Growing up, my parents loved music. It was as though they couldn’t function without a song playing in the background whether they were at home, in the car, or at someone else’s house, music was always there. Every weekend, without fail–with or without people–my parents would play Latin music well into the night. They had this one specific playlist that was about an hour or two long that they would keep on a continuous loop; I hated it. Even if they were outside, I could feel the floor’s vibration from the same awfully repetitive songs. Being from Colombia, my parents loved their Bachata, Cumbia, and Latin pop–a lot. As a child I understood that music must have held an important place in their heart, but I failed to understand why it needed to be constantly blasting. I was more embarrassed than annoyed; I hated being known as “that house” in our neighbourhood. The one that didn’t let people sleep peacefully, the one that received multiple noise complaints from bothered neighbours, and the one that was regularly told to turn down the music wherever we went. We didn’t fit into my perception of what “normal” was, and I found myself too worried that people viewed us as the stereotypical loud immigrants. I didn’t think our culture was something that needed to be flaunted and shoved into the faces of others.

This feeling was persistent through most of early childhood until I visited Colombia around the age of ten. I was born there, and had visited it multiple times before, but none that I could truly remember. During one of my favorite moments from this trip I remember being awake around midnight and walking back to my abuelita’s house with my sister in silence as I listened to the boom of music from busy roads and distant houses. It was such a simple few minutes yet it managed to change my perception of things drastically. Throughout those two weeks we were in Colombia I slowly realized there was never a quiet moment. Even at 5am, the corner store across the street was playing old Latin music from the 50’s. In the busy streets you could hear the chaotic mixture of dozens of songs all in different genres. For one of the first times, I didn’t have the distaste I always had when I heard my parents playing the same songs at our house, I actually found myself enjoying it. When we returned, I quickly stopped feeling the same way I had about Latin music before; if anything I grew to miss it.  I still felt embarrassed from time to time, but I saw it as my parents’ way of bringing the infinite memories they had from Colombia to Canada; leaving behind so much of their life and attempting to have an ounce of normalcy and nostalgia. The same thing that had once bothered me so much brought them the comfort nothing else could. So rather than drown it out, I began to embrace it; the songs I once hated became some of my favorites and I began discovering different Latin artists and genres that I still listen to today. 

Despite my initial annoyance with Latin music, it’s something I will always cherish. It’s in the background of so many home videos and childhood memories: every birthday, every road trip, and every gathering–it’s like a mini time machine. Rather than a burden and embarrassment, it’s become something I truly adore. The classic beat of drums, the sporadic strumming of the guitar, and the quick changes in tempo don’t feel as repetitive anymore. Traditional Colombian music is something I will always love as though I don’t have many memories from Colombia, it’s a place I miss whenever it plays. It’s music that I will always admire; even when it’s played deafeningly loud.

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