Bad Bunny’s newest album, DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS, is a deep exploration into Puerto Rican identity (crises) and the deep-rooted fear of being Not Enough, of forgetting, and of being forgotten.
But first, a poem.
"Personal History" by Naomi Ayala published in In Motion Magazine, January 31, 1999 When your history gets too big to keep fitting in the wagon you've been pulling all your life your sleep is thin as water you zigzag up hills rely on a ladder to climb into your hammock flush the toilet with a stick pick tomatoes with a long steel hook open beans up with a knife cut the flowers in your garden with your pride. There is no Spring like another Spring, no lover like another come before, and dreams, they all have a familiar sound like a song on the radio, a new pair of shoes, a phone call in the middle of the night When your history gets too big to keep fitting in the wagon you've been pulling all your life you leave your keys where you meant never to go back, remember what you wanted to forget -- a stranger on the street selling songs for a dime, like you his face, his eyes, his song, his story -- because you are kin with all things now: the man you kicked into the wall, the car you crashed, the food you cannot eat, the whisper of countries that open before you in the street, the mechanical laughter behind the prime time of your day, somebody else's dreams. When your history gets that big you walk backwards as you pull, run after things that fall out on the street forget exactly what it is you carry in that wagon but live your life as if you knew, always looking for the sides of things that slope down smoothly from a straight line across, the memory that fits so easily in your pocket.
“I should have taken more pictures.” So titles Bad Bunny’s sixth and most recent album. I was not at all prepared for how emotionally moved I would be by this seemingly danceable reggaeton album done by a sensitive albeit goofy character of Bad Bunny. What I got was much, much more than a listening experience, and it has been on my mind for days.
“I should have taken more pictures when I had you / I should have given you more kisses and hugs when I could” — his words are then echoed back by a chorus of voices in a way that immediately emotionally translated the rest of the album. For me, I understood. It made me think of an entire generation of migrants who left their lives behind for their kids. For their kid’s kids. For me. Yelling into the abyss of the record with anguish and regret.
In the second verse of the title track, Benito says he’ll be with grandpa all day playing dominoes. I feel a grandpa-sized weight on my heart. He is a man I only know through the pictures, in the kitchen, in the living room, holding my cousins.
Through my mom’s stories I envision her life under the humid hum of a forever summer, voices and music deep into the night — just one more for me. Should we put coffee on? You can’t be leaving yet. Have you eaten?
To see life as a celebration — that being together was enough — I roll the thought over and over in my mind as the subway squeaks like a coquí. They never had money. But the island, the people, were so rich. It was not about money. It was about life, about living now, tonight, this music, this dance, what could be better than that? Music in the house, music in the street. Food for everyone. My house is your house. Where you will sleep tonight matters little because we are together and that is enough. I will see you tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.
I know that these recollections, too, are fleeting. The crushing reality is that many will never get back there, and when they do, it is not the same. It could never be. The selflessness to give up all they had ever known just to trust that they would make it — that they had to. They did.
In my grandmother’s apartment, I find photos stuffed in every corner of her tiny apartment and always covering the fridge, flipping them over so she can read her own handwriting. Those photos are her proof. Before she was here, she was that girl. I write for her.
Now, I live in Brooklyn — actually, just off the Avenue of Puerto Rico. Red, white, and blue flags are still stuck in the trees from last summer’s parade. When it’s warm, if I hold my breath just right, I can hear the click-clack of dominoes down on the street below, and a deep laugh that comes from a different kind of island. I take a picture of the skyline to send home.
Revisiting a poem I wrote a while back. My grandmother is the one taking this photo. One of the men pictured here worked at a candy factory that was just out of view in the frame. At night, he would sweep the factory floor and bring glass shards of sugar home for the children. She is filled with joy to tell me this story.
The candy man Out past the frame where the sky is all sand a man stands in a palace built with hands and when moon comes low frogs echo a song only the land understands he spins sweet strands of hair and stirs a deep memory pot with blood thick as air the children sleep with feet bare and all through humid night the tired man recites things he couldn't bring himself to write let your solace be your self-command make this land your birthright years later the one behind the camera takes me in her hands and almost entranced demands this is why I spent all that time in prayer it was for you, you understand? now the words fill her eyes like morning dew spill out like season’s violets in a forever June and when it rains she folds herself away beneath the moon talks to the night and prays she’ll wake amongst the dunes lain in tall sugar mounds like sand I want to ask her about the candy man how life sifts through our hands so she can’t think of that violence just the sweetness of our silence how she sighs when reaches for my side like she can’t believe the blood in her veins somehow made it into mine.