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.
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 "QuA(c) 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
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 tAas, tAos, 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 quA(c) dirA!n!" - 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 a it's like a coin with two sides a 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."
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 clichA(c) 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
One of the things I love about comedy is how it fuses my personality with my purpose. I was diagnosed with depression when I was 14 years old, a time when I began comparing my life to that of my high school peers and quickly noticed the differences. At the time, most of my peers had never experienced significant loss like I had. While they were preoccupied with clothes, gossip, and pop culture, I was grappling with thoughts of death. This numbness to ordinary concerns led me into a deep existential crisis.
My struggle with depression was triggered early on by the loss of several family members, including my mother and my grandmother. Processing these losses took years of therapy. Working as a comedian has allowed me to piece together memories like a puzzle to grasp my life's bigger picture. Every time I unravel the layers of my experiences, I discover the humor embedded within them.
As a young girl, I didn't know that my biological mother had passed away; I was told to call my grandmother Mama. Although there was a photograph of another woman on the mantle who resembled me, my grandmother would deflect the question whenever I inquired about her. She was a master at making me feel valued and special and was always ready to listen to me chatter, calling me her little Cotorra.
I'm not sure if I had a natural sense of humor, but my grandmother certainly saw a big personality in me and nurtured it. I would gauge her reactions and laughter to adjust my storytelling. Whenever we had visitors, she would prompt me with, "Sasha, ven acA!, dile lo que me dijiste!" signaling it was showtime. I remember lighting up the room for the first time, mimicking characters and celebrities from television, thinking all of America was the glamorous Hollywood, unlike my birthplace in the Bronx, NY.
My grandmother passed away from colon cancer shortly after we relocated from DR's capital, Santo Domingo, to New York. It was around this time that I finally learned about my late biological mother. Transitioning from being a light in the room to feeling like the elephant in the room, I moved in with my father, his wife, and their children. I was starkly reminded that I was the product of an affair. In that household, I learned to wield my humor for survival, to defuse tensions, and often made myself the butt of jokes during one of the most emotionally isolating periods of my life.
In high school, I struggled to fit in because of the amount of loss I experienced at a young age. I felt envious of not having a nuclear family. It was a constant reminder to me of what I was missing. At a young age, I deeply felt my mortality, knowing that no matter how much I prayed, my loved ones would never come back. Not many of my peers at the time could relate to it. As a result, I began to disassociate from my reality and used humor as a way to entertain others to distract myself from my pain. This only worked until I realized I was the only one not laughing. I started to find my true comedic voice after discovering comedy on YouTube. It became a coping mechanism and was a turning point for me. At 15, I immersed myself in all forms of comedy - movies, stand-ups, and sitcoms. Stand-up comedy, in particular, taught me that pain had a rightful place in the world.
Now, I view my family dynamics as a sitcom, typical of many immigrant American families with strong hierarchies. We use humor as a form of microaggression, being indirectly direct about contentious topics like gender and politics. Our disagreements are not reasons to disconnect but opportunities to engage with the chaos and find the humor in all of it.
Comedy became a therapeutic tool when I started using it to express myself through hyperbole, sarcasm, and similes, building a community that helped me combat depression during tough times. Comedy allows for relatability. Feeling like someone understands your origin can often aid in healing. In 2015, I used Instagram to share my stories and perspectives while offering comedic relief to my followers. After being on the platform for a short period of time, my content started to go viral and helped launch my career as a comedian and actress.
Comedy is an essential space for Latines, especially immigrants and their descendants. It allows us to narrate our stories, celebrate our dual identities, and confront the challenges of navigating two worlds. It reflects our resilience, capacity to find joy amid adversity, and relentless pursuit of visibility and understanding in a society that often sidelines our voices.
Today, I see the good and bad moments in life as material, which inspires me to write down thoughts and ideas. Managing my mental health involves a delicate balance of honoring my cultural and familial roots alongside my personal aspirations. Protecting your peace is vital, but not when you isolate yourself in a bubble. Humor lives in my everyday life; it is found in the mundane, pain, and unexpected. I encourage others to lean into it; it might inspire your next piece of material. A good comedian is disarming, relatable, and provocative, and I am committed to being all these things.
Comedy has taught me to cherish my life and eschew comparisons, for comparison is the thief of joy, and it's hard to feel depressed when one lives in gratitude.
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.
"El que anda corriendo llega cansado."
That's a famous Dominican saying my mother always used to say, which translates to, "He who runs arrives tired." These six simple words have guided my life and career as a stand-up comedian in many ways. This phrase alone taught me the importance of discipline, dedication, and doing things right - however long and hard the road is.
It's not lost on me how much of an influence my mom had on my career. For starters, she was probably one of the funniest individuals I knew. I had a relatively happy and healthy upbringing. I grew up in South Ozone Park, Queens, as the youngest of five, and I don't recall a day that wasn't filled with jokes and laughter. From my parents to my older siblings, someone always said something witty that had us all rolling. But often, it was my mom that provoked the big belly laughs. In many ways, my mom was the one who helped me appreciate the importance of comedic relief and how it can help us cope with some of the grim realities of life.
I didn't know it then, but growing up in a funny Dominican family prepared me for the life ahead of me. When you're growing up, you just assume that's the norm for everyone - until you go out into the world and see that it's different for different people. But in my family, humor was everything. Everyone was funny. My uncles were funny. My aunts were funny, and my mom was always very funny.
In fact, it wasn't until I started pursuing a career in comedy that I realized there was this narrative within mainstream American comedy that women comics "weren't funny." I never heard anything like that growing up. I didn't even know that was a thing because in my culture and in my family, everyone was funny - especially the women.
Being the youngest, I didn't even realize I was funny until I was in junior high school, and my friends and peers would point it out to me. As I got older, I became a fan of stand-up and realized maybe it was a thing I wanted to do. At first, I thought I would just do this as a hobby and pursue a career as a lawyer. But one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was booking spots at comedy clubs throughout the week. There was something about providing comedic relief for individuals regardless of what they might be going through in their daily lives that really appealed to me. As clichA(c) as it may sound, laughter really is the best medicine, and what I'd soon learn is that it's not just medicine for those receiving it but also for the individual - in my case, as the comedian - making the jokes.
Everything I grew up learning from my mom, from the importance of not taking shortcuts in life to the balance levity can bring, all prepared me for one of the hardest and darkest moments I would experience - losing her to cancer. My mom's battle with cancer felt in many ways like an emotional rollercoaster of sorts. I first learned of her breast cancer diagnosis in May 2021, literally the day after Mother's Day.
I remember when she called me two weeks prior to tell me she had gone to the doctor, and they ran some tests. She did a mammogram, and the doctor saw something in her breasts, so he sent it out to the lab to see if it was cancer. On Mother's Day, my mom was in Pennsylvania with my sister, and I drove out there to spend the day with her. The following day, she called to tell me that the doctor said the breast tissue came back cancerous. But initially, I wasn't worried. My mom used to get mammograms pretty frequently. In fact, the only year she missed was 2020, when we were all on lockdown because of COVID. So, I was pretty sure that the cancer was likely in the early stages and still treatable.
Anytime you hear about a cancer diagnosis, it's never a good thing, but I did my research, and she was still only in stage one. Plus, I had an aunt who had previously been diagnosed with breast cancer, and they caught it and treated it during stage three. So, I stayed hopeful.
Things took a turn for the worse when we learned in July that my mom also had stage four colon cancer that was spreading to her liver. When you learn that your mom is now struggling with a stage four cancer diagnosis that can result in death, it can be overwhelming, to say the least. But I'm a very even-keeled and practical person. I'm not quick to panic, even under hard circumstances. I quickly looked for solutions by diving into research. I read, watched videos, and asked doctors questions. I soon learned that even with stage four colon cancer, there is a window where it can be one of the few cancers at that stage that can still be curable. Once again, I remained hopeful.
At this point, I had already been working as a professional stand-up comedian for about 10 years and had been offered to film a Comedy Central half-hour special in July 2021 while my mom was battling cancer. I was also preparing to film my HBO comedy special, "Romantic Comedy," which was initially scheduled to be filmed in November 2021 but got pushed back to July 2022, eventually releasing on HBO in November 2022. My schedule during the daytime was just consumed with caring for my mom at the hospital, whose health was deteriorating week by week. It was just getting worse and worse, and the possibility of losing her to this disease was becoming more of a reality for me.
My mom and I had a very playful relationship where we always joked together. She was one of the first individuals in my life to make me laugh, so I found a lot of joy in making her laugh, but as the cancer started to take over, she slowly started to lose her essence and, with it, her sense of humor. I held tight to the lessons she taught me over the years and allowed my stand-up and my ability to make others laugh serve as my medicine throughout those dark times.
I'm very fortunate that what I do for a living provides me with so much happiness and satisfaction. Sometimes I'll speak with friends or people I meet for the first time, and they'll ask me what I do for fun, and I'm like, my career is my fun. I don't go to the nightclubs. I don't go out drinking. I don't really go out on dates. I just really enjoy writing jokes and performing them for people. It gives me an extreme high that can probably only be compared to a drug high, with so many endorphins released.
Watching someone you love so much get sick and ultimately pass away is literally the hardest thing I've ever had to experience in my life. The only thing that got me going and helped me get up from bed every morning during those dark days was my comedy. I relied on my stand-up at nighttime and preparing for those specials to bring me back up from those extreme lows. Even at the hospital, while my mom was sleeping, I would work on writing jokes and material.
It's impossible to laugh and make others laugh and still be sad. You just can't feel both of those things simultaneously - they don't go together. I believe that you can be in a pang of deep sadness or depression, and at least those few seconds or minutes that you're laughing, you're not sad for that time. I've always held comedy as the safest drug you can take. No one is ever going to tell you that you're laughing too much.
Before my mom got sick, my life seemed relatively easy. Growing up, I had a great childhood and a great family dynamic. So much so, I was reserved about the idea that maybe my life would always be great. Reality came knocking hard on my door when my mom got sick. It helped me realize that no one is immune to the trials and tribulations that come with life. Hardships are unavoidable. Comedy got me through that and carried me after her passing in October 2021. Even at her funeral, I experienced comedic relief. There were plenty of tears but also a lot of laughter. Humor just has a way of creeping in. You can't keep it out. You can try as hard as you can - but sometimes, fighting off the laughs is impossible.
Everyone has their shit that's coming. That's just part of being human. Nothing is as bad as you think it is - time heals everything. And nothing is as good as you think, either. Even now, having an HBO special, constantly on the road doing shows, and currently working on my new hour show, I still have my down days where I don't feel particularly proud of where I'm at as a stand-up comedian. Maybe it's just part of what comes with being an artist.
But the second I hit the stage and hear the audience's laughter, I'm automatically rejuvenated. Comedy keeps me grounded and pushes me forward in this life, regardless of the curve balls thrown my way. I don't know how I'd be doing if I didn't have this comedic outlet.
- As told to Johanna Ferreira
"Hopefully not the last - definitely not the last," she qualifies. "But this one is pretty awesome."
The entire record - the 24-year-old's sixth solo studio album - represents a sonic departure. Ahead of its release on May 3, Smith was a little nervous about putting it out into the world. But mostly, she was energized.
