to showcase their full potential. This wasn't just about an Emmy; it's a call for Hollywood to embrace the richness of Latine stories and recognize that representation goes beyond just faces. It's about shattering barriers and paving the way for a future using the power of language reflected around the vibrant tapestry of our diverse voices.
When "Yo Soy Betty, La Fea" aired its first and only season in 1999, no one could have imagined the impact a Colombian telenovela that followed Betty Pinzón, a quirky, corporate Latina protagonist navigating her career and love life, would have on millions of people around the world. The show was televised in 180 countries, dubbed in 15 languages, and remade into 28 international adaptations - with one of the most prominent remakes starring America Ferrera as "Ugly Betty."
In "Betty La Fea" - and every rendition thereafter - Betty's long, frizzy dark hair, oversized glasses, mouth full of braces, and bushy eyebrows elicited unwarranted disgust and ire from most of her coworkers. Her looks were the throughline of every episode, which was fitting, given that the Spanish title translates to "I Am Betty, the Ugly One." But for countless Latines who grew up watching the show, Betty was a beacon of hope for those of us raised in beauty-obsessed Latine cultures.
Betty's perseverance while combating the pressure of society's beauty standards made her one of the most relatable TV characters of our time and certainly played a role in making "Betty La Fea" the most successful telenovela in history. After more than two decades since the original series' release, Betty returns to the small screen in the new Prime Video series "Betty La Fea, The Story Continues." It will stream on July 19 with the original cast, including Ana María Orozco as the titular star. She's now in her 40s, looks elegant, and is considered a successful woman, mother, and wife. But with her return, Betty is back to remind us and those around her that her success was never solely contingent on her appearance. In fact, that's the first lesson Betty teaches us at the beginning of the 1999 "Betty La Fea" series.
Ahead of the new release, it's important to relive the original. In the very first episode of the telenovela, two jobseekers are interviewed for the same assistant role at the fashion company Ecomoda. While the hiring managers ogle the blonde-haired, blue-eyed applicant, Patricia, they gawk and grimace at Betty. Based on their reaction, Betty knows that she made the right decision not attaching her headshot to her resume or that she most likely wouldn't have made it this far in the hiring process. Even after seeing her, Ecomoda president Armando realizes Betty has the necessary expertise and competence to advance the company's needs and he hires them both - much to the hiring managers' chagrin.
In the 2006 U.S. adaptation "Ugly Betty," Betty Suarez dizzyingly traversed between the 2000s American culture's obsession with thinness and Latine culture's obsession with curviness. Her coworkers blatantly shamed her for her body, often going as far as insinuating that Betty didn't deserve designer clothes or the opportunities she worked for because they thought she was unattractive. Meanwhile, in Colombia, where plastic and cosmetic surgery were popular and gaining traction throughout the rest of Latin America, Betty Pinzón faced an endless amount of comments about how not even plastic surgery could make her beautiful. Instead of getting worn down by their commentary, Betty processed her emotions and confidently carried on to chase and achieve her dreams.
While we now live in a post-Girlboss world where female empowerment is prevalent in TV shows and movies like 2023's "Barbie," "Betty La Fea'' challenged the definition of beauty around the world, especially in Latine communities at the turn of the 21st century. For many Latinas who grew up watching "Betty La Fea" and "Ugly Betty," it was about more than just seeing our cultural struggles with impossible beauty standards reflected on a screen. We now had our own Latina heroine who challenged beauty norms and succeeded despite the misogyny she faced at every turn.
In 2024, Betty continues to model the power of self-assuredness in the face of adversity and the modern-day problems that come with being an ambitious career woman, mother, and partner. She works on breaking generational trauma by repairing her relationship with her teen daughter Mila and encourages her to chase after her ambitions in fashion. Finally, as Betty returns to Ecomoda, where her story began, we get to see her confront Armando, Marcela and the other characters who relentlessly undermined and underestimated her.
While Betty is now conventionally beautiful in "Betty La Fea, The Story Continues," life isn't necessarily easier because of it. In fact, when Betty faces tough decisions that will change the trajectory of her family's success and her romantic relationships, she trades in her fancy clothes and sleek hair for her old secretary-themed wardrobe and reverts to her old curly hairstyle, complete with bangs that she cut herself. As Betty makes space to learn new lessons in these new parts of her career, parenthood and love life, she's bracing herself to share the most real, vulnerable and empowered version of herself we've ever seen.
Ask anybody from New York, and they'll tell you that summers in the city are special. They are so special that they've been immortalized in great works of literature, cinema, and songs for decades now. Perhaps most famously on the Latine side of things, El Gran Combo's "Un Verano En Nueva York" stands as an ode to New York City summer and everything it brings with it: street festivals, block parties, boat tours, beach days. And for many Latines in the city, summertime marks the return of a time-honored tradition: Latin dance nights.
As a kid, my father had my sister and me on the weekends, and he would take us down to South Street Seaport for salsa night. This was before the recent renovation, back when the Fulton Fish Market still operated out of downtown and would fill the air with the strong scent of tilapia, salmon, and sea bass. But as you got closer to the water, the scent dissipated, and the rhythm of the clave got stronger. You'd pass Pizzeria Uno and the now-defunct bar Sequoia, turn a corner, and boom, a dance floor full of NYC's best steppers, the bass thick enough to swim through.
These parties are an important part of maintaining the culture, language, and political power we've seen dwindle as rents have soared.
Those Latin dance nights were a formative part of my childhood. Not because I learned how to dance there (I still haven't fully), but because of the experience of the community they provided, the enclave of Latinidad that enveloped you when you walked in. It was like a big family, where faces you hadn't seen in years would bob up and out of the crowd. I still have good relationships with all my dad's friends (who are now in their 60s) because of those Latin dance nights. I still remember the many times my parents - separated for years at that point - would bump into each other by chance at an event or party, and the more difficult aspects of their relationship would be forgotten as they spun their way through a song or two.
But this summer, rather than reliving those fond memories, I plan to make my own and go to as many Latin dance nights as possible. Toñitas 50th Anniversary Block Party in June was a sight to behold. Amid the clash of boutique restaurants and three-story brick buildings in South Williamsburg, Grand Street was packed with gyrating bodies swaying to the rhythms of salsa and reggaeton. Vendors from all over the city, such as La Fonda, served up Puerto Rican staples, while others provided classic Caribbean refreshments such as coco frio; DJs and live bands played in the background. It was a day that felt like you were in old New York City.
But while Toñitas was a legitimate throwback, two other organizations, Perreo 2 the People and La 704, have been hard at work trying to bring the future sounds of Puerto Rico to the Big Apple. Two times in as many months, the collectives have hosted perreo parties at Starr Bar in Bushwick, showcasing the next generation of island talent. More than being a platform for up-and-coming artists like Bendi La Bendición, Taiana, Keysokeys, and Enyel C, the parties also serve as a bridge between diaspora and the motherland. At a time when Puerto Ricans are vanishing from the city we helped build, these parties are an important part of maintaining the culture, language, and political power we've seen dwindle as rents have soared. And for me, they represent a kind of homecoming.
