Didn’t Like Bad Bunny Until I Truly Listened

I am Puerto Rican and like many of us, my love for our little island runs deep—deeper than geography, deeper than nostalgia. It lives in the cadence of our Spanish, in the smell of rain after a storm, in the way music spills out of open windows and into the street. Puerto Rico is not just where we come from; it’s who we are. That is why the first time I heard Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, known to the world as Bad Bunny, I was appalled.

To me, his voice didn’t sound like singing . The words felt muffled, swallowed by heavy beats I couldn’t connect with. The lyrics struck me as crude, inappropriate, and embarrassing. I remember thinking, Is this how the world will see us? I felt a knot of secondhand shame, convinced he made Puerto Ricans look bad. I dismissed him quickly, labeling him vulgar and unworthy of carrying our flag.

For years, I kept my distance. I knew he had been releasing protest music as far back as 2019, but didn’t listen closely enough to hear the message. What I failed to understand then was that his protests were never limited to Puerto Rico. They reached beyond our shores, speaking to shared struggles across Latin America and the Hispanic world: colonization, corruption, inequality, displacement, and the quiet erasure of culture. Still, I wasn’t ready to hear it.

That changed in 2024, when I heard the song “La Velita.”

That song didn’t simply play, it entered me. It settled into every fiber of my being. “La Velita” speaks of hurricanes, especially Hurricane María, the storm that permanently marked Puerto Rico. As the lyrics unfolded and although I know longer lived in the island, I was pulled back into memories we can never escape: roofs ripped away, endless darkness, families grieving in silence, and a government’s failures exposed. The island, the suffering was not distant or symbolic. It was intimate. It was ours.

In that moment, I finally understood. Benito wasn’t chasing shock value or fame; he was giving voice to collective pain. He was telling the world what was happening not only in Puerto Rico, but in places too often ignored once the headlines fade. His music carried the weight of many nations, many people, bound together by shared history and resilience. The tears that slid down my cheeks were tears of mourning for what Puerto Rico lost and for how deeply we were failed.

That song changed the way I saw him. It was no longer about his voice or lyrics that once offended me. It was about intention. About love. A fierce, unapologetic love for his people and his roots. That was the moment I knew Benito was special. Not because he fit into anyone’s expectations, but because he refused to.

And he didn’t stop there. He went on to release his Grammy Award–winning album, Debí Tirar Más Fotos, a deeply personal and political project that feels like a nostalgic love letter to Puerto Rico. The album is a warning call urging us to document, value, and protect our culture, traditions, landscapes, and people in the face of gentrification, colonization, and forced change. At the same time, it echoes the struggles of Latin American countries everywhere, reminding us that our stories are interconnected.

During the Super Bowl Halftime Show, Benito embodied this very sentiment and reached straight into countless hearts. He performed entirely in Spanish, yet understanding the language was unnecessary. The visuals, the dancers, the imagery, the people, the rhythm—everything spoke for itself. Without uttering a single translated word, he told a story of identity, pride, struggle, and belonging. It was Puerto Rico on a global stage, unapologetic and unmistakable.

I know there are still many people who don’t like Benito. I understand. He’s not everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s okay. But I urge you, especially my fellow Puerto Ricans who still dismiss his music as garbage, to listen between the lines. Hear what he is trying to convey to the world.

Today, I am proud of Benito. Proud of his courage to speak loudly when silence would have been safer. And I am proud, deeply proud, of being Puerto Rican. Because loving that little island means telling its truth, even when it’s uncomfortable. And sometimes, love doesn’t whisper. Sometimes, it demands to be heard.