"I'm a risk-taker, what can I say?"
"This whole album is different from anything I've done, and I'm just so excited for people to hear it," she says. "You always take a little bit of a risk, but I'm a risk-taker, what can I say?"
Indeed, Smith has made a name for herself throughout her career for criss-crossing genres and stretching the bounds of her art. And she's never shied away from being open and honest about how she chooses to live her life outside of music, too. That ethos is very much reflected in this latest album, she says.
"I think I'm in a place right now in my life where I'm realizing that there's no destination, there's only choices every day that we make that bring us through our lives. I want to make the decision every day to be more compassionate, to be more honest, to practice my instrument with deep presence and treat it as a spiritual experience," Smith adds. "This album is an expression of me coming to that understanding."
Even the album art embodies that approach - on the cover, Smith is shown smiling emphatically, her Afro and grillz standing out against an earth-colored backdrop. In another shot, she's literally stripped down. It all connotes that honesty, that coming into herself. Smith says it was important to be present in her own body throughout making the album. Even if it wasn't traditional, eyes-closed meditation, she'd just "tune in every once in a while."
"Like, can I feel my feet, can I feel my fingers, am I tapped in how my heart is feeling right now, am I tapped into my emotional state right now, instead of just being on autopilot," she explains.
It'd be difficult for Smith to be on autopilot right now, given everything that's going on in her life. Just days after her album comes out, she's releasing her debut novel, "Black Shield Maiden," which she co-wrote with Jess Hendel. She's also a global ambassador for LG and their Life's Good campaign, a partnership she says was "super on the nose" given her and the brand's commitment to high-quality audio.
Amid all the moving parts, physical presence and mindfulness don't just fuel her creative process; they also help her relax.
"Pilates also kicks my ass."
"Weirdly enough, if I work out, it kind of counterbalances the mental and emotional fatigue. It gives me energy. I know people say that, I know that there are studies on that. But the last thing you want to do after you've been working all day is work out," she says.
Her favorite workouts right now are hot yoga and "pilates also kicks my ass," she laughs. She loves running, too, and often listens to podcasts while doing it. Right now, she's into "The Ancients" (she recently listened to an episode about ancient Polynesian sailing techniques) and the science podcast "Ologies with Alie Ward."
It's very clear that Smith loves to learn. She's almost done reading "The Dawn of Everything" by David Graeber and David Wengrow, a nonfiction book that looks at how society came to be. "I honestly can't even really explain it that well because it's deeply complex and I'm still trying to figure it out, but that's been really cooking my noodle," she quips.
Getting inspired by these other forms of media brings us back to her process. It's all about getting inspired by the possibilities within other realms. Smith says she loves walking around museums alone, for example, just taking in "all the cool shit." And in releasing this album back out into the world, she's keeping that inspiration loop going round and round.
"I'm just interested to see what people get from this art I've been creating, and I hope that it's a cathartic experience," she says. That comes back to "b i g f e e l i n g s," too: "I just want to keep helping people be inspired and feeling like they're less alone."
The 23-year-old budding singer, rapper, and songwriter has cemented a name for herself in her native country of Argentina. Nicole Cucco prides herself on never sticking to just one genre when creating music; it helped define her place as a multidimensional creative keen on bridging the gap between singing and rapping.
With the announcement of the US leg of her tour comes new music that does just that. Her first single of the year, "Ojos Verdes," is a cumbia ballad inspired by personal situations she's gone through, quite possibly alluding to her recent public breakup with Peso Pluma. The lyrics translate to: "But I brought out the best in you / And you realized it the day I left."
"Since I was a young girl, I've listened to cumbia and know so much about it. The only other time I've worked on a cumbia song before was with the [band] Angeles Azules," she says. "Now I feel comfortable and prepared to make my own song, so this is me doing it on my own."
Nicole has come a far way in a short amount of time. Her 2019 debut album "Recuedros," filled with sprinkles of pop, soulful R&B, and urbano tones, includes her standout single, "Wapo Traketero," which she performed a couple of years later on "The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon" - making her the first Argentine artist to ever perform on the late-night show.
Meanwhile, her 2021 sophomore studio album, "Parte de MA," plays around with reggaeton, hip-hop, and upbeat pop sounds, along with heavy collaborations from acts like Rauw Alejandro, Mora, and Mon Lafarte, just to name a few. "ALMA," a self-exploration album that ties reggaeton, Latin R&B, and dark ballads all together, was nominated for "Best Urban Album" at the 2023 Latin Grammys.
"The truth is, every album and every song I put out has really helped me to evolve my sound," she says. "If you listen to my first and third albums, you can see the growth not only vocally but down to the overall concepts, even the way I express myself. I love when people can notice that evolution in my music."
Her fourth studio album is still a work in progress, but Nicole notes that the project's overall concept is finished. "I don't want to limit myself or rush the album. I'm always learning something new. Just being here in New York for a week, I made some incredible songs," she says. "For this next project, when it comes to structure and melodies, there will be a lot of hip-hop, R&B, and rap - that will be the focus. Musically, though, aside from my next project, there will be many surprises that will come about this year."
Growing up, Nicole's musical influences varied. She grew up listening to tango, cumbia, rock, and various genres. "Amy Winehouse, Christina Aguilera, Kendrick Lamar are some of the artists who have influenced my music. I've never worked on rock music as a solo artist, but that's something I plan to explore as well," she says.
Nicole's love for hip-hop began when she was 15, around the time she started attending freestyle battle competitions. She remembers being intrigued by "The Get Down," the Netflix series that centers on the birth and rise of hip-hop in New York City, and wanting to learn more about the genre's origins.
"Before watching [the series], I knew somewhat of the history of hip-hop, but as I continued watching I wanted to learn more about this world, it really caught my attention," Nicole says. "I started to listen to more rap music; I fell in love with it all. I was sad that there was only one season of the show."
At 17, a younger Nicki Nicole was joining in on freestyle competitions, which helped shape her wordplay today. Her favorite past and present rappers include Nuyorican rapper Hurricane G, Lauryn Hill, Ivy Queen, Nathy Peluso, and her sister, SofAa Gabanna. The rise of hip-hop culture in Argentina isn't new; it's been a movement for some time now. Nicole is grateful for El Quinto EscalA3n, dubbed Argentina's most prominent rap competition, which was held from 2012 to 2017 in Buenos Aires. Duki, Paolo Londra, Milo J, and many others - each with their own style and essence - have all participated in the competition and are key players in the Argentine hip-hop scene today.
As a white Argentine woman, Nicole understands that she occupies a space created and originated by Black folks - hip-hop is Black history. It was never hers to begin with, so as an outsider, it's imperative for her to navigate it thoughtfully and avoid any appropriation of the culture.
"This didn't start out as my fight, and it's easy for anyone to co-opt a space that they didn't begin in, but I'll never take ownership of a space I'm a guest in," she says. "To know the origins of hip-hop is important, bringing visibility to things that went on in the culture in the past, and so many incredible rappers that make up these spaces, appropriating the space is something I don't ever plan to do."
She says she also owes hip-hop and rap culture for helping her get out of her shell and shaping her ability to freestyle.
"I feel like hip-hop, but mostly rap, taught me how to express myself when freestyling. Not just musically, but also it taught me how to get out of my shell because I used to be really shy," she shares. "Everything I didn't have the [courage] to say in person, I would say it in a freestyle, in a studio, in a battle, and I learned to express myself this way. And through freestyling, I learned how to socialize, and it also served me in my personal life in how to speak to people."
With so much music and talent coming out of Argentina - Cazzu, Emilia, Tiago PZK, Duki, Maria Becerra, and so many more - Nicki Nicole is proud of the greatness coming from her country.
"I know that every single Argentine artist that is putting in the work right now really deserves all of the recognition," she says. "I know a lot of them personally, so it makes me happy because I know all of the work and effort that goes behind it all, and I know that they do all of this because they dreamt it. It's an honor to know them."
As Nicki Nicole prepares for her tour and plans her world domination, she is unphased by any outside noise - anything that comes between her work. Nothing can stop her, unless it's an opportunity to get in the studio with the legendary Tego Calderon or electropop band Miranda, which she hopes will happen one day. What's keeping her grounded is her family and friends, and enjoying what she does.
"I'm really achieving everything I ever dreamed of, and that's what keeps me going," she says. "To be able to support my parents, to be able to spend time with the people I love, that's the most important thing to me in this world of music."
Released on April 29, 2011, "Love?" came at a time when Lopez was already a multifaceted force in entertainment. Music, film, and fashion-she'd conquered them all. Yet, "Love?" transcended mere career markers. It delved into love, a theme central to Lopez's personal narrative.
This wasn't just an album; it was a declaration. Through "Love?" Lopez explored her own quest for love and fulfillment. The title track, "(What Is) LOVE?" beautifully captures this yearning. Lopez laid bare her vulnerabilities through her music, creating an emotional connection with her audience. Take the poignant question - "Is this just a dream / Is this what it seems?" - which echoes a longing for validation, her desire to be someone's girlfriend, and the fulfillment of romantic love.
Fast forward to 2024. Lopez's recent projects, including her latest album and musical film by the same name, "This Is Me... Now," and the documentary "The Greatest Love Story Never Told," were released on Amazon in March and offer a deeper look into her relationship with self-worth, love, and her ex-fiance turned husband, Ben Affleck.
The documentary sheds light on the last two decades of Lopez's personal life, including her struggles with self-love and the pressures of fame. Although the documentary has been arguably overshadowed by a viral clip where she references being from the Bronx, Lopez is still very raw about her emotions throughout the doc. She shares why she had been constantly searching for love and highlights her self-love journey. She also admits that her back-to-back marriages and relationships resulted from not being in a good place with herself.
Similarly, her musical film underscores her journey toward self-acceptance and empowerment. In these works, Lopez confronts the need for validation head-on, emphasizing the importance of self-love and resilience.
While "Love?" may not be Lopez's biggest commercial success, its strength lies in its raw honesty. The album humanizes her, connecting listeners with her experiences and emotions. Debuting at number five on the US Billboard 200 chart, it holds immense significance in J Lo's journey of love, self-love, and healing for a few key reasons. Produced while she was pregnant with her twins Emme and Max, "Love?" marked a period of introspection for Lopez and served as a platform for her to shed her usual glamorous image and expose her vulnerabilities.
"Love?" explored Lopez's own needs and desires but marked a crucial step in her journey towards self-love and understanding. She seemed to prioritize honesty over mainstream appeal, baring her insecurities and desires for love. The themes Lopez explored in "Love?" laid the groundwork for her recent documentary and self-love music video/album, echoing the messages of self-acceptance and resilience first seeded in this album.
In many ways, the album served as a turning point for Lopez, allowing her to explore her inner world and pave the way for her continued growth and self-discovery. Despite all of Lopez's accolades throughout her career, some still question her talents, as she openly shared in her 2022 documentary "Halftime." Lopez's achievements speak volumes. Her multifaceted success includes her influence on the Latine community, her role as a businesswoman, and her contributions to pop culture through film, music, fashion, and beauty.