I've been a professional of color for many years now, navigating the ups and downs of the corporate world. As I have, I've found that new environments and opportunities opened up to me, taking me far away from my concrete beginnings. Working in tech meant nights filled with craft beer, ping pong, and karaoke. Advertising led me to the snowy-covered streets of Buffalo, where decades-old pubs and ritzy fine dining mingle on Main Street. However, the more ingrained I became in corporate culture and the more I looked for out-of-the-box experiences, the further away I drifted from the humble Latino parties that sustained me in my younger years. We didn't need a lot to have fun, no top shelf liquor or fancy appetizers. We just needed a beat and a dance floor.
Now that I'm older and wiser, I'm looking forward to getting back to my roots, to getting back and giving back to my community, and getting back a piece of myself I had long ago put away. And maybe I'll finally become the salsa dancer I always wanted to be.
It's been a while since we've seen Jessica Alba leading a film - in 2018, she pivoted to focus on her billion-dollar sustainable brand The Honest Company, which she stepped down from as chief creative officer in April. But in her latest movie, "Trigger Warning," Alba not only returns to the screen; she also makes a rare appearance as a Latina lead of an action flick.
In the movie, which was released on Netflix on June 21, Alba plays Parker, a US special forces commando stationed overseas who takes a trip back to her hometown after learning her father has died (which she later discovers was caused by a murder). The "Dark Angel" and "Sin City" actress, who also worked as the film's executive producer, says she made sure every detail behind her Mexican-American character was as authentic as possible.
It's no secret that Latines are major moviegoers and yet remain underrepresented on-screen. According to UCLA's 2021 Hollywood Diversity Report, Latines accounted for only 5.4 percent of movie leads and 5.7 percent of actors in any onscreen role that year. When we dive into specific genres that many Latines enjoy - like horror, rom-coms, and action films - the representation is even lower. But Alba's return proves how much we need to see more of this.
"I feel a lot of the times when you see women in this genre; we're either the damsel in distress or we're the male version of a badass woman - pretty emotionless [with] pretty stoic one-liners, wearing completely impractical clothes in action," Alba says. "And I just feel like it was so nice to play someone with wild hair who wears vintage [clothes] and cowboy boots, and it just felt very feminine and very human. Like someone who can be your neighbor and your friend."
The actress, who is half Mexican, says she took from her own experiences to bring all those layers and cultural nuances to Parker's character. Viewers can see it reflected in everything from the music-like the classic folk song "La Llorana" featured in the film-to the clothing choices.
"There are certain movies where I feel like our culture is represented, and many where it's not done right."
"When we were talking about it, I was really like, the music just has to be right. There are certain movies where I feel like our culture is represented, and many where it's not done right. I was like, I just want this to feel and just have that little bit of flavor so that it feels really right with what's going on right now," Alba says. She adds that she made a Pinterest board of the vibe she was going for with Parker's clothes, and the costume designer, Samantha Hawkins, and the director, Molly Surya, helped bring the whole vision to life. "Between the three of us, we really got to shape her and give it that nice kind of grittiness and realness."
But there was perhaps a deeper reason Alba's performance feels so convincing. The movie centers on loss, and if Parker's grief and devastation seem real, that's because Alba herself was grieving the loss of one of her own relatives when she was shooting the film.
"Weirdly, my grandfather passed away around the time that I was shooting the movie, so I was genuinely grieving him, and it was a very cathartic experience to be able to do a lot of that reflecting and grieving alongside Parker," she says. "A lot of my family photos are actually in the movie, so I really did get to infuse a bit of my family in the movie."
You can especially see Alba's touch as executive producer in one scene where Parker finds herself navigating an uncomfortable conversation with an ultra-conservative and racist senator played by Anthony Michael Hall. He mocks the term Latinx while giving Parker a pass for being a likable Mexican among many in the town.
"I don't know how that scene came to life exactly, but I loved it, and it took on a life of its own with Anthony Michael Hall, and I was sitting in that seat … in like all of Parker's ancestors' earrings and clothing because it's all vintage and lived in," she says. "And for this ding dong to sit there and try to reduce us and kind of be so disrespectful in an offhand way, it all landed. This thing kind of all clicked with that scene. It was like this is a flavor I had never seen in a movie."
The film, which has been positioned as a franchise starter, made Netflix's No. 1 spot over the weekend - proving that authentic storytelling is resonating with audiences. And while Alba is no stranger to action films and doing her stunts, "Trigger Warning" truly aligns with her longtime dream of becoming a Latina action hero.
Although some celebrities shy away from the topic of their famous parents, that's never been the case for Mau y Ricky. The Venezuelan singer-songwriters are the sons of Latine pop icon Ricardo Montaner. However, the talent in the Montaner family doesn't end with Mau, Ricky, and Ricardo. Mau and Ricky's sister, Evaluna Montaner, and their brother-in-law, Camilo, are also impacting the industry. If you listen closely, the elder Evaluna and Camilo's voices can be heard on Mau y Ricky's new album "Hotel Caracas," which also marked the brothers' return to Venezuela for the first time in over a decade. Family and community are core tenets for the duo.
"There's no hiding the obvious," Ricky Montaner says of his famous family. "I'm proud as a family that we've been able to lift each other up, inspire each other, and connect with people in this way. It's beautiful and special."
Growing up in Caracas, Mau and Ricky saw their father perform big-time hits like "Tan Enamorados" and "Bésame" to sold-out crowds. He would even bring them on stage to sing with him occasionally. Ricardo also once had a record label with Venezuelan brothers Servando & Florentino. They often rehearsed at home and showed the younger Montaner brothers that a sibling duo in Latin music was possible. Now, the sons are inviting their dad to sing their songs. In a hidden feature on the song "Muriendo de Miedo," Ricardo's voice beautifully harmonizes with his sons'.
"It's full circle," Mau Montaner says. "I feel like he had to be in it. We're so grateful for what he has meant to us as a father, obviously as support in the early years and as an influence. It's like paying homage to him and musically thanking him for everything he has meant for us and honoring what he's done."
Despite having the Montaner connection, Mau y Ricky still had to work hard on their own to gain respect within the industry. While developing their musical act, they also formed a songwriting collective that included longtime collaborator JonTheProducer and their future brother-in-law, Camilo. They helped pen hits like Becky G and Natti Natasha's "Sin Pijama," Karol G's "Pineapple," Ricky Martin's "Vente Pa' Ca" with Maluma, and their own breakthrough hit "Desconocidos," which served as a launching pad for Camilo's pop career. Mau y Ricky cowrote a song on Camilo's recent album "Cuatro," and their brother-in-law is also featured on their song "Karma."
