Baila Me

Dancing is a big part of Latino life. Even growing up in the predominantly white environs of upstate New York, my parents danced everywhere and anywhere possible. I didn’t learn to appreciate how cool this was until college, which coincided with the beginning of the recent Latino explosion.

It’s an unrecognized but wholly consistent tradition that music be played on holidays in our house. Whether it’s Christmas or New Year’s Eve, there’s a constant soundtrack, even through my Uncle Desi’s usual Thanksgiving speech, of Joe Arroyo, Tito Puente, and many other artists from Colombia and the rest of Latin America. The sounds from the stereo in the living room ring throughout the house, carrying over into the dining room.

Two years ago we sat in the living room after Thanksgiving dinner listening to an Agustin Lara CD, which was the current selection in the 5-CD changer. Don’t get me wrong, I love his music, but his lulling baritone and my full stomach were putting me to sleep. I ran upstairs and grabbed a Latin dance CD I had put together the night before using songs downloaded from the Internet. Among others, it included Thalia, Carlos Vives, Shakira, and Ricky Martin.

I put in the CD, turned up the speakers, and proudly watched as everyone in the house got up from their seats and broke into dance as Chayanne belted out “Salome.” My Mom and Dad, along with my sister, cousin, aunt and uncle all joined in the fray. This was nothing new, and my family is constantly breaking out into spontaneous dance, but I was finally of the age to appreciate the love of music that my family has. I looked on and felt proud of myself for putting together such a good dance mix. Even my 83 year-old grandmother requested a burned copy.

The spontaneous nature of my parents and their dancing erupted in full bloom another time I was home from college for summer break. I was in the living room listening to a band called “Rusted Root.” They were an alternative, hippy band who wore flower-power clothing and untidy facial hair, just the type of band my Dad would normally disapprove of. But they were also highly rhythmic with a strong emphasis on a tribal-sounding drum beat.

My Dad got home from work and walked in just as the song “Military Machine began. He immediately whipped off his suit coat, grabbed my Mom, and started to dance to the music as if possessed. I looked on in awestruck amusement. Usually my Dad will walk in on me listening to American music, ask me who the artist is, and simply respond with the word “porqueria”, which is Spanish for “garbage.” I watched my Dad lose himself in the sounds of Rusted Root and would not have been anymore amazed than if Christ himself had walked into the kitchen and started rolling empanada