Ultimately, "Love?" is a testament to Lopez's authenticity and resilience as an artist. It reminds us that even the most celebrated figures crave love and acceptance. As we celebrate the album's anniversary, let's appreciate its honesty, acknowledge its impact, and recognize J Lo's continued significance as an artist and cultural icon.
"This album is called 'A Mucha Honra' because, as a Mexican, it makes me so excited to sing this music," she tells PS. "It's in my DNA. I feel like with everything happening now with our music on a global level, it's made us so proud. This is a celebration of our music and Mexican culture."
Thalia's career spans five decades since she entered the scene in the '80s as a member of the Mexican children's group Timbiriche. In the '90s, she launched her solo career, which took her worldwide, transforming her into a global artist. Among the many genres she's explored as a top Latina pop star, Mexican rhythms like mariachi and ranchera have always been present in her biggest hits like the empowering "Piel Morena" or the sultry "Amor a la Mexicana." Thalia credits her longevity to always changing with the times.
"Follow your pulse," she says. "Follow your intuition, which will soon guide you in learning different things about yourself. Sing different styles of music. Embrace things that will help you refresh your style and help you grow, change, and evolve. You have to dare yourself to take chances. I believe that's always been a principle of my career."
"A Mucha Honra" isn't Thalia's first rodeo in the mAosica Mexicana realm. In addition to her aforementioned hits, she also released a banda music album in 2001. "Thalia Con Banda: Grandes Axitos" included her classics like "Arrasando," "Entre el Mar y una Estrella," and "MarAa la del Barrio," the theme song to one of her famous telenovelas, which was rerecorded in the banda style. Thalia shakes off the criticisms of people who overlook her past in the mAosica Mexicana genre.
"In my music, I've always sung with Mexican arrangements in different albums throughout my career," she says. "It's something that's always been constant within my discography. I have a wonderful fan base. My Thali-familia are incredible for remembering things that we've done together. That's beautiful because they have a strong connection with me. This isn't something that I'm doing out of nowhere. I've always done it."
What is different about Thalia's latest exploration of mAosica Mexicana is that she's taking on contemporary sounds. What has helped the genre go global is the rise of corridos tumbados, or the trap-infused take on the traditional Mexican corrido and sierreA+-o. Corridos tumbados were first popularized in 2019 by Mexican singer Natanael Cano and his LA-based label Rancho Humilde. More Gen Z artists like his labelmates Junior H and Fuerza Regida and Mexican superstar Peso Pluma have pushed corridos tumbados to the top of the charts. SierreA+-o has also made waves thanks to the success of the Mexican American group Eslabon Armado. For "A Mucha Honra," Thalia tapped Rancho Humilde founder Jimmy Humilde and Edgar RodrAguez, who has produced hits for this new generation of artists. She seamlessly blends sierreA+-o and pop in the heartbreaking ballad "BebA(c), PerdA3n."
"[Edgar] has the Yellow Room [recording studio] where all the mAosica Mexicana stars have recorded," she says. "This album was created at the center of the Mexican movement that's taking over. It has that strong and intense essence of that movement and captures what Jimmy and Edgar do best. The songs and arrangements are spectacular."
Men largely dominate the mAosica Mexicana scene. Though there have been patronas in the past, like the late Selena Quintanilla and Jenni Rivera, young women are still trying to break through in this latest movement. Thalia uses her platform to highlight those women in the genre, like Estilo Sin Limite's Dania Valenzuela and Angela Aguilar, the daughter of mAosica Mexicana icon Pepe Aguilar. Thalia and Valenzuela tell their exes to get lost in the kiss-off corrido "Choro," and Aguilar later joins her for the tequila-kissed love song "Troca."
"I love to be able to bring girl power to mAosica Mexicana," she says. "It's beautiful to plant this seed and open that door so that more women can exist in this genre."
MAosica Mexicana also has a history of excluding the LGBTQ+ community, who make up a large part of Thalia's fan base. When I tell her that queer fans are ready to put on their cowboy boots and sombreros to enjoy this album, she says with a laugh, "I love that!" She adds, "The message in my music has always been about love. It's about unity. That's what I've always wanted to share. It's a celebration of life. If I can unite hearts through my music, that is the most beautiful gift to me as a singer and artist."
Thalia has continued to thrive over the years, thanks to her willingness to embrace different genres. She blended reggaeton and pop in the global hits "No Me Acuerdo" with Natti Natasha and "Desde Esa Noche" featuring Maluma, both of which have over a billion views on YouTube. She also looks to the past for inspiration, such as with her last album, "Thalia's Mixtape," where she revisited rock en espaA+-ol with the legends of that era. Now Thalia is adding corridos and sierreA+-o to her mAosica Mexicana palette.
A surprise that all Thalia fans will love on "A Mucha Honra" is her new version of "Amor a la Mexicana." She rerecorded the 1997 hit with a fiery corrido arrangement. Like throughout most of the album, Thalia digs deep to show off a more husky and soulful side to her voice. Nearly 30 years later, she still knows how to fiercely serve up love - Mexican style.
"What more I could do to round out this full-circle moment was sing a song that's a part of my stamp on music," she says. "It's what I've always been singing for - Mexico. It's logical. When I finished recording that new version, I said, 'Wow! That's really me now.'"
These are the opening lines of "Tierra," the leading single off the Puerto Rican band Chuwi's newest EP of the same title. Founded in 2020 in the northwestern coastal town of Isabela, Chuwi is composed of Willy, his sister LorA(c)n Aldarondo, his brother Wester Aldarondo, and friend AdriA!n LA3pez. Describing the band's sound is a challenge in and of itself. Are they Latin jazz, indie rock, urbano, tropical fusion, or something else altogether? The answer to all of those questions is "yes."
Over the past two years, the quartet's popularity has grown among listeners and industry peers. Part of that reason is that they've seemingly filled an all-too-common role in Latin American music: a band whose music echoes the activist sentiment of its generation.
"Tierra," the song, makes unmistakable allusions to one of Puerto Rico's most contemporary anxieties. In 2019, the Puerto Rican legislature passed Act 60, which codified generous tax breaks for foreign investors who move to the archipelago and establish themselves as residents.
The result has led to what critics call a nationwide gentrification effort that has priced locals out of their own neighborhoods. Swaths of real estate have been bought and turned into short-term rental spaces, which has, in turn, provoked skyrocketing housing costs; meanwhile, benefits that proponents of the act promised have not come to fruition. Between this, 2017's disastrous Hurricane MarAa, and the one-two punch of earthquakes and a pandemic in 2020, the population decline has been swift and severe, causing even more dire effects.
Chuwi's lyrics resonate with Puerto Ricans who are dismayed by what is happening around them. Puerto Rico has a robust history of music groups wearing their political leanings on their sleeves. Groups like Fiel a La Vega, Cultura ProfA(c)tica, and El Hijo de BorikA(c)n followed the standard set by Argentina's rock nacional and Chicano folk music, among other influences. Even reggaetA3n became known as "perreo combativo" during the 2019 protests on the island that forced then-governor Ricardo RossellA3 to resign.
But Chuwi is frank about how, despite appearances, they don't consciously identify as an activist band, even if their songs tend to strike close to the zeitgeist of political talk on the island. Instead, the band sees themselves more as artists putting their emotions on the page rather than preaching a particular ideology. "We write about what weighs on us, and we're using [music] as an outlet," Willy says. "It's how we started. We just wanted a way to express ourselves about the things that make us uncomfortable or the things we love."
Another track on the EP, the merengue-tinged "Mundi," puts the listener in the tanned hide of the real Mundi. This African savannah elephant spent 35 years alone at the Dr. Juan A. Rivero Zoo of Puerto Rico, less than an hour away from Isabela in nearby MayagA1/4ez. The elephant's predicament became a cause cA(c)lA"bre amongst local animal rights activists, and Mundi was eventually relocated in 2023 to an elephant sanctuary in Georgia.
For Chuwi, the song came to be because of their proximity to the zoo, which they recall visiting during field trips as youngsters. It also serves as a homage to a song their mother would often play: "Laika" by the Spanish '80s pop band Mecano, about the Soviet space dog sent on a doomed solo mission to outer space in 1957.
"We wanted the song to be factual, so we actually investigated [Mundi's backstory] but at the same time, made it catchy, and if people pay attention to the lyrics, then they'll also be emotionally devastated," laughs LorA(c)n, who is also the band's regular lead singer.
One of their most impressive songs is "Guerra," a palo Dominicano that channels frenzied Afro-Caribbean rhythms, creating an auditory sensory experience that mimics the enveloping chaos of its namesake ("guerra" means "war"). While war has indeed been at the forefront of the news for the past seven months, this is another instance where their muse was working subconsciously.
"We live in this world, we're exposed to these things, we're passionate about certain things in our personal lives, so musically [it bleeds in]," LorA(c)n explains.
Their eclectic style and earnestness have drawn the attention of larger acts. Grammy-winning producer Eduardo Cabra of the iconoclastic rap duo Calle 13 and artists like Buscabulla ("We call them mom and dad," says LorA(c)n) have advised them in their still nascent stage as a young band, for example.
Seeing them live reveals another reason Chuwi has connected so much with audiences. LorA(c)n's voice mesmerizes as she croons and wails with honeyed tones, and AdriA!n's percussion easily gets people's blood pumping and emotions rising. In LorA(c)n's case, she digs into old teachings from her days singing in church to fully involve listeners with the show she and her bandmates put on.
"I rely a lot on emotion in my performances. If I don't feel it, the audience won't feel it. In church, they taught us that when you sing something, you're singing to God, and if people see your genuineness, then you'll inspire them to sing to God, too," she says. "If you're vulnerable, they'll be vulnerable as well. If I'm not authentic, then how can I expect the crowd to connect with the music we're creating?"
And while they hope their next projects, including a debut LP they're already hard at work on, show off more of what they're capable of lyrically and sonically, they're not about to shy away from speaking from the heart, even if it might tag them as resistance artists.
"I think it means our music is reaching people. That what we feel isn't just among us," Wester says. "Seeing people identify with it makes us feel we're not alone. I'm fine with being perceived that way."
Camila Mendes is shifting that narrative. You likely recognize her from rom-coms like "Palm Springs," "The Perfect Date," and "The New Romantic" - and she's starring in and serving as an an executive producer for the new rom-com film "MAosica," which also stars and is directed by her boyfriend, Rudy Mancuso.
"As much as we love rom-coms from the '90s and early 2000s, things have changed, and that doesn't mean that you have to like overtly make like a woke rom-com, but I think it's more about just finding ways to make them more interesting and grounded to the experience of finding love today," she says.
Indeed, "MAosica" broadens what it means to be Latine on screen - with a much-needed depiction of the Brazilian American experience specifically. The film follows Mancuso's character, also named Rudy, as he navigates the trials and tribulations of family life, romance, and career decisions - all while living with rhythmic synesthesia. This rare neurological condition causes one to experience more than one sense simultaneously.
The film is based on Mancuso's reality, where he turns to music as the solution to everything. It charts his own upbringing, and uses the Ironbound neighborhood of Newark, NJ, which is home to many Brazilians, as a backdrop.