"It's pretty crazy and wild to think back on what we were able to accomplish that started from being these fucking four hopeful kids that had big dreams to one day make it in music," Ricky recalls, referring to himself, Mau, Camilo, and JonTheProducer.
"We did it our way, and it was in a collective with people we love," Mau says. "Being able to get together and have these little moments of creative bonding is beautiful. We created some of my favorite music alongside Cami."
"Hotel Caracas" signals a new era in Mau y Ricky's music. It marks the first album release on their own label, Why Club Records, in partnership with Warner Music Latina. The LP also comes on the heels of Mau y Ricky expanding their own families. In 2022, Mau and his wife Sara Escobar welcomed their first child, Apollo, and Ricky later married Argentine model Stefi Roitman. It's their most personal and daring album, with songs about romance, heartbreak, and sex.
"Being married and starting our own families has given us a sense of security," Ricky says. "At this point, my wife knows me exactly as I am, and I can tell the stories I'm telling, and many of them speak of my past or Mau's past. Before, we might have been like, 'You're not going to say that.' With that sense of security, I'm like, 'I've been through all this, and I got to say it because I know that it can help somebody.'"
To promote the "Hotel Caracas" album, Mau y Ricky are putting on intimate Lobby Bar concerts around the US and Latin America. The brothers also plan to hit the road with a tour at the end of the year. Mau admits that he is adjusting to juggling being a father to Apollo and living out his dreams as a pop star with his brother.
"To be honest, it's hard, but it's also super fun," he says. "Let's say 60 years from now, I love knowing that those songs [on 'Hotel Caracas'] are a part of his childhood. I love the idea that he learned to say certain words and that he learned to play pretend drums or pretend trumpets because he heard these songs. They're a part of his development, and music has more of a development in kids' brains than we even realize."
"Hotel Caracas" also marks Mau y Ricky's return to their home country of Venezuela. The songs drip with Venezuelan swagger and use local slang. All 15 music videos for the album were shot in cities around Venezuela, with an upcoming documentary that captured their experience. Mau y Ricky worked with over 200 crew members based in Venezuela for the project.
"We needed to reconnect," Mau says. "We felt like we were going through this identity crisis or lack of feeling a part of somewhere. For the longest time, we felt that, and as you mature, you start noticing those little wounds that you have to heal. That was one of them. It was beautiful when we got to heal that [wound] when we went back to our country. It was three months of getting to know our country in the best way possible, plus filming the videos to represent the beauty of Venezuela."
For many of us, our relationship with our grandparents can serve as a bridge to the past, often linking our crucial developmental years with the wisdom and customs of the generations that came before us. For Jay Wheeler, the connection he shares with his grandmother, Clara Luz, is something he cherishes. It has helped mold him into the man and artist he is today.
"One of the most beautiful treasures I have in my life is my abuela," Wheeler says. "She's a person that loves to go out, who loves to party, and I'm lucky to still have her with me and have her healthy."
But along with being the life of the party, his grandmother has helped instill many of the values that guide the singer - who's been hard at work ushering in a new brand of romantiqueo with his albums "Emociones" and "Emociones 1.5."
"She taught me to be respectful, to always be empathetic to people, and to have a healthy fear of God. I'm a person who believes very strongly in God, thanks to her," the singer says, adding that she also taught him to "just be loving with the world."
That caring disposition is something that comes across in his music and his interactions with fans and the media. Wheeler once mentioned that he tries not to wear sunglasses because he wants his fans to be able to see his eyes. On the musical front, DJ Nelson's protege is in high demand to bring old-school crooner vibes to the new wave of trap and reggaetón. His latest offering, "Musica Bueno Para Días Malos," is a futuristic ride through the ups and downs of love. However, the singer recently found the opportunity to tackle a different genre when he released a cover of the classic song "Piel Canela."
"I was actually really nervous because I know it's a classic, that it's something that you don't want to mess up," he says. "So, my intention was never to make a better version or anything like that. My intention was just to make my version of a classic song - one that reminds me of my grandmother. "
The opportunity to cover the song came about as part of a collaboration with McDonald's. The fast food giant is hard at work promoting their new "Grandma McFlurry" and offering fans a chance to meet the reggaetonero to sweeten an already sweet deal. For Wheeler, however, not only does he get to cover a timeless classic, but he also gets to honor his abuelita, who he also credits with helping cultivate his love for music through her own passion for song and dance.
"My grandmother always wanted to be a singer . . . and that inspired me. From a very young age, she instilled [that desire] in me. And she always wanted to be famous," Wheeler laughs. "[To this day,] if you give her a stage and microphone, she'll dance and sing."
The singer recalls a childhood video of him and his abuela singing and dancing like two superstars. Fast-forward to today, and Wheeler is on track to be just that - the McDonald's campaign a testament to his rising star and marketability. As part of the marketing campaign for the Grandma McFlurry, Wheeler and his grandmother got the chance to film a commercial together, advertising the new snack and the TikTok competition that goes along with it. So his abuelita is finally getting her time in the limelight.
So, what's next for Wheeler and Grandma Clara Luz? Wheeler is currently on tour, and his next stop is a concert performance at The Theatre at Madison Square Garden, where he'll cycle through his repertoire of reggaetón hits and trap bangers the week after Puerto Rican Weekend. But while cantando urbano is his bread and butter, the singer hasn't ruled out further experimentation with classic genres.
"I'm open to doing anything when it comes to music. There's no limit. I'm always going to challenge myself to do everything," Wheeler says.
"Obviously, not everything is going to suit me, but I'll always try," he adds. "I'm very open to everything, to doing rock music, classic music, whatever. I'm always going to try and give it my touch - my best shot."
Along with switching up genres every now and again, the singer has also been known to collaborate with his wife and fellow singer, Zhamira Zambrano. So, maybe a duet with his abuelita will also be in the cards sometime in the future. Whatever he chooses to tackle next, his grandmother will be there, looking on with pride, knowing that her passion was the push toward the bright future Wheeler is currently living.
This story is part of Como Celebramos, in which we're sharing how we're honoring our favorite summertime Sunday rituals.
Rauw Alejandro and Peso Pluma are set to take the stage at the 2024 Governor's Ball in NYC between June 7 and 9. While Becky G and J Balvin performed at the music festival in 2022 and 2021, respectively, this year marks the first time that two Latin music acts are headlining on separate days. And it's about time.
Since the 1940s and '50s, when cha cha and mambo took the US by storm, the mass appeal of Latin music has been undeniable. With its mix of West African and Spanish rhythms, the music is inherently danceable, which no doubt has helped genres like salsa and reggaetón break down the language barrier. You don't need to know what Bad Bunny's saying to be able to move to the beat. And yet, for a long time, Latin and African artists could only be found at music festivals that catered to those demographics specifically. This is no longer the case, as major music festivals have recently started including more Latin acts in their lineups.