Mendes stars as Isabella, Rudy's love interest. What makes her role in "MAosica" so special is the authenticity of her own cultural background as a Brazilian American. It's also her first time taking on a role that allowed her to draw on her own heritage directly, and she even gets to speak Portuguese, in which she's fluent.
"It was an opportunity I had been waiting for my entire career, and I honestly wasn't sure if I ever was going to get that opportunity," Mendes says. "I thought I was going to have to create it myself. I had plans to [create something myself], but this project was ahead of the curve, and I was like, 'What a dream come true to finally, you know, play my authentic culture instead of having to pretend to be a different [ethnicity other than my own].'"
Mendes emphasizes the need to open up the way Latines are represented in these films, as well as the importance of centering Latines of all different backgrounds.
"We've seen so many rom-coms and we've seen a lot of played-out scenarios, and I think it's just nice to get a fresh take and bring in a cultural element that normally you don't see in those rom-coms," she says.
"We've seen so many rom-coms and we've seen a lot of played-out scenarios, and I think it's just nice to get a fresh take and bring in a cultural element that normally you don't see in those rom-coms."
It's clear that Hollywood continues to miss out on culturally specific elements when telling our stories. But true representation is more than just having us in these rooms; it's about making sure the characters and scripts that are green-lit capture the nuances that truly make our communities what they are.
"I just know that I have a responsibility to my culture that I gladly take, and I put it on myself because there aren't many of us in Hollywood to tell that story that have the ability to get projects made," Mendes says of her responsibility to amplify broader narratives of Brazilian culture on screen. "I'm going to use my power to that advantage and help get the industry to a place where this can be a more regular occurrence."
As she solidifies her place as a Brazilian American rom-com sensation, Mendes acknowledges there is still room for evolution when it comes to these films. And she wants to see Hollywood subvert the genre in new ways that are compelling.
Still, Mendes can appreciate the legacy of rom-com classics. She can narrow her favorites down to two: "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" and "Along Came Polly." She feels the latter doesn't get the credit it deserves. As for her all-time go-to Jennifer Lopez rom-com, the Latina OG of the films, she goes with 2001's iconic "The Wedding Planner."
Coming off the heels of the release of "MAosica," Mendes hasn't found time yet to slow down. But running around with a packed schedule is what keeps her motivated.
"Sometimes it's a good thing, you know, when you're staying busy through something like this, it keeps you in the moment. I think it's easy to get carried away focusing on what people are saying and how they're responding," she says. "Even though, luckily for us, it's all very positive - but there's something really nice about just pushing through and carrying on with your life because there's still more to do."
There is always something to do for Mendes; her latest work has included a partnership with the Italian Aperitivo Aperol at Coachella. She says it was very special to bring to life.
"Aperol spritz is a drink that my best friend and I always drank together. When [she and I] were roommates, we had a summer ritual where I would go grab an orange from the orange tree [in my backyard] and she would make us some Aperol spritzes," she shares. "I associate the drink with that experience of spending quality time with my best friend."
Even though her best friend couldn't attend Coachella with her this year, Mendes says she was there in spirit. Mendes, for her part, does plan to take a moment to slow down and take the success of "MAosica" in. And as the Latine community's new rom-com queen, it seems fitting that she's also able to celebrate the film's success with her onscreen and real-life love interest, Mancuso.
Horror has always been a part of my life, so it felt natural for me to work on a book like "The Black Girl Survives in This One." My two brothers were obsessed with the genre and I was one of the youngest siblings, so it mostly fell on them to babysit me. As with most older siblings, my brothers lived to tease me. Everything was a joke or a moment to terrify. So it was natural for them to invite me to movie nights where we would watch films like "Candyman" (1992) featuring Tony Todd; "Child's Play" (1988), where a white man uses voodoo to transfer his soul to a doll to escape the police; "Night of the Living Dead" (1968), directed by Bronx native George A. Romero; and "A Nightmare on Elm Street" (1984). While these movies scared the crap out of me, I found myself facing my fears head-on, to not only prove to my brothers that I could handle whatever they threw at me but to prove to myself that I could stare in the face of danger and survive.
Once I overcame my fears, I instantly started to love the gore - the jump scares were my favorite too. I became obsessed with how the actors, the movie scores, and everything played into the fear of everything. Horror is a genre where we can explore the things that freak us out, that don't make sense, and that play on our fears. I've always found courage in watching these movies, and when I discovered slashers and the "final girl," I longed to be one.
"The Black Girl Survives in This One" is an anthology collection of short horror stories, from ghost stories to zombie stories, from writers like Monica Brashears, Vincent Tirado, Zakiya Dalila Harris, Maika and Maritza Moulite, and others. It also includes a foreword written by the horror luminary Tananarive Due. There's something for everyone in this book, and at the end, the main character - a Black girl - survives the horrors of the day. The bigger message we wanted to convey to readers, especially Black girls, is that despite the serious obstacles you may face in this life, you are strong enough to endure, survive, and still come out on top. We are not our fears, no matter how society might try to tell us otherwise.
While I love the horror genre, it has not been kind or inclusionary for Black, Indigenous, Latine, and other people of color. So I was inspired to write myself into the genre, to pen a story that featured a Black Latina who is fierce and equally loves the horror genre. In my short story, "Cemetery Dance Party," I pay homage to all of the folks who sparked my love for horror, from Michael Jackson's famous hit song and music video "Thriller" to Romero's "Night of the Living Dead." It was the first movie where I saw a Black person survive the horror of the undead, only to be shot by a white person at the end. That scene stayed with me. It's haunting to believe that as a Black person, you could escape zombies, but you can't escape white supremacy.
My first book, "Wild Tongues Can't Be Tamed," was a nonfiction anthology that examined diverse aspects of Latine identity, subverting myths and stereotypes about our cultures, and a dialogue on addiction, racism, and anti-Blackness within our community. It featured essays from bestselling and award-winning writers like Elizabeth Acevedo, Ingrid Rojas Contreras, Naima Coster, Natasha Diaz, Janel Martinez, and others. I was eager to continue the identity conversation and amplify Black voices across the diaspora. So it was an easy decision for me to want to tackle horror next, which has been so exclusionary for Black folks and people of color. After having a Zoom conversation with my coeditor of the anthology, Desiree S. Evans, we decided to center Black girls and have them be the "final girl" trope we've always wanted to see more of in cinema and books.
The process was pretty similar to my experience with "Wild Tongues Can't Be Tamed," but this time, we thought it was important to host an open call to discover new voices in horror. It was amazing to receive so many submissions; there are a lot of talented writers out there just waiting for the publishing industry to give them the opportunity to tell our stories.
Writing and editing "The Black Girl Survives in This One" was healing for my inner teen self, who went through so much in high school; at times it felt like I wouldn't survive the pressure of making new friends, balancing schoolwork, and prepping for college courses. Writing my short story "Cemetery Dance Party" was very nostalgic because I got to write myself into a horror comedy story I always wanted to see. The story follows Alle, an Afro Latina from the Bronx who loves track but was recently injured and is healing so she can get back on the team and bring home the win for her squad. She's also class president and tasked with hosting the senior class party. She decides to host it at the famous Woodlawn Cemetery, and well, it's the perfect setting for chaos to ensue among teenagers with raging hormones and alcohol. Alle and her friends go through the gauntlet during the night, but she survives at the end, and that's all that matters.
This is such an important read for Black women - including Latina readers - because we never get to see ourselves in genres like this. Just look at how all of the best shows that represented us were canceled, from "Lovecraft Country" to "The Horrors of Dolores Roach." Even though those shows were badass, networks still decided that nobody could relate to Leti in "Lovecraft" and Dolores, but the twist is we did, and we wanted more. I want readers to know that they matter; they belong in horror, and "The Black Girl Survives in This One" is only the beginning of us inserting ourselves in the genre to come out on top as the heroes we deserve to be and see ourselves as!
Selena Quintanilla was born on April 16, 1971, and grew up in Corpus Christi, TX. She was an Aries, a sign often described as "passionate, brave, and headstrong." Indeed of conforming with the mAosica Mexicana artists of the time, she paved the way for herself by proudly embracing her Chicana identity. With influences like Whitney Houston, Janet Jackson, Jody Watley, and Gloria Estefan, Selena pushed Tejano music forward and made the genre fresh and palatable for listeners beyond Texas. Into the late eighties, the singer became the top Tejano artist in a genre that men previously dominated. At the Tejano Music Awards, she won best female vocalist and female entertainer of the year for 12 years straight.
After conquering Texas, Selena was ready to take on the world, and she signed with the label Latin EMI in 1989. From there, she released the most iconic albums of her career, including 1990's "Ven Conmigo," 1992's "Entre a Mi Mundo," and 1993's "Selena Live!," which earned her a Grammy award at the 1994 ceremony. She also became the female Tejano artist to win in the Best Mexican/American Album category.
That year, she released the last album of her lifetime, "Amor Prohibido." The LP yielded four No. 1 hits on Billboard's Hot Latin Songs chart. Soon after, she made history as the first Tejano artist to reach the summit of Billboard's Top Latin Albums chart.
On March 31, 1995, while Selena was preparing her first English-language album, she was tragically murdered at the age of 23 by Yolanda SaldAvar, a close friend of Selena's who ran her fan club. Since then, Selena's family, including her father and manager Abraham Quintanilla, have kept her memory alive through several posthumous projects. In July 1995, the album "Dreaming of You" was released, which included her English classics like the beautiful title track and the haunting "I Could Fall in Love With You." After her death, Selena continued to make history with the first Latin album to debut at No. 1 on the Billboard 200 chart. In 1997, her family authorized the "Selena" biopic, which featured Jennifer Lopez in the star-making role. Through the endearing movie, the world fell in love with Selena and saw how she was just like any other Mexican American trying to find her place between worlds. It's a story that still resonates with Latine folks in the US today.
It's important to note that Selena's music and image belong to her family, and they have a right to celebrate her legacy as they please. In the following years, Selena's family hosted memorial concerts like Selena A!Vive! in 2005 and Fiesta de la Flor in Corpus Christi, where her fans could unite in her honor. There was the Mirador de la Flor monument of Selena in Corpus Christi and a Netflix series later followed. There were also brand deals that Selena's fan base loved. In 2016, MAC worked closely on a Selena makeup line with her sister, Suzette Quintanilla. Due to a high demand for cosmetics, MAC released a second capsule collection in 2020.
While these are great ways to give back to the fans who are keeping her memory alive, Selena's family has also been criticized for cash-grab moments that fans perceived as disrespectful to Selena. For example, in 2022, the family released the remix album "Moonchild Mixes," in which Selena's voice as a child was manipulated through studio technology to sound older. Amidst the discussions of the ethics of creating a project in her name in that way, the L.A. Times' Fidel Martinez called it a "Selena robot album."