In 2023, Bad Bunny became the first Spanish-language artist to headline Coachella, where Eladio Carrión and Anuel AA also appeared. That same year, iLe, PJ Sin Suela, and Los Rivera Destino performed at the SXSW Music Festival. In 2024, Coachella doubled down on the Latin acts, inviting both Peso Pluma and J. Balvin. And the trend doesn't seem to be stopping.
But why has it taken so long for major festivals to get the message that our music is so fire? Back in the 1970s, the Fania All-Stars proved that music sung entirely in Spanish can have global appeal. The reggaetón boom of the early 2000s became a cultural phenomenon that saw the genre play on both English and Spanish-language radio. So what gives? Well, I have a simple hypothesis: money.
It's no secret that Latin music has grown exponentially over the past decade, outpacing the overall growth of the music industry by a wide margin. While made for our communities, our music is no longer limited to them. I remember when I was a kid, watching all the new reggaetón videos would drop on mun2. Now, I go on YouTube, and all the latest music videos have English subtitles. It goes to show how far we've come when it comes to making commercially viable music. But more than that, having Latin and African headliners at major festivals taps into the power of the communities behind them, introducing some much-needed sazón. Not only does it bring in a more diverse audience to the festival scene, but given the current state of live music, it also grows these artists' audiences while pumping up lagging ticket sales.
Both Jennifer Lopez and Bad Bunny were trending recently due to lower-than-expected ticket sales. So, no, Latin artists aren't immune to overall industry trends. Back in April, Coachella also made headlines for decreasing ticket sales. But I wonder if bringing Latin artists to music festivals might just solve the issue.
Touring is inherently expensive. For successful artists to tour, they must invest a lot of money in visual effects, travel logistics, crew, and more. It's part of the reason bigger artists are limited to perform at arenas and stadiums that pack 30,000-plus fans and charge exorbitant prices for tickets. The way festivals are set up, however, while the initial ticket prices might be higher, music lovers get multiple nights and experience multiple acts for the cost. This immediately expands the target audience and offsets the cost of the show. Latin and African artists get to perform in front of a mixed crowd of both die-hard fans and newcomers who are more open than ever to receiving their music, increasing the value of their brand without having to incur all the costs of putting on the show themselves. It's a win-win for everybody.
But apart from the monetary incentives, what Latin and African artists really bring to music festivals is unrivaled energy. Our cultures are predicated on all-night parties and dancing. Look at what Bad Bunny and Burna Boy did in their respective Grammy performances. Combining traditional cultural elements and instrumentation, catchy lyrics and melodies is a winning formula that our musical genres have perfected over decades. The result? A sound guaranteed to turn even the stuffiest festival atmosphere into a full-on vibe. I can only hope that the inclusion of these artists isn't solely a fad, but a sign of greater diversity to come.
Jennifer Lopez's illustrious career in music and film has once again taken a backseat to her love life. Despite her blockbuster hits, platinum-selling albums, sold-out tours, and a Las Vegas residency, the Latina megastar continues to be chastised about her romantic relationships. Front and center today is her marriage to Ben Affleck, with various opinions and rumors swirling on social media. But all the chatter points to one thing: blatant misogyny from internet trolls and the media that places the blame on Lopez for her failed relationships. From the divorce rumors to the cancellation of her tour, Lopez is being kicked while she's down, and the public seems thirsty for it.
Today's headlines paint a one-sided picture of Affleck navigating a tumultuous marriage to an overly ambitious, workaholic diva who can't seem to get love right. These biased narratives seem to be one reason why Lopez released her film "This Is Me…Now" and its accompanying album by the same name, as well as the documentary that shows the behind-the-scenes of it all, "The Greatest Love Story Never Told." Still, she can't seem to break through the noise, the trolling, and the harassment bestowed upon her.
On June 5, Lopez addressed the situation to fans via her On The JLo newsletter, where she wrote: "It may seem like there's a lot of negativity out in the world right now . . . but don't let the voices of a few drown out that there is soooo much love out there. Thank you, thank you, thank you!! I love you all so much."
Let's be clear: Lopez is being put through the wringer about her love life for two reasons. First off, she's a woman - a powerful woman at that - and the second reason is because she's Latina. The machismo culture is toxic and exists widely throughout Latin America and here in the United States. One 2022 study found higher rates of sexism among Latinos in the US and concluded that the reinforcement of the machismo narrative in the media is a misleading reproduction of harmful stereotypes against Latines. In other words, when the Latine community jumps to bashing J Lo, it leaves the door wide open for anyone else to join the bandwagon, forgetting that behind the hate is a woman, a mother, and someone who has never denied how much she loves love.
When gossip about her relationships prevails, it obscures Lopez's triumphant success story. Lopez was able to obtain the American dream ten-fold. Still, instead of being continuously celebrated for this, all the attention is focused on things going awry in her love life. The public discourse always seems to harp on what she did wrong. Maybe she didn't pay enough attention to her man, or her career demands strained their relationship. Or maybe her global fame was overshadowing poor, poor Ben. Let's be real: if Lopez were a man, Latine or not, would this still be the case?
It's not just Lopez. Take legendary actress and EGOT Rita Moreno, a Puerto Rican actress who was married to Leonard Gordon for 45 years until his death in 2010. But before that, Moreno was scrutinized for her love affairs with Hollywood royalty like Marlon Brando and music superstars like Elvis Presley.
So, what are we telling little girls, Latine and otherwise, about being ambitious and successful? It's similar to America Ferrera's speech in "Barbie." A woman can be successful but not too successful. She can shine like the brightest star as long as she isn't blinding him or leaving him in the shadows. She can be strong but not appear stronger than her man in public. She can love herself, but not too much, because it will appear like diva-ish, self-centered behavior.
The greatest love story Lopez never told is how much she has had to love herself through very public relationships and the breakups everyone seems to be waiting for. After all, how could a woman choose her career over love, right?
On June 4, Aventura - the timeless bachata band that consists of Romeo Santos, Henry Santos, Lenny Santos, and Max Santos - hit the stage at the Prudential Center in Newark, NJ, as part of their reunion tour Cerrando Ciclos. They had already performed at the venue two nights in a row, as well as played a show at Madison Square Garden on May 23. With an audience filled with mostly Dominicans - many of them proudly waving their flags - it was remarkable to see how a genre that was once associated with the bars and brothels of lower-income neighborhoods in the countryside of the Dominican Republic has become such a global phenomenon. And it was Aventura, a boy band formed by four Dominican teenagers in the 1990s, that would completely revolutionize bachata beyond what any of them could have originally envisioned.
In February, Romeo Santos announced that he was reuniting with the group for the second time for the Cerrando Ciclos tour, which kicked off on May 1 in Sacramento, CA. The group had last joined forces in 2020, right before the Coronavirus pandemic hit for their Immortal Tour. According to Billboard, it grossed $25.8 million. And while Tuesday evening was far from their last tour performance in the tri-state area, the group really gave their all, exciting the crowd with some of their biggest hits: "Dile al Amor," "Un Beso," "Todavía Me Amas," and their 2021 single with Bad Bunny, "Volví." They closed the show with a guest appearance from Judy Santos for "Obsesión."