Thanks to the barriers Selena broke down for Latinas, Mexican Americans, and Mexican culture, her fan base has continued to grow exponentially nearly 30 years after her death. As a Mexican American myself, I've also found solace in her music as a gay man. Her songs like "Como La Flor" and "Amor Prohibido," which detail forbidden romances, have become anthems for the LGBTQ+ community. While promoting "Moonchild Mixes," I interviewed Abraham and Suzette Quintanilla. As much as it was an honor for me to talk with the family of an icon who has meant so much to me, I was a little disappointed when they appeared to brush off my question about Selena's connection to her queer fans by changing the subject about how she connected with "everyone." With Selena's music being performed by drag queens and recently on "Drag Race MA(c)xico," her family could try to understand better everyone who makes up her fan base now.
It's not only Selena's family that has been called out for exploitative projects. Back in February, Oxygen released the most disrespectful docuseries since Selena's death, "Selena and Yolanda: The Secrets Between Them." The series is about Yolanda SaldAvar, the woman who managed Selena's fan club and who murdered the singer. The show, which was not authorized by Selena's family, attempted to excuse the actions of SaldAvar, and it was shameful because this woman would now be eligible to apply for parole next year.
The media needs to move on from Selena's death, which also keeps the name of her murderer relevant. Thanks to the barriers she broke down for Latinas, Mexican Americans, and Mexican culture, her fan base has continued to grow exponentially nearly 30 years after her death. As a Mexican American myself, I've also found solace in her music as a gay man. Her songs like "Como La Flor" and "Amor Prohibido," which detail forbidden romances, have become anthems for the LGBTQ+ community. Selena's music has become a staple for Latine drag queens to perform. It made me so happy last year to see "Como La Flor" performed on the first season of "Drag Race MA(c)xico," which was like a collision of my Latine, Mexican, and queer identities. Like how she lived during her lifetime, Selena showed me to embrace everything that makes up who I am.
To truly celebrate Selena, it's time to focus on her life and legacy. Karol G recently sported a Selena shirt in the video for her Tejano-inspired song "Mi Ex TenAa RazA3n." Shakira later paid tribute to Selena by emulating her iconic washing machine spins in "(Entre ParA(c)ntesis)" with Texas-based band Grupo Frontera.
For Selena's birthday this year, let's create parties in her honor and play her music out loud. Selena's impact will never wilt, thanks to the fans who continue to find joy and inspiration from her story.
Bad Bunny is the most-streamed artist on the planet. This fun fact never loses its significance for loyal Latine fans who have witnessed the struggle for Latin music to get the respect and support it deserves here in the States. The Puerto Rican artist put on a hell of a performance at the Barclays Center on April 11. Looking around an arena with a 19,000-person capacity, there wasn't a single empty seat in sight, at least not within my view. It was a packed house of what appeared to be a mostly Latine crowd ranging in age and ethnicity.
There was his usual fan base - Dominican and Puerto Ricans standing in the long lines outside of the stadium with their flags tied around their necks and flowing from their backs. Even with the cold, rainy weather, everyone in those lines was decked out in Bad Bunny merch and ready to celebrate the artist. These same folks were the first to jump up and wave their flags whenever Bad Bunny made mention of his Latine fans and supporters. There were also many Latines of Central and South American descent rocking their flags and holding up signs expressing their love for the singer. Although he's gone global, especially since the success of his 2022 record-breaking album "Un Verano Sin Ti," Latines still appear to make up most of Bad Bunny's concert-attending fans, from how things appeared on Thursday night.
Regardless of how many awards he's taken home or how many records he's broken, Bad Bunny hasn't lost sight of the folks that have supported his music since his early days on SoundCloud before non-Latines had any clue who el conejo malo was. He has proven that whenever he's apologetically spoken in Spanish during an interview or at an award show. He's proven that in the way he has continued to elevate the genre, paying his respect to OGs like Daddy Yankee, Residente, and Tego Calderon and giving his stamp of approval to rising Puerto Rican artists like Young Miko, Rainao, and Villano Antillano.
I've seen Bad Bunny live in NYC twice: first in 2019 at Barclays, and then again at Yankee Stadium for his 2022 World's Hottest tour. At all his concerts, Benito only spoke Spanish and almost exclusively addressed his Latine fans. In many ways, like with many Latin music artists today, attending a Bad Bunny concert feels like you're exclusively a part of his crew or fan club. It doesn't matter that he's gone global - he's still only speaking Spanish and shouting-out Latines.
"New York has been very important in my career, where dreams come true," he told fans in Spanish on Thursday. "Being on the tour feels really amazing, going to each place and seeing it, all the cities, but New York, it's something else. It feels more amazing than usual. Seeing all those PR and DR flags makes it even more special. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for being here; it means a lot to me."
The artist had a lot of emotional moments throughout the performance during which he would stare at a packed stadium filled with excited fans in complete awe and then with teary eyes right before giving his heartwarming speech to Latine fans. In many ways, Bad Bunny's latest album, "Nadie Sabe Lo Que Va a Pasar MaA+-ana," paid homage to Puerto Rico and his Latine concert goers. It acknowledged that regardless of the fame and success that followed with "Un Verano Sin Ti," he hasn't forgotten where he's come from and who his number-one fans are. The concert was very reflective of that sentiment, with half of the songs on the setlist being straight from "Nadie Sabe Lo Que Va a Pasar MaA+-ana," and the later half of the show including older tracks, a guest performance by Bryant Meyer, and tracks from "Un Verano Sin Ti," including his hit track "Titi Me Pregunto." The production at this show was also top-notch, with an orchestra that opened up the show and reappeared throughout, Benito playing "Amorforda" on the piano upside down, a cool jigsaw bridge in the middle of the stadium room, and the artist even riding into the stadium on a real-life horse looking like a ranchero-meets-lucha-libre.
Bad Bunny went all out for us from start to end, delivering an almost-three-hour-long performance filled with so much attention to detail and deeply rooted love and appreciation for his Latine fans. The Latine community is a beautiful one. When we love - we love hard. When we support - we show up in large numbers. I wouldn't be surprised if there were full families in that crowd. But we're also the quickest to criticize our own idols whenever they reach a certain level of fame. And while Bad Bunny has certainly reached a level of fame where he can probably get away with performing for less than two hours without all the cool production effects, he still put in the love he's had for his craft and his Latine fans since the beginning, and he still let us know that he wouldn't be here without us. And that is something I don't think he'll ever stop doing, regardless of how far he may go in his career.A bag adorned with ribbon bows slung over my shoulder, I screamed in anticipation with a crowd full of sequin miniskirts, glittery purple eyeshadow, and fishnet tights as Rodrigo ascended onto the stage for her opening number, "Bad Idea Right." To my surprise, the audience wasn't just young teens, kids, and their parents. An unexpected handful of 20- and 30-something adults like me were just as ready to jump and sing along to a mix of tunes from her sophomore album, "Guts," and her critically acclaimed debut album, "Sour." I imagine we loved the concert the same reason I enjoy her music so much - she made us feel like teens again.
The internet is filled with think pieces and TikTok breakdowns that explain Rodrigo's popularity among women who are older than her: it's fueled by our nostalgia for girlhood and desire to revert back to our teenage years. Scream-singing along to her lyrics at the "Guts" Tour, I certainly felt that, and I saw it on the faces of fellow millennials in the crowd on Saturday night. She took us, her devoted fans, through angst, nostalgia, sadness, and of course, head-banging fun.
A few months prior, I'd seen Rodrigo perform bigger hits like "Get Him Back!" and "Vampire" at Z100's Jingle Ball, so I was already aware of her performing prowess. At the "Guts" Tour, her vocals were raw, filled with a genuine passion and emotion, and her pop-punk energy was unmatched. But her more vulnerable ballads were especially moving to hear live.
When Rodrigo sang about not feeling pretty enough with society's impossible beauty standards in "Pretty Isn't Pretty" and putting yourself out there for someone you love - who's so not worth it - in "Love Is Embarrassing," she brought me back to those exact feelings I'd experienced in high school and college, and even at times in my late twenties. In one particularly special moment introducing "Teenage Dream," she spoke about writing the song as an 18-year-old, being so afraid of growing up. But after recently turning 21 in late February, she realized getting older isn't so scary after all. I admittedly chuckled because, well, she is only 21, but it's also a sentiment I felt back then and still do now.She cycled between emotional ballads like these and fiery bangers that had everyone on their feet. During her performance of "All American Bitch," she encouraged the crowd to "think about someone or something that pisses you off" and scream at the top of your lungs. It was therapeutic.
So, thank you to Rodrigo for taking me back to those messy, fun days, but also reminding me why I'm relieved to be past that phase in my life. My other takeaway after that last encore? Maybe it's OK to text your ex. Get him back!
After two more nights at MSG, the "Guts" Tour is heading to the UK and Europe in May and June, and concludes in August in Los Angeles.
Part of the controversy lies in how Lopez represents herself and her native borough of the Bronx. In one scene from the documentary, Lopez tussles her curly hair while looking in the mirror and says, "It reminds me, like, when I was 16 in the Bronx, running up and down the block. Crazy little girl who used to fucking be wild and no limits, all dreams." TikTok quickly jumped on this small clip, with many users commenting on how contrived the scene felt. One user noted it allegedly took numerous takes to get the finished shot. From there, it wasn't long before social media started to mine Lopez's old interviews for any hint of inauthenticity.
In a resurfaced clip from Vogue's "73 Questions" series, Lopez shares her childhood bodega order of "ham and cheese on a roll with an orange drink . . . and a small bag of chips." This clip, too, has been flamed on social media as New Yorkers demand to know exactly what orange drink Lopez is referring to. Others have remarked it's such a generic order that Lopez can't be as bodega-bred as she claims.
And then, of course, there's the nail in the coffin: an old clip from 2014 making the rounds on social media that shows Lopez pulling up to her old house in Castle Hill, and the current resident having absolutely no idea who she is.
It's not that Lopez isn't from the Bronx - of course, she is. No one can take that away from her. It's that the image she portrays, one of a tried-and-true Bronx girl who made it to Hollywood while staying true to her roots, comes off as disingenuous. Many think she's using the borough for relevance in an age that values authenticity more than anything. But how did she become so seemingly disconnected from the people she supposedly represents?
Growing up in a Puerto Rican household meant Lopez could do no wrong. She was the Fly Girl who made it big. She was Selena. And when her debut album, "On the 6," dropped, my mom had it on repeat, singing along to every word. For my mom, Lopez symbolized success. For many heads from that generation, that's what success was - not so much repping your hood, but representing the fact that you made it out of your hood.
Today, however, that's not enough. That's why Lopez's actions are often perceived as self-serving. In part, it's a generational difference. This is evidenced by the fact that so few of her recent critics knew what she meant by "orange drink." For the record, I'm pretty sure she was referencing the 25-cent "quarter waters" that were a staple of bodegas back in the '90s (you'd be hard-pressed to find them now). They didn't have a proper name; you just asked for the color. But, bodega order aside, the fact that Lopez had to rebrand her tour amid slowing ticket sales shows how much public opinion has waned for a star who once sold out Vegas residencies with frequency.
In this light, it's unsurprising that people from the community and even her fans are skeptical of how she reps the Bronx - an attempt to delay the sun setting on an incredible 30-year career and energize the masses. But it's not enough to claim NYC as your birthright and expect New Yorkers to show up. Here, trust and loyalty are won the hard way. You have to put the city on your back, elevate it, and actively participate in the culture.