It took a while for bachata to become a global sensation, but today, even non-Latin music artists like The Weeknd are dipping their toes in the genre.
In the late 1980s, the genre became more widely accepted across the island thanks to bachata legend Blas Durán and even more so after the release of Juan Luis Guerra's "Bachata Rosa" album in 1992. Bachata made its way to the East Coast of the US in the mid-1990s thanks to artists like Luis Vargas, Anthony Santos, Raulín Rodriguez, Frank Reyes, and Zacarias Ferreira - all artists Romeo Santos would eventually go on to collaborate with. But the reality is that bachata wouldn't be as mainstream as it is today if it wasn't for Aventura and its members' brilliant ability to modernize the genre to cross over to an American market.
It's fair to assume that this is likely the group's last reunion rodeo, given that they've been around since 1996 when they went by Los Tinellers. It was the first time a music artist or group broke the rules of bachata and infused its sounds with R&B, pop, hip-hop, and reggae - bringing a genre once referred to as bolero campesino into the mainstream market. On Tuesday night, I felt the emotion and immensity of all that as I watched a group I've been listening to since junior high school light up an entire arena filled with fans who shouted the lyrics to every song performed so loudly that at one point I thought my ears were going to pop.
As I looked around a sold-out stadium, all I could see were numerous Latin American flags waving, with the Dominican community clearly showing up. Every now and then, I'd notice a non-Latine in the crowd singing the Spanish lyrics and swaying their hips back and forth to bachata's basic side-to-side step. But Romeo addressed the audience entirely in Spanish and even gave a few shoutouts to all the Dominicans present, especially those who have been loyal fans since the band's earliest days.
Bachata has come a long way since its inception in the barrios of the DR, and nothing brings me more joy than to see how long it has managed to survive - thanks to now-legends who still prioritize the Dominican community's devoted support.
Jennifer Lopez's life and career have taken the world on an unforgettable roller-coaster ride. We've witnessed the ups, downs, and unexpected twists in between. She may not always be a favorite among critics, but Lopez has continued to produce films through her company Nuyorican Productions, elevating herself to celeb royalty. As she juggles the many crowns she wears, one that deserves the spotlight is her role in essentially being our first Latina rom-com queen.
Sure, some of her earlier films, like 2002's "Maid in Manhattan," were criticized for perpetuating Latina stereotypes (and 2003's "Gigli," which she costarred in with Ben Affleck, was chewed up and spit out by film critics for just not being funny). But despite the naysayers, Lopez has never given up her spot as a rom-com star. The 2005 romantic comedy "Monster-in-Law," which she stars in alongside Jane Fonda, followed those less desirable films and became one of her highest-grossing films to date.
Lopez is to the 2000s what Meg Ryan is to the 1980s and '90s. Her comedic timing is always on point, and mixing it with her vulnerability has created a recipe for success in the rom-com genre. From 2001's "The Wedding Planner," which grossed $94 million worldwide, to 2004's "Shall We Dance?" which brought in $170 million at the box office, and recent films like 2022's "Marry Me," which racked up $50 million, Lopez has continued to solidify herself as a rom-com queen. Other Latina actors have dipped their toe in the genre and done well: think Salma Hayek in 1997's "Fools Rush In" alongside Matthew Perry, and Eva Mendes in 2005's "Hitch" alongside Will Smith. However, the Puerto Rican actor continues to stretch the bounds of the rom-com characters she portrays. In one role, she's struggling with a difficult mother-in-law, and in the next, she's toting guns and combat boots, as she did in 2022's "Shotgun Wedding."
The 54-year-old multitalented star doesn't wait for the opportunities to come either - she creates them for herself. She recently dropped $20 million to produce 2024's "This Is Me... Now: A Love Story," an Amazon original showcase that coincided with her first studio album in a decade. Through breathtaking choreography, star-studded cameos, awe-inspiring costumes, and scene changes, Lopez takes viewers on a journey through her love life, a hot topic in the public eye for years. And, of course, she throws in some comedy with her therapist, who is played by longtime friend and fellow Bronx native Fat Joe. Despite the harsh criticism and low ratings, the musical film was important for Lopez to detail her love life in her own way, not the media's.
Overall, Lopez has brought in approximately $1 billion in gross revenue for her rom-com films. She is staking her claim in an arena that lacks Latine representation by a long shot. In 2019, the USC Annenberg Inclusion Initiative released a report that showed the low percentages of Latine contribution on camera and behind the scenes. In partnership with Eva Longoria's UnbeliEVAble Entertainment, the report found that only seven percent of films from 2019 featured a lead or colead Hispanic/Latino actor.
In other words, Lopez - for more than 20 years - has carved out representation where Latinas are nearly nonexistent. While the critics may lay on her heavily and unapologetically, we cannot deny that when it comes to rom-coms, she's doing it bigger and better than any other Latina actor. She is laughing all the way to the bank and slowly and steadily bumping up those insultingly low percentages. There's no doubt that Lopez has rewritten history and solidified a path in film that other Latina actors are sure to follow.
Aida Rodriguez is a Puerto Rican and Dominican comedian, actor, and writer. In 2019, she had her own half-hour special on Netflix's hit comedy series "They Ready," executive-produced by Tiffany Haddish and Wanda Sykes. In November 2021, she released her first-hour stand-up special "Fighting Words," which premiered on Max, and in October 2023, Rodriguez released her memoir "Legitimate Kid."
For Mental Health Awareness Month, we asked Latine comedians we admire how comedy has supported them in overcoming trauma and confronting life's most significant challenges. Read the pieces here.
I've always viewed comedy as a coping mechanism for people who are in lower economic situations or just dealing with very hard circumstances. In the words of Kevin Hart: "Laugh at my pain." My upbringing was no different. I didn't really engage in comedy as much when I was younger because I was a very shy and timid kid. But humor was always around me, and I learned at a very young age the power of laughter.
My grandmother was a very funny woman. She had this amazing ability to present heavy topics like poverty and even death in ways that were humorous. At first, I used to think it was insensitive, but I quickly learned that it was just a coping mechanism and a way to make things digestible because life was already hard enough. Growing up, I saw it all. There was poverty. There was violence. There were drugs, adultery, and misogyny. For some people, laughter was the only tool they had to navigate all that.
It was at school that I really started to find my comedic voice. Comedy became my way of surviving bullies and mean people. It became my armor and way of protecting myself from the kids who were clearly going through stuff at home but needed to poke fun at others to feel better about themselves. Instead of being confrontational or volatile, I was just funny.