Cardi B made headlines when she donated $100,000 to her old middle school in the Bronx. Fat Joe helped organize a fundraiser for families affected by the 2022 Twin Parks fire, and he's well-known for routinely giving back to the community. And J Lo? Well, that's the thing. She has. In 2014, she announced a partnership with Montefiore Medical Center in the Bronx to establish The Center for a Healthy Childhood, which aimed to improve children's health and overall nutrition in the surrounding communities.
But for many of us, the occasional philanthropic stint isn't enough. And the fact that it's been 10 years since her last major contribution to the borough doesn't help Lopez's case. Neither does the fact that she danced her way to an acting career, singing career, and millions of dollars along the way, but she hasn't opened a single dance academy to help others do the same. I think a Jennifer Lopez-branded dance academy in the heart of Castle Hill would be a no-brainer and would help her improve her current standing in the community.
That being said, Lopez isn't obligated to satisfy anyone's expectations but her own. And there are plenty of A-list New Yorkers who do less for their respective boroughs and are subject to far less criticism. At the end of the day, however, Lopez is unique in that she understands and cashes in on the social clout that comes with being from the Bronx. She understands that it distinguishes her from the majority of the Hollywood elite - she's someone who isn't supposed to have a seat at the table, yet now enjoys the same privileges as her silver-spoon counterparts.
I once had a friend tell me that the hood is something no one can take from you. It's hardwired into you, regardless of what you achieve. The lessons the streets teach are lessons for life. I truly believe that. And I'm sure Lopez does, too. In her eyes, she'll always be Jenny from the block, regardless of what any of us have to say.
But I also believe there's no such thing as playing both sides. As someone who has slowly watched their neighborhood disappear because of gentrification and has had the landscape of his memories shift with each passing day, I wish I had the money to do something about it. And if I ever found myself in that position, in a position to give back, I would.
At those jobs, I met a lot of women who were creating art that was meaningful to them and their communities. They weren't household names, but they showed me that I'd been wrong. They proved to me that writers who look like me or grew up with similar experiences deserve a shot at getting our stories out there.
At the same time, I decided to finally go for it and pursue a career as a professional writer. I couldn't help but note the number of organizations that were embracing Latina storytelling. But back then there weren't as many folks working on the criticism side and no one was focusing on encouraging Latinas like me to be critics. So I cofounded the indie publication LatinaMedia.Co, along with another Latina, Nicola Schulze, to give others the boost I needed - the explicit invitation to become a published critic.
Make no mistake, film criticism is broken. According to USC Annenberg's Inclusion Initiative, white guys write 65.7 percent of movie reviews. Meanwhile, they make up 30 percent of the population. Way on the other side, Black, Indigenous, Asian, and Latina women combined write just 3.7 percent of movie reviews, despite making up around 20 percent of the population. I suppose they don't break it out by group because the numbers would be so small.
And it's not just film criticism. Journalism as a whole is too white, with Pew Research reporting that only 25 percent of reporters are people of color (and only eight percent are Hispanic, despite us being nearly 20 percent of the population). In Hollywood, the problem stretches all around the camera, with too few women-of-color executives, stars, creators, directors, and writers. Many believe that all those pledges to increase diversity and inclusion were just PR stints with not much changing in story-making fields.Stories matter. They help us make meaning of the world. They allow us to understand ourselves and others. But the lack of representation in the books I read growing up made me feel like my stories didn't matter. Still, it's funny how things work out. When I was working in nonprofits and meeting all these women storytellers, I also met a lot of activists who'd given TEDx Talks (some of them were the same lady artists). I looked at their examples and thought, I want to do that. Giving a TEDx Talk became a bucket list item for me, something I promised myself I'd be ready for someday.
That day came last year, five years after cofounding LatinaMedia.Co and embarking on a career in entertainment journalism. From my activist circles, I knew Tabby Biddle, a TEDx speaker and coach who, among other things, leads classes to encourage more women to give TED Talks. Because yes, TED is another one of those institutions that is historically exclusionary. While they've made some progress over the years, 56.2 percent of their speakers are still white men. Biddle saw my work and thought I might know some Latinas interested in the scholarship she was offering. I did happen to know someone, and that someone was me.
As the class was winding down, Tabby warned that it could take a year or more, along with multiple applications, to get on stage. I was relieved. Giving a TEDx Talk, where you share both ideas and yourself, was scary. I still struggle with that nagging voice inside of me that says, "I'm not good enough." Still, I started a spreadsheet of potential events, sent out some initial feelers, and applied to one event.
And they picked me. The good people at TEDx Cherry Creek, a nonprofit staffed by volunteers and founded by current Colorado State Senator Dafna Michaelson Jenet working to get more women on the TED stage (see a trend here), selected me. Based on the super-quick video I submitted (it had to be 40 seconds or less!) and a handful of short essays, the event organizers selected me and 17 other women out of the 175 people who applied. I was thrilled, shocked, and nervous.
I then had three months to work with them and my cohort of truly impressive women to put together the talk that I had dreamed of giving, the one where I tell my story and make the case for more diversity in media criticism.
I argued that TV and movies hold a special place in our culture, influencing how we see ourselves and how we see others, which in turn affects how we build our systems and institutions. If we want this world to be for everyone, everyone needs a chance to tell stories and evaluate them - that was my thesis. But I didn't stop there. I used myself as a test case for how this influence can be damaging, telling my story of losing and finding my voice again. I went on to explain how I'm paying it forward with LatinaMedia.Co. Then I ended the talk by inviting the audience to join me, giving everyone a three-step plan on how to change the face of media criticism and, from there, the world.
To get ready, I practiced every day. I conscripted friends and family members to listen. I guest spoke at a class at a community college for practice. When the day came, I was still scared. But I wasn't nervous about my performance. I was anxious about standing in front of the world without armor, sharing my truth. I did it anyway. I cried for a moment once I got off stage, relieved and exhausted. I hugged my parents and husband, who'd traveled to hear me speak. And then I had to wait.
The event organizers had to edit the video, the TEDx people had to approve and post it. When it finally came out, I felt relieved and nervous all over again, this time about sharing it with the world.
Now here I am, a long way from the pink carpet of my childhood bedroom. And I'm here not because I'm some fearless shero. I'm here because I had so many examples of women seeing the hard thing and still going for it. I strive to be one of them. I think with this talk, with LatinaMedia.Co, with this article and the others I tap out, I'm doing my part to show my community that we belong anywhere we want to go. Because if I've learned anything over my years of working with Latina writers and thinkers, it's that we're just getting started.
Shakira shares her sons "absolutely hated" the film because they "felt it was emasculating." "I like pop culture when it attempts to empower women without robbing men of their possibility to be men," the singer says.
And while part of me understands that reaction, I cannot help but respectfully disagree with her. Feminism isn't just a theory, it's a practice, and different people practice it differently. Shakira not liking the "Barbie" movie doesn't make her less of a feminist. However, her opinion of the film is one shared by a vocal minority, and one I've heard reiterated by a lot of men (and right-wing politicians like Ted Cruz), many of whom won't even see a "girl's movie."
So, as a man who not only thoroughly enjoyed "Barbie" but found the message to be more subtle than "men suck, women are better," I wanted to examine how so many people could misconstrue Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach's script. For starters, the movie doesn't portray men as bubbly and shallow characters just for the sake of emasculating them. The movie portrays them as what they are: victims. The Kens have been robbed of any real agency and opportunity to be anything more than eye candy by Barbieland's matriarchy, a system that, conversely, places women in every major role throughout society. Sound familiar? It is the exact opposite of a patriarchy and yet still manages to achieve the same results: oppression of the opposite sex.
Yes, much of the Kens' dilemma and ensuing takeover of Barbieland sees the dumb dial turned up to the max - taking the piss out of machismo culture. But at its core, it's a commentary on the importance of being valued on a societal level. At every corner, the Kens are marginalized in the society they serve. This puts them at odds with the Barbies - not with women. Instead, the Kens' struggle is meant to parallel the struggle women experience in real life. It also shows how patriarchy can be destructive for the men it empowers.
By adopting patriarchy, the Kens rope themselves into accepting the often rigid criteria to which men must conform to be considered manly. Hence, the overabundance of cowboy hats, trucks, horses, and Mojo Dojo Casa Houses, regardless of whether or not the individual Ken has an affinity for these things. They gain power, yes, but they are still denied individuality, only this time by their own hand.
Shakira mentions that "men have their purpose too" and that "she wants her sons to feel powerful . . . while respecting women." But this is exactly the note the movie ends on. For the first time, the Kens are allowed to decide what their role in society will be. And for the first time, it won't be centered around supporting the Barbies' wants or needs, but instead on what they want for themselves.
But what about the notion that the movie "emasculates" the men? Sure, the Kens could have had more depth than having "beach" as a job, but I don't think it would have been as funny or as effective an allegory for the loss of agency that comes with oppression. I didn't find it emasculating. But I do find the uproar around it telling.
As an afropuertorriqueA+-o, I don't often benefit from narrative plurality, or the existence of a multitude of films, shows, or other media that showcase my people in a variety of different roles and perspectives. But as a man? Absolutely, I do. I can turn on my TV right now and find a movie about a badass killing machine who loves dogs ("John Wick"), a show about a physically lacking, neglected child who uses his wits to outsmart and outlive multiple empires ("Game of Thrones"), a movie about a reluctant savior who inherits his mother's magic and his father's kingdom and uses both to become a literal fucking messiah ("Dune"), and the list goes on. Narrative plurality means that there are enough positive depictions of characters like us that the negative depictions don't hold as much weight. Or at least you'd think.
But you make one movie in which the men - or in this case the Kens - are portrayed as superficial accessories in constant competition for the affections of a woman and have no purpose other than to service her desires, and it undoes all the rest of it. Perhaps, in the same vein, we should consider the impact of the negative portrayals of women and people of color on screen.
When did I first experience gender euphoria? My parents are so accepting of me, so that's, for me, truly when I always have the most gender euphoria. Just being around my family. And knowing that that's not an experience that a lot of LGBTQ kids and adults get to experience, that's something that I become more and more grateful for the more people I meet in the community. It's something that I hold very close to my heart.
Lady Gaga is not queer, but she is someone I always looked to because she had such an impact in my coming-of-age as an adult. During middle school, when Gaga was first topping the charts - the era of "Born This Way" and all those songs - she made me feel so empowered that I could be myself and live my truth.
"[L]ife unfolds in the way it's supposed to."
These days, I have made myself known not only for being trans; a lot of my audience doesn't even know that I'm trans. I feel like whenever I do talk about it, it's almost like, "Oh, whoa, I didn't know that about her." I think that's always really interesting. I think most creators who are trans make it part of their content, and it's something I talk about every now and then. I think it's cool for me to do that, because people who don't know that about me now have this different perspective of me. But right now, it's really inspiring to see other queer creators who are gaining so much success: people living their lives and building their careers.
My own message for other young trans folks is that it's all going to work out, things are going to get better. If you're struggling with people accepting you, you accepting yourself, you living in your truth - everything does truly work out in the end. It's hard to remember in the moment of course, but over time, life unfolds in the way it's supposed to. Just give yourself grace and give yourself time.