My grandmother and mother heavily influenced my comedy and sense of humor. They were naturally funny women. My mom is a very confrontational woman. She would get into it with the other women in the building or in the neighborhood, and would always come out winning because she knew how to shut people down with her words - and oftentimes, the things she said were just straight-up funny. My grandmother was always so witty with it. It's funny when I hear people say that women aren't funny, or I'll occasionally hear Latino men say they don't really like women comedians, and then you hear them tell their stories. They're always talking about how hilarious their grandmothers or their mothers are. Latinas are really the comedians in the family. A lot of us are naturally funny - it's in our blood.
I started watching stand-up comedy when I was little. My uncle used to listen to Richard Pryor. That was my first introduction to stand-up comedy. I loved Johnny Carson, and I loved "I Love Lucy." I used to watch El Chavo and La Chilindrina with my grandmother. In Miami, they had a show called "Qué Pasa USA." It was a show about a Cuban family, and the grandmother on the show was one of the funniest people I've ever seen. I started appreciating humor and experienced the relief it provided at a relatively young age. But it was not until later in my life that I realized I wanted to do this for a living.
Comedy came after acting. I was a model for years, and I moved to LA in 2000 to become an actor. I started doing stand-up in 2008. I had gone out for brunch to celebrate a friend's birthday, and she asked us to roast her. I roasted her, and a friend there said, "Oh, you should be doing stand-up. You're naturally funny." He gave me the address and information to an open mic, and I went and did it, and I never stopped.
Once I started performing at open mics, I started noticing how healing comedy was - not just for the audience but also for me. I didn't really start with observational humor. I went straight to the wound. My first jokes were about my modeling career and becoming anorexic. I addressed difficult things I had experienced in my own life, and it helped me heal from those experiences while also making folks who could relate feel seen.
My work became cathartic when I started writing material about my childhood. People would approach me after my sets and say, "Oh my god. Thank you. I've never seen a version of myself or a reflection of myself." My childhood started to influence so much of my material that it became like therapy for me. I started unpacking and healing from many traumas I experienced growing up, eventually inspiring me to write my memoir, "Legitimate Kid." It made me realize how much our stories matter, and we shouldn't belittle them because white America is telling us they don't matter. That is what has kept the fuel going for me.
Making jokes about my family, my neighborhood, and the hard things I experienced growing up has allowed others to see themselves in my stories. In terms of my own healing, that relatability was part of it. It was seeing that I wasn't alone and that there are others who also didn't grow up having their fathers in their lives. It was the first time I started to feel proud of where I came from, and it helped me work through some of the stuff I was dealing with. Even with the jokes about my mom, many people would come up to me and tell me their mom was the same way. In many ways, it's also healed my relationship with my mom because performing and having people heal through my words contributes to my own healing.
As a Latina, we're raised with this mentality that you don't share the family's business. So, while I initially had my hesitations, they approved every joke I've ever told about the family before it made it to the stage. I always make sure that they're cool with it. I was especially careful when it came to my mom and my daughter because sexism and misogyny, especially in our communities, are rampant and real, and people love to demonize women. So, I was always very leery about presenting them in a way where it would take off on its own, and people would talk shit.
Making jokes about the things I experienced growing up has also allowed me to see the beauty in my upbringing. It wasn't all dark, and it wasn't all bad. When I started doing stand-up, I used to hear all the time people say things like, "All these Black and Latino comedians talk about is their lives in the hood, food stamps, and being broke." You would hear that from white comics how our comedy wasn't "elevated." But I never allowed them to push me into a corner where I felt like I had to emulate them to be of value because a lot of people do. At the beginning of my career, I definitely saw that there was a lot of pressure placed on comedians of color not to perpetuate stereotypes, but the truth is that some of our relatives are hood. Some of our relatives did behave a certain way, and there's nothing wrong with that, and that's not just exclusive to people of color - there are white people like that as well.
Comedy brings us all together. There's a connective tissue there, especially in a community with so much diversity. Through humor, we can find each other and find relatability. People loved when George Lopez talked about his grandmother because that's something many of us have in common. Comedy also works as a universal language. Even if we're not from the same culture, everybody laughs because it has this connective tissue. Comedy connects people of all backgrounds and walks of life through laughter.
- As told to Johanna Ferreira
For Mental Health Awareness Month, we asked Latine comedians and creators we admire how comedy has supported them in overcoming trauma and confronting life's most significant challenges. Read the pieces here.
There's a cultural maxim within Latinidad that's always left me a bit unsettled: "Lo que pasa en casa se queda en casa." It means what happens at home stays at home - aka loyalty above everything.
Growing up in a subjectively funny family taught me invaluable lessons about the power of humor and its role as a survival tool, especially during challenging times. In my Ecuadorian immigrant family, our main coping mechanism was finding solace in humor amid chaos. But there was always a boundary, an invisible line to how far we could share drawn by the "lo que pasa en la casa" mentality - the notion that certain things should never leave the confines of our home. It became clear to me early on that this mentality stemmed from a desire to maintain appearances, protect the family's reputation, and uphold the value of privacy.
The "lo que pasa en la casa" mentality always felt like a type of silencing or secrecy that prohibited many of my tías, tíos, cousins, and older siblings from seeking out things like therapy. It was also an invisible shackle placed around my artistry before it began. Some may argue that "lo que pasa en casa" is all about "privacy" or "protection," but it's a double-edged sword. There are situations where it's crucial (say, if someone in the family wins the lottery and you don't want everyone coming out of the woodwork for a piece of the pie). In those cases, it's about protection. But for me, the weighty subtext that demands allegiance rears its ugly head when "lo que pasa en casa'' is presented as privacy. It's always bugged me how Latine culture seems to value what other people think more than the actual truth. It's all about "el qué dirán!" - the fear of what other people will say - which is something that haunts me as a creative person. And trust me, after over a decade as a social-first writer and producer, I figure I can't be alone in that.
As a comedic storyteller and griot who has utilized the internet as a personal testing ground, much like how a stand-up comic utilizes the stage, I've often felt the weight of this mentality bearing down on me. Although most of my content initially focused on pop culture and comedic rants, covering everything from J Lo's relationship drama to New York City characters, my pivot into personal perspectives was much easier for me in concept than in practice. It was convenient to start with truths that always painted my family in the best light - for example, a story of how my mother's fearless determination helped me get a rhinoplasty at the age of 3 to stop childhood bullying.
Tiptoeing around the easier stories with a hint of realness was second nature to me; it's how I navigated the world throughout my formative years, never truly being allowed to admit how hard things were economically, how violent my father was towards my mother, or eventually how hostile one of my sisters would become toward me. Although my mother refused to let us share the truth with teachers, friends, or even extended family, I was fortunate that her strength and wisdom decided to sign us up for family counseling when I was around 6. Unfortunately, by then, my sisters were so entrenched with the fear and consequences of "lo que pasa en casa" that they refused to talk until they stopped attending altogether.
As the youngest who longed to be understood, I toughed it out. Still, I spent years perfecting the art of omission to ensure my mother would never have to face her greatest fear in "me las van a quitar," a phrase that translates to "they're going to take them away from me." For 13 years, I'd spend my therapy sessions feeling mentally limited to how real I could be, which ultimately prolonged my healing and creativity.
Still, my first therapist must've seen I was struggling behind untold truths and advised my mother to sign me up for acting lessons. In the theater, I found the first creative outlet for my pain. The words on the page were never mine, but the emotions were, and for many years, that was enough. I eventually yearned to tell my stories, but the fear of exposing others through telling my truth kept me from exploring.
There are many different types of comedic griots: stand-ups and sketch artists, to name a few. The one I always admired most was the solo performer. I have always been a longtime fan of one-man show icons like John Leguizamo. But he's also paid the price - and validated my "lo que pasa en casa" worries when I learned his father nearly sued him for defamation of character because of his impressions of his dysfunctional family in his 1998 show "Freak."
The internet has been my most notable outlet for creativity, but I'm finally ready to explore more. As a result, I've recently decided to challenge and nurture my inner artist. The notion of "lo que pasa en la casa" has confined me to staying on the surface of my truths, but the tides are changing. I think one of the best examples of someone who leaned into her truth is Mayan Lopez, co-creator of "Lopez vs. Lopez," with her willingness to reveal parts of her family that are arguably private matters. Her choice to do a whole series dubbed "Why do my divorced parents still act like they're married?" led her to get greenlit by a studio. She told The Los Angeles Times, "Culturally, yeah, we don't air that stuff out. But that's part of some of the issues within our community - the generational trauma and the machismo aren't addressed."
It's easy to say her content went viral with much help from her recognizably famous father. Still, it was the behind-the-curtain take only she had the right and bravery to share, along with her father's support, that helped her challenge the "lo que pasa en casa" mentality. In the series, Lopez tackles themes of abandonment and daddy issues in a way that renegotiates the narrative of "the united Latine family."
Given that we're a wonderfully diverse community, it's time we prove that Latines are not a monolith. Some of us have darkness, awkwardness, rawness, realness, and unfamiliar stories that need to be told to give our community its true, varied humanity and help us all heal through laughter. Our art will expand when we, as artists, embrace our messiness.
So here I am, at a crossroads, throwing caution to the wind and ready to share some unfavorable stories with the world. I'm learning, and inviting others to challenge the "lo que pasa en la casa" mentality with me. My "content" is developing into monologues with no limitations. I've returned to the theater, and this time, I'll tell my true stories. I've taken some risks, cracking jokes about stuff like being the daughter of a dad who advocated for my mom's failed abortion to skip out on his responsibilities. While I recognize that many family members and bystanders will judge my choices, I must honor my truth, even if it ruffles a few feathers.
I'll always start with respecting others' humanity and fallibility. Culture and family are important, but so is my right to share my story. Some of us use humor to hide our darkness, but we can't be afraid to let our bold truths shine through. So, what if people don't get me? Those who resonate with my story are the ones I make comedy for.
Honestly, I think you get to choose what you keep private. Humor is personal, but we're moving into an age where authenticity is essential. And comedic storytelling isn't a one-size-fits-all deal. I'm a true believer that creativity is in all of us, but some of us keep it locked up behind secrets we're forced to keep. Art flourishes when it's relatable and healing, regardless of how it's perceived. It's not about putting on a front; it's about embracing the truth, about having the guts to challenge the norms that "lo que pasa en casa" throws at us to keep everyone else comfortable. And hey, sure, "lo que pasa en casa" has its place, but it's time to kick that custom to the curb. It's not all bad – it's like a coin with two sides – but man, that "el que diran!" part! It's one of the many things that's holding us back as a community.
For Mental Health Awareness Month, we asked Latine comedians and creators we admire how comedy has supported them in overcoming trauma and confronting life's most significant challenges. Read the pieces here.
Fabrizio Copano, a rising star in the world of stand-up comedy, isn't your typical Latine comic. His journey, shaped by his Chilean upbringing under a pos-dictatorship and his subsequent disillusionment with the American Dream, fuels a unique comedic perspective that tackles serious political and cultural themes.
Copano's early life in Chile was marked by the tail-end of political turmoil. Growing up, he witnessed firsthand the harsh repercussions of Augusto Pinochet's dictatorship, a period characterized by repression, human rights abuses, and a stifling political climate. This experience undoubtedly contrasts the idealized image of the US he received through the media.
"Chile is very Americanized in certain ways, and we look up [to] the US," Copano says. "The culture shock was when I figured out that we are ahead of the US in so many ways because we have already lived through many of the traumas that the US is just now confronting."
When Copano realized America is "just as messy," it allowed him to view Americans from a more humanistic lens. "The system isn't as perfect as it pretends to be. I now use this idea in my stand-up, that we're ahead of the US - we are from the future," Copano says.
Indeed, Copano uses comedy to explore the disillusionment that sets in when the romanticized American dream confronts America's often harsh realities. Copano weaves jokes about America's obsession with individualism clashing with the collectivist values instilled in him during his Chilean upbringing.
Unlike many US-born Latine comics who mine humor from the shared experience of navigating American life as a minority, Copano offers a fresh perspective. He injects Chilean history, culture, and political sensibilities into his routines, creating a richer and more nuanced portrayal of the Latine experience.
"A comedian can touch a nerve of [what's going on in] society. Through laughter, you can open yourself a little bit more to think or view things in a certain way that the comedian is proposing. You can take advantage of the chaos," he says. "That's why I like putting little nuggets of my point of view. I think we Latinos are the future. We're everywhere, but at the same time, we're always [portrayed as] the victim in a very narrow way that is not the reality."
Copano's achievement as the first South American comedian to land a Netflix special is a testament to his talent and perseverance. But paving this path wasn't easy. He faced challenges, including limited spaces for comedic exposure or the pressure to conform to stereotypical expectations of Latino humor. However, his success has paved the way for future Latin American comedians, demonstrating the global appeal of their unique perspectives.
When Netflix approached him for his special "Solo pienso en mi," which was released in 2017, he wanted his comedy to resonate with viewers no matter where they were from.
"I have to make comedy travel," Copano says. "Then doing comedy in English was another layer of a challenge - how do you connect with people who have nothing to do with you and figure out things that are universal or so personal that you bring them to your world and they can connect through their own lens?"
Copano's US touring stand-up show "Baby Coup" tackles the concerning resurgence of fascism worldwide. He recognizes the power of humor to disarm audiences and makes complex political issues more accessible. Laughter can create a sense of connection, allowing him to plant critical seeds while keeping the audience engaged. He uses satire to expose the manipulative tactics of fascist leaders and employs dark humor to highlight the dangers of complacency in the face of rising authoritarianism.
"Funny things are universal - misery is everywhere, so you can find the funny things in misery," Copano says. "Through trauma and experience, you can still see the scars, but if you can find a funny way to talk about these topics and bring it back, you kind of refresh people's memories and reflect on how absurd it is."