- As told to Lena Felton
In our Q&A /feature series Tell Me MA!s, we ask some of our favorite Latine artists to share some inside info about their lives and habits, revealing everything from their most recent read to the songs that get them hyped. This month, we trekked out to Joe's Pub in the historic East Village to see Grammy-nominated singer-songwriter Alex Ferreira take the stage and chatted with him about his latest project, fatherhood, and how he's balancing the two.
Alex Ferreira's dressing room at Joe's Pub is small and sparse, without much in the way of personal belongings or even instruments. There's a guitar case to one side, a knapsack nearby on a leather chair, and the singer himself sitting sideways in front of the lighted vanity - his trademark curls falling in front of his face. It's a stripped environment, a fitting one given that later in the evening Ferreira will hit the stage with just a guitar and a soundboard and take the crowd on a full spectrum journey of love, heartbreak, and everything in between. But right now, he's smiling, seemingly in his element: in a back room, in a big city, while on the road.
"I love touring. I love going to different countries, meeting different people. It's such an inspiration for me," the artist tells PS.
As a completely independent artist, Ferreira understands that he's incredibly fortunate to be able to live off his music. But that often comes with long stretches far away from home, so it's good that he loves to tour. This current tour has seen him on the go since last year. He's performed all over Spain and has upcoming stops in Mexico. His two-night stint in New York caps the US section that had him in Miami and Puerto Rico. However, having recently become a father, Ferreira admits that he doesn't have much time to hang out in these places like he once did.
"I want to be with my daughter. I feel like this is a very important time in her life, her first year . . . the responsibility I have as a father is much greater than that of my artistic life," he says.
This is especially true since, in his artistic life, Ferreira is pretty well-established. Having made waves since 2010 with a singer-songwriter style that incorporates a healthy dose of experimentation and genre-bending, he knows who he is as an artist. And his fans do too.
Later on in the night, the crowd will swell in unison, singing along with the crooner in such a natural way that it seems rehearsed. That's the kind of musician Ferreira is known for. It's music that can make the room small. He's cracking jokes one minute and, the next, singing with such vulnerability that it's hard not to be moved.
Yet, at home, he is still adjusting to his role as a father.
"Everything is new. Every stage of the process brings a new challenge. Every stage is a learning process and there's no manual, no university to tell you these things. You learn on the fly," Ferreira muses.
One such challenge? Finding the time to write and work on his upcoming album while being a full-time dad.
"Before, I could - and I hate this word but - I could procrastinate a little. Now I can't," he says. "If I have one hour to work, I can't waste time. So now my creative process is much more efficient."
He now views composing, like going to the gym. To get it done he needs a little bit of consistency, dedicating a few hours out of the day to play, write, and practice before he can put pen to paper and come up with a song.
But that doesn't mean that making music has become just another exercise for the veteran artist. Talking about his upcoming project, "Versiones Para El Tiempo Y La Distancia Vol. 2," Ferreira shares that he wants to continue to refine the sound he's been crafting over the last decade while also experimenting further with blending elements of rock, bachata, and other genres into a unique experience. We can expect more of this from his upcoming album.
"In a similar way to how fatherhood is a process of change, I think my career and my discography can also be seen in that light. I like to have a little doubt, to not know what I'm going to do," he says."I've also realized that my fans don't come with that prejudice of, 'Oh, he's a singer-songwriter, everything is going to sound the same.' The people who come to see me know that I'm not committed to any one genre. The common denominator is my voice. My lyrics."
Ferreira possesses an uncanny ability to peer into the connections we all share and transpose them into poetry. In "Me La Saludan" he uses sarcasm to express the weight of wounds that have yet to heal. On his new track, "De Verdad" he pleads for love in all its complexity. Love "as a decision," the artist muses.
The official version of the song is a jazzy, upbeat fusion. But on stage, in Joe's Pub's small theater, Ferreira turns it into a touching, acoustic ode to the long run - a relationship measured not in days or months, but in the moments that make up a life together. Even if you've listened to his music for years, hearing him perform live is an experience. His voice takes on a quality that doesn't translate through speakers, it's more vulnerable, more dimensional, and able to not only touch but bring the audience closer.
It's this ability to tap into emotion, to expose life's raw nerves with tenderness, while at the same time cracking jokes on stage, that has led to Ferreira's enduring success and relevance, even as the industry experiences an indie boom. Silvana Estrada, DaniA(c)l, Me EstA!s Matando, Guitarricadelafuente - these are today's Latin music indie darlings. Ferreira has worked with many of them. The members of DaniA(c)l, Me EstA!s Matando were a part of his band at one point. But when asked about his role or standing in the current scene, Ferreira, despite his legacy and achievements, maintains his humility.
"I've never thought of it in terms of a role . . . for me [Latin music] is like a chain and I think that I'm just another link in that chain," he says."I think it's so cool that this music can connect with not just first-gen Latinos, but second and third-gen as well, Latinos that don't even speak Spanish, people that don't even speak Spanish. For me, it's a pleasure to be a part of that, like a little grain of sand."
It gives Ferreira joy seeing his friends and the artists that have come after him find so much success. But he is also wary of the direction of the industry as a whole with everything moving towards songs created in minutes to achieve virality rather than expression.
That's not to say that he's anti-electronic. Ferreira has often added electronic elements to his music and is a fan of experimentally-minded artists like James Blake and Bjork. He's more concerned about the use of things like autotune and AI as a shortcut to artistry rather than as a means to enhance it.
"When everything starts to sound the same, when the beats are all the same, with the same musical structure, with the same effects, and the same melody, I feel like that's when the machine wins," he says.
But until then, he has faith in the process of making "imperfect art" and has some sage advice for those looking to make it in music in the current climate.
"Everyone always wants more than they have. Don't fall into that dynamic. Make music because it's your passion, because you love it, [and] because you can't live without it. Because, as a business model, there are better ones out there," Ferreira says with a wink and a smile.
Read on to find out about Ferreira's morning ritual, who his favorite artist of the moment is, and his secret to finding peace.
PS: What is your morning ritual?
Ferreira: Coffee and music. If I don't have my coffee I'll have a stroke.
PS: If you had to choose just one place to spend the rest of your days, where would it be?
Ferreira: Madrid
PS: Who is your favorite artist at the moment?
Ferreira: Adrianne Lenker.
PS: You have a song called "Sonrisa Valiente." Who in your life would you say has the most valiant smile?
Ferreira: My daughter.
PS: What's your method for finding peace?
Ferreira: Music. Singing it, playing it, listening to it, whatever it happens to be, is therapeutic for me.
PS: The best part of being a father?
Ferreira: Connecting with my inner child again. Tapping into that childishness that we lose in life.
The first song Shakira released that was directly related to the breakup was 2022's "Te Felicito" with Puerto Rican Latin trap artist Rauw Alejandro. The song not only marked Shakira's comeback, it was also the first in a string of singles that would display her healing journey to the world and eventually become part of her latest highly anticipated album, "Las Mujeres Ya no Lloran," which was released on March 22.
Following "Te Felicito," a sarcastic song about congratulating her ex for finding new love, Shakira released a hit song with Ozuna titled "MonotonAa." But it was Shakira's famous diss track that redirected her career. The track "Shakira: Bzrp Music Sessions, Vol. 53," a collaboration with Argentine producer Bizarrap, resonated so much with fans that it racked up more than 63 million YouTube views in 24 hours, becoming the most-watched Latin debut song in YouTube history. The song also skyrocketed to Spotify's Top 50 Global chart, breaking the record of the most-streamed track in a single day in Spotify history, and eventually it landed Shakira the Latin Grammy for song of the year.
And it's the song that ultimately set the theme for her first album in seven years. "Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran" is literally a line taken from "Shakira: Bzrp Music Sessions, Vol. 53," only in the track she completes the thought by singing "Las mujeres ya no lloran, las mujeres facturan," which translates to "Women don't cry anymore, they cash in."
Every song Shakira released in 2022 and 2023 played a different role in the Colombiana's healing and rebuilding process. "TQG," a track in collaboration with Karol G that also appeared in her 2023 album "MaA+-ana SerA Bonito," is a song about being too good for a man who hurt her - referring to PiquA" and Karol G's ex Anuel AA. "Copa VacAa" is a pop-reggaetA3n song she did in collaboration with Colombian singer Manuel Turizo about not receiving enough love and affection from a partner, while "El Jefe" is a norteA+-o Mexican song with Fuerza Regida about taking control of your destiny, something fans have witnessed the artist do since publicly announcing her split. "Altima" is a moving track that Shakira told the New York Times is the last song she will release about her ex PiquA".
"In the journey of picking up the pieces after a very public breakup, Shakira is showing us that although dreams don't always turn out to be what we envisioned them to be, she is not shying away from her scars," says Nicolas Barili, an award-winning journalist and creator/host of Paramount+'s Latin music docuseries "De La Calle." "By controlling her own narrative, Shakira is empowering listeners to be inspired by her bold transformation, while proving to our community and the world that vulnerability is the greatest strength."
What makes this album such a masterpiece isn't just the journey we see Shakira take in healing her heartache, but how it invites hope and new beginnings. Tracks like "Cohete" with Rauw Alejandro and "PunterAa" with Cardi B acknowledge the allure of experiencing a new love - even though Shakira has shared she can't imagine herself falling in love again.
Then there's "AcrA3stico," a beautiful piano-led ballad that emphasizes Shakira's role as a mother and includes her two sons, Milan and Sasha. This one stood out most to Barili.
"Having been raised by a single mom myself, the love letter between her and her sons speaks to those of us that are what's left over after parents break up, reminding us that some bonds will never be broken," Barili says. "Shakira has provided a cathartic release for not only herself but for anyone that has ever gone through break ups, all while proving that she is still the queen of Latin pop."
"La Mujeres Ya No Lloran" is Shakira's first album in seven years since releasing her 2017 album "El Dorado." If this album did anything, it proved that the greatest and most impactful art is often created from pain and heartache - hence Shakira's diamond tears displayed in the cover art.
"It's the same reason why an artist's debut album is often their best work, because struggle often elicits masterpieces," says JesAos Trivino, a Latin pop culture expert and Tidal's senior content and music executive. "Similarly, whenever there are challenges in your life, you take it as an experience and learn from it. If you're a creative like Shakira, you dive into your work, and usually introspective, empowering music comes out. With 'Las Mujeres Ya No Lloran,' Shaki has done that."
That Shakira's extraordinary comeback album is filled with back-to-back hits and major collaborations with artists including Cardi B, Rauw Alejandro, Ozuna, and more also speaks to how relevant she's managed to remain despite how saturated the Latin music world has become. If anything, the breakup needed to happen to inspire her to use her pain, anger, and sadness to create her rawest and most vulnerable work. As she has said in numerous interviews, the experience allowed her to "transform pain into productivity."