Copano looks forward to taping his first-ever hour-long special in English this summer.
"It's kind of about my first years in the US, the cultural clash, the disappointments, but also all of the things that were great," Copano explains.
Copano's comedy reminds us that humor can be a powerful tool for sparking dialogue and challenging the status quo. Particularly in Latine communities, humor tends to play a vital role when it comes to survival. It serves as a coping mechanism for dealing with difficult circumstances, a way to bond over shared experiences, and a tool for challenging authority.
Copano's unique point of view not only offers valuable lessons but also shows us how to confront darkness with laughter, find strength in shared experiences, and perhaps even inspire change, one joke at a time.
"I just try to give this perspective that while many Latinos are victims of wrongdoings from our own governments, we are also humans," he says. "We have our own thoughts, we are super smart, driven, we know what we want, and we know what the US needs now and can be very useful when democracy is in danger."
Gina Brillon is a Puerto Rican actress, stand-up comedian, writer, and mom born and raised in the Bronx. In 2012, she became the first and only Latina winner of NBC's Stand Up for Diversity Showcase. She went on to release comedy specials on NuvoTV, HBO, and Amazon Prime. She has appeared on "The View," "Late Night With Seth Meyers," and "Jimmy Kimmel Live," and was the first Latina comedian to be a finalist in season 16 of "America's Got Talent."
For Mental Health Awareness Month, we asked Latine comedians and creators we admire how comedy has supported them in overcoming trauma and confronting life's most significant challenges. Read the pieces here.
We don't talk enough about the healing powers of humor. The old saying, "laughter is the best medicine," as cliché as it may be, actually has a lot of truth to it. I learned about the power of laughter at a relatively young age. In Latino families, we often use humor to heal from traumas and hardships. It helps us get through so much. At home, we made jokes about everything from the government, cheese we ate, to the broke, kid games we played. I greatly touched on this in my Amazon Prime special, "The Floor is Lava."
My childhood was good but came with its fair share of struggles. Money troubles were real, and I remember us being on food stamps at one point. We had our challenging times, but we somehow always managed to find opportunities to laugh about it. It was one of those, "if you don't laugh, you'll cry" type situations. But it wasn't until I lost my grandmother that I realized the momentary relief a good laugh can bring, even in the face of loss and grief.
I say this all the time, but my grandmother is the entire reason why I decided to pursue a career as a stand-up comedian. I was probably around the age of 8 or 9 when I realized I had a gift for making people laugh. It was also around that age that it really hit me how healing laughter could be. Once I realized I could make someone laugh, it became a mission to make those around me laugh because I loved the joy I got out of it. My grandmother was the first grown-up in the family who noticed I was funny. She would tell my mom things like, "Your daughter is talented. She's going to be on TV one day," and I slowly started to believe her.
For a while, I kept the jokes for the family. I was this crazy, funny kid at home, but I was much more reserved whenever I was in public. As a kid, I was self-conscious because I was the chubby, funny girl. So, if I didn't know you like that, I wouldn't attempt to make you laugh because I was already too insecure. In fact, peers and schoolmates who knew me growing up were surprised when I became a stand-up comedian. They always thought I was funny, but they also thought I was shy because I was growing up. I was never the class clown. But I was the kid who was always quick with a joke. If I saw a joke somewhere, I would say it quickly before anyone else could say it first.
My grandma was probably one of the toughest women I've ever met - to this day. This was my grandma on my maternal side. She lived with us and passed away when I was 16, but a large chunk of my childhood was spent around this woman whom I absolutely adored. She came to New York from Puerto Rico and never really learned English like that, but the English she managed to learn was from watching "I Love Lucy." That's when I started understanding how much my grandma appreciated comedic relief. Once I learned that, I made it a point always to crack her up.
My grandmother wasn't an easy woman to make laugh. She was tough, and she was serious. She also hated pranks. But she loved silliness. Something about silliness allowed her to soften and fully bring down her guard - regardless of what she was going through at the time. I started to study her sense of humor and provided her with the silliness I knew she enjoyed. When my grandmother laughed, she laughed with her entire being. She exuded absolute joy - it brought out another side of her that I appreciated at a young age. That became our biggest way of connecting - making her laugh.
But when I was around 11, my grandmother's health began to decline. She would get cuts and bruises randomly. She started experiencing body aches more often. I knew she wasn't the same when I started noticing my mom had to shower her daily. That was hard for me because I grew up seeing this strong woman who never wanted to be a burden finding herself in such a vulnerable place. I almost didn't know how to connect with her anymore. My siblings were quick to help in taking care of her physically, but I was never comfortable doing that. It was hard for me to witness her at her weakest.
During that time, I realized that the best medicine I had to offer her was laughter. On her hardest days, I made sure to make her laugh, and she constantly encouraged me to make a career out of it one day. My grandma was my first comedy audience and the first person who really believed in me, so when she passed, I told God that I would pursue a career in comedy.
I knew it was coming because I never heard the fear in this woman's voice like that before. I remember thinking to myself, this is it. My mom told me to go to bed, but I couldn't. I asked if I could go to the bathroom, and as soon as I walked in there, I opened the window, fell to my knees, and started to pray. I remember the first words out of my mouth were, "God, I know tonight you're taking my grandma." I told God that from that moment on, any time I make somebody laugh, it would be in honor of my grandmother. And if I ever do anything in comedy, it will always be for her. The next morning, she was gone.
It was a hard season for my family - particularly my mom. It took a while before it felt appropriate, but I slowly started to use humor to help myself and the rest of the family get through it. Even at the funeral, as difficult as it was, there were little moments where the family would joke and roast each other, and it was healing. We allowed ourselves to grieve and to cry. But we also found opportunities to laugh and smile in memory of my grandmother.
To this day, every single time I step on stage, I think of my grandmother. I literally feel her energy with me every time. I can feel her in the room watching me. I'm always like, "Did you see that, grandma? Did you see what I just did? Did you like it?"
Every milestone has been dedicated to her, from my first 20-minute special for HBO's "Entre Nos" to when I did my first one-hour special "Pacifically Speaking," my Amazon Prime special "The Floor Is Lava," to even when I was on "America's Got Talent." My sister, who is really big into the spiritual side of things, always tells me that my grandma is always with me. I believe that we all have a counsel of people who are meant to look after us in this life, and I believe we choose them. I chose my grandmother, and I chose George Carlin - my favorite comedian growing up. I really believe he's part of the souls watching over me to the point where every time I walk into Gotham Comedy Club, I give a salute to his photo.
Not only has comedy gotten me through every difficult circumstance I've experienced in this life, from heartache to loss, but it has also helped me find myself. It transformed a young, insecure girl into the most confident she has ever been. It gave me the ability to connect with people, the first one being my grandmother. Comedy has allowed me to help others heal because of the way it has helped me heal in my own ways. It is my longest relationship in this life and my most cherished one.
- As told to Johanna Ferreira
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