"One of the superstars who started the late '90s, early 2000s Latin boom still has it and never lost it. Shakira, more than other Latin acts of that era, had to introduce herself and an entire country (Colombia) to the US and global market," Trivino says. "On this album, she's uplifting her fellow Colombianas (Karol G), co-signing the stars of today (Rauw Alejandro), as well as shining a light on other genres (Mexican music). I hope listeners don't waste their time in gossip but rather enjoy Shakira in all her greatness while she's on this planet."
Sometimes it takes our worlds falling apart to get us back in line with our passion and our purpose. One thing is for sure: our favorite loba is here to stay.
She grew up splitting her time between Los Angeles and Star Valley, WY, which created a stark contrast - but it was the country lifestyle, and specifically the music, that held her heart. Adell remembers falling in love with Keith Urban when he released "Somebody Like You." And every summer, when she and her mom would set out to drive back to LA from Star Valley, she'd sit in the back of the car and "just silently cry my eyes out as we'd start on this road trip back to California," she remembers.
These days, Adell is a rising country music star. And ever since BeyoncA(c) released "Texas Hold 'Em" and "16 Carriages" on Super Bowl Sunday and announced her forthcoming country album, the spotlight has been on Black women country artists like her. A lot of that attention has been positive; Adell and others say they're incredibly excited about what this will mean for the genre. But it's also been a bit contentious. After an Oklahoma radio station refused to play BeyoncA(c) because it "is a country music station," an online uproar convinced the station to reverse its decision - and ignited a larger conversation around inclusion within the genre.
On March 19, BeyoncA(c) announced "Act II: Cowboy Carter" will be released on March 29. In an Instagram post, she opened up about what it means to be a Black woman in country. "This album has been over five years in the making. It was born out of an experience that I had years ago where I did not feel welcomeda|and it was very clear that I wasn't. But, because of that experience, I did a deeper dive into the history of Country music and studied our rich musical archive. It feels good to see how music can unite so many people around the world, while also amplifying the voices of some of the people who have dedicated so much of their lives educating on our musical history," she wrote. "The criticisms I faced when I first entered this genre forced me to propel past the limitations that were put on me. act ii is a result of challenging myself, and taking my time to bend and blend genres together to create this body of work."
"Country music is how you feel, it's your story, it's part of you."
Indeed, for other Black women artists like Adell, pursuing country music often transcends the difficulty that might come with navigating their identity in a genre dominated by white men. As she puts it, "Country music is how you feel, it's your story, it's part of you."
The same was true for Tiera Kennedy when she started writing songs in high school. She was a big fan of Taylor Swift at the time, and she just fell into expressing herself through the genre. "I always say I don't feel like I found country music, I feel like country music found me," she tells POPSUGAR. "When I started making music, it just came out that way. I was writing what I was going through at the time, which was boy drama. And I fell in love with all things country music and just dove into it."
Moving to Nashville seven years ago was "a big deal" for Kennedy in terms of building up her career: "Everyone told me that if you want to be in country music, you have to be in Nashville." When she got there, she was surprised she was so welcomed by others in the industry, which doesn't necessarily happen for everyone, given how tight-knit the city can be. "I was super thankful and blessed to have met so many people early on who have opened doors for me without asking for anything in return," Kennedy says.
For Adell, too, moving to the "capital of country music" almost three years ago was huge in pushing her career forward. And an essential part of that has been finding a community of other Black women artists. "Oh, we have a group chat," she quips. "We're extremely supportive, and I think sometimes people are trying to pin us against each other or even pin us against BeyoncA(c), but you're not going to get that beef or that drama."
"Country is just as much a part of the fabric of Black culture as hip-hop is."
But while these artists have been able to foster a strong community within Nashville, it's no secret that country music has been facing a reckoning when it comes to racism and sexism. Chart-topping artists like Jason Aldean and Morgan Wallen have recently weaponized racism as a marketing tool, per NPR. In September, Maren Morris said she was distancing herself from the genre for some of these reasons. "After the Trump years, people's biases were on full display," she told the Los Angeles Times. "It just revealed who people really were and that they were proud to be misogynistic and racist and homophobic and transphobic."
But the reality is that Black artists have always been part of the foundation of country. As Prana Supreme Diggs - who performs with her mom, Tekitha, as O.N.E the Duo - says, "Black Americans, so much of our history is rooted in the South. Country is just as much a part of the fabric of Black culture as hip-hop is."
Diggs grew up in California watching her mother, a vocalist for Wu-Tang Clan, host jam sessions at her house. She's been wanting to perform professionally with her mom since she was a teenager, but it wasn't until the beginning of the pandemic that they really committed to their joint country project.
For Diggs, there's been nothing but excitement since BeyoncA(c)'s commercial came on during the Super Bowl. She immediately ran to her computer to listen to the songs. "And the second the instrumental came on for 'Texas Hold 'Em' came on, I was like, oh my god, it's happening," she says. "We are finally here."
Tekitha felt the same way. "In the Black and country community, we've really been needing a champion," she says. "We've been needing someone who can kind of blow the door open and to recognize our voice is important in this genre."
Adell says that given how iconic BeyoncA(c) is, the criticism she's received speaks volumes about how far country still has to go. "For her to have given so much of herself to the world and when she decides to have a little stylistic change to not just be supported - I don't understand it," she says. "I don't understand why people aren't just like, 'This is cool, BeyoncA(c)'s coming out with a country album!'"
Kennedy tries to focus on the positives of the industry (if she gets shut out of an opportunity, for example, she won't dwell, she'll just go after the next), but being a Black woman in America will always come with systemic challenges. "No, it hasn't always been easy," she says. "There are so many layers tacked onto that: being a new artist, being female, being Black in country music. But I think if I focused on how hard that is, I would fall out of love with country music."
That positive thinking has been paying off. After the Super Bowl, Kennedy released a cover of "Texas Hold 'Em," and it went viral. After she posted the video, new fans streamed into her DMs, telling her they didn't even know her type of country, which is infused with R&B, existed. It's something other Black women country stars are echoing: that the new focus on their contributions to the genre is a long time coming - and a huge opportunity.
"I'm super thankful that BeyoncA(c) is entering into this genre and bringing this whole audience with her," Kennedy says. "And hopefully that'll bring up some of the artists that have been in town a long time and grinding at it. I don't think there's anybody better than BeyoncA(c) to do it."
Where I'm From: Now and Gen features in-conversation pieces between generations - like a younger woman and her grandmother - discussing a topic like beauty rituals, finances, or marriage. We sat down with filmmaker Sean Wang and his grandmothers, Yi Yan Fuei and Chang Li Hua, the subjects of Wang's Oscar-nominated documentary short, "NCi Nai & WA i PA3." Read their heartwarming chat about friendship below.
In 2021, in the wake of increased anti-Asian violence and the ongoing pandemic, filmmaker Sean Wang moved back home to San Francisco. There, he started observing - then filming - NCi Nai and WA i PA3, his 94-year-old paternal grandmother and 83-year-old maternal grandmother, respectively, who happen to be inseparable friends and roommates. As he captured the mundane moments and joys of their daily lives, he created "NCi Nai & WA i PA3," an Oscar-nominated documentary short that recently landed on Disney+.
"As much as this movie is about my grandmothers and my relationship with them, it is about friendship, sisterhood, and the bonds that you maintain and water in old age."
The Taiwanese American director - whose debut feature film, "DA!di," recently premiered at the 2024 Sundance Film Festival - essentially filmed a series of home videos, which he turned into a beautiful 17-minute "personal love letter" to his grandmothers. "As much as this movie is about my grandmothers and my relationship with them, it is about friendship, sisterhood, and the bonds that you maintain and water in old age," he tells POPSUGAR. "I'm not 86, 96 years old. But I think [their friendship] is a good north star - hopefully, the friendships I have now that I feel are deeply special in my life, the ones that I know will last, that I hope could be NCi Nai and WA i PA3 in our old age, are still as silly and vibrant and fun."
Ahead of the 2024 Oscars, Wang and his grandmothers discuss their decades-long bond, the power of friendship, and the life lessons they've taught one another.
Chang Li Hua (WA i PA3): Us being able to spend our days together and live together is also a form of fate and good fortune. NCi Nai is older than me by 10 years, so I have always seen her like my own big sister. I am younger than her by 10 years, so anytime I am able to help her and take care of her, I will do my best to do so. We have almost all the same hobbies. Reading the newspaper, exercising in the backyard, going out for walks. Every day, we go to our orchard together to check and see which tree has grown fruits. Every day, we eat fruits together, and we take the peels of fruits and vegetables to the backyard and make fertilizer.
Yi Yan Fuei (NCi Nai): [WA i PA3 and I] have the same attitude. We both love friends, we love to exercise, and we love to read the news, so we are able to be together harmoniously, just like sisters. Sean knows too. He became close with us, and I cherish the time we spent together every day.
Sean Wang: They're my grandmothers. And as their sort of mischievous, young filmmaker grandson, I think our relationship is one of such joy, silliness, and this childlike, youthful energy. They mention it in the film that I bring it out of them, but they also bring it out of me. I think that results in some fun collaborations and these silly videos that we make. A lot of those were the seeds that became one half of "NCi Nai & WA i PA3." The silliness, the chaotic joy, I like to call it, that balances out of with the more poignant, deeply human grounded pains of their lives.
Sean Wang: I think I knew all the broad strokes of their lives, but getting to really talk to them about their childhoods and their lives before they were my grandmothers was really enlightening. But cutting to present day - and maybe I always knew this - I learned just how much of these creative spirits they are.
So much of this film was just a way to give them a platform that I think nobody had ever really considered them for. They dance, play, and allow their silliness to take center stage. And now that they're going to the Oscars and being enveloped in this world that is full of spectacle and fancy dresses, they're really loving it and getting to express a muscle that they so clearly have, that no one has ever allowed them to flex.
Yi Yan Fuei (NCi Nai): Sean was very approachable with us old people. He didn't treat us as old people at all. He joked with us every day. He didn't even act like we were dozens of years older than him. We were very happy having fun together.
Chang Li Hua (WA i PA3): I found that Sean was very talented - he has a great vision. Also, he was very patient with us when we were filming the movie. He would teach us how to pose. He's a kid who loves to teach his friends. He's able to hang out with old people, children, or friends of the same age. He's a young man with a lively personality, but also works very hard.
"The days we spend feeling joy and the days we spend feeling pain are the same days spent, so I'm going to choose joy."
Sean Wang: There's a line in the movie that NCi Nai says that has really stuck with me. She says, "The days we spend feeling joy and the days we spend feeling pain are the same days spent, so I'm going to choose joy." I think that very simple decision is a powerful one: choosing joy. Especially for someone like her who's in the twilight years of her life, knowing that her days are more limited than mine. In our dumpster fire of a world at times, allowing yourself to choose joy and celebrate the people around you is a worthy decision.
Yi Yan Fuei (NCi Nai): This young kid can get along so well with others. He doesn't treat us like old people; he still shouts like us young people in front of us every day. When he's here, we have a very happy life. We should be like him, whether he's young or old. He is our friend.
Chang Li Hua (WA i PA3): He helped us learn we're not useless when we are old. We can still be useful people when we are old. We can still dance, make movies, and be actors. Old people should not underestimate themselves. The elderly are also capable of doing so many things.
This interview has been translated, edited, and condensed for clarity.
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