Flores, Juan - From Bomba To Hip-Hop (CUP, 2000)

From Bomba to Hip-Hop
Popular Cultures, Everyday Lives

Robin D. G. Kelley and Janice Radway, Editors
Popular Cultures, Everyday Lives
Robin D. G. Kelley and Janice Radway, Editors
Interzones: Black/White Sex Districts in Chicago and New York in

the Early Twentieth Century
kevin j. mumford
City Reading: Written Words and Public Spaces in Antebellum

New York
david m. henkin
Selling Suffrage: Consumer Culture and Votes for Women

margaret finnegan
Ladies of Labor, Girls of Adventure: Working Women, Popular

Culture, and Labor Politics at the Turn of the Century
nan enstad
Telling Bodies, Performing Birth: Everyday Narratives of Childbirth

della pollock

Puerto Rican Culture and Latino Identity
Juan Flores
Columbia University Press

new york
Columbia University Press
Publishers Since 1893
New York Chichester, West Sussex
Copyright © 2000 Columbia University Press
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Flores, Juan.
From bomba to hip-hop : Puerto Rican culture and Latino identity / Juan Flores.
p. cm.
Includes index.
ISBN 0–231–11076-6 (cloth : alk. paper) — ISBN 0–231–11077–4 (paper : alk. paper)
1. Puerto Ricans—United States—Social life and customs. 2. Puerto Ricans—United
States—Ethnic identity. 3. Arts, Puerto Rican—United States. 4. Popular culture—United
States. 5. United States—Social life and customs—1971– I. Title.
E184.P85 F58 2000

305.868'7295073—dc21 99–049285
Casebound editions of Columbia University Press books are

printed on permanent and durable acid-free paper.
Printed in the United States of America
c 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
p 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Some of the material in this book is reprinted by permission

of holders of copyright and publication rights. See page 253
for acknowledgments.

Contents
Prelude
1
Introduction
7
1. “pueblo pueblo”
Popular Culture in Time
17
2. The Lite Colonial

Diversions of Puerto Rican Discourse
31
3. Broken English Memories

Languages in the Trans-Colony
49
4. “Salvación Casita”
Space, Performance, and Community
63
5. “Cha-Cha with a Backbeat”

Songs and Stories of Latin Boogaloo
79
6. Puerto Rocks
Rap, Roots, and Amnesia
115
7. Pan-Latino/Trans-Latino
Puerto Ricans in the “New Nueva York”
141
8. Life Off the Hyphen

Latino Literature and Nuyorican Traditions
167
9. The Latino Imaginary

Meanings of Community and Identity
191
10. Latino Studies

New Contexts, New Concepts
205
Postscript
“None of the Above”
221
Notes 229
Selected Bibliography 249
Acknowledgments and Permissions 253
Index 255

The concept of popularity itself is

not particularly popular.
—Bertolt Brecht

Prelude
The excitement level was high, and the young people—mostly Puerto Ri-
cans, Dominicans, and other Latinos—kept filing into the large student
lounge at Hunter College wondering what would really be happening. The
word hip-hop must surely have caught their attention (for the event itself
was titled “From Bomba to Hip-Hop”), though the main draw was proba-
bly Latin Empire, the best-known rap group. It was late November 1994,
just a few nights after the historic “Muévete” conference at Columbia Uni-
versity, where thousands of Puerto Rican and Latino youth had gathered to
talk about a range of social issues and to take up, through discussion and
performance, the complex question of their own cultural identity.
So the spirit was in the air, the time was visibly ripe for talking, negoti-
ating, affirming, questioning—who are we? where do we come from? who
do we relate to? how do we relate to each other, and to “others”? Questions
that stir young people’s hearts and minds every day, on topics that trouble,
confuse, agitate, but that matter, and that one way or the other strongly
move Latino youth in these changing times—that was the agenda. Tonight
these items would be on the table, for open debate, and everyone was en-
couraged to speak out.
Hip-hop, OK—but bomba? What’s that? Reference to the folkloric an-
cestor of Puerto Rican popular dance and music probably escaped most of
the youthful audience, as did the descriptive subheading of the event: “A
Celebration of the Continuity of Puerto Rican Culture.” They came to hear
some Spanglish rap and be with their cultural peers, to talk about what was
on their minds as Latino teenagers trying to make sense out of life in the
“Big Manzana” of the gruesome 1990s. Their idea of culture and identity
1
2 Prelude: From Bomba to Hip-Hop
was for the most part practical and spontaneous, based on the blows of
racism, elitism, sexism, cultural chauvinism, and all the other forms of
prejudice and exclusion they encounter in daily life, and the wellspring of
pride and defiant affirmation with which they commonly respond. What
historical dimension there was to this process of identification came, cer-
tainly not from the public schools, which tend to distort all things Puerto
Rican, Dominican, or Mexican, when they even mention them, but in live-
ly, real, but anecdotal form from their parents, aunts and uncles, cousins,
and—the lucky ones at least—from their dear grandmothers, sus abuelitas.
What an eye-opener it was for many of them, then, to find out about la
bomba and la plena, and to learn that these expressive cultural practices
from their own backgrounds as Puerto Ricans weren’t so different after all,
in their day, from the latest hip-hop styles many in the crowd considered
uniquely their own. It was José Rivera, the panderetero and vocalist-com-
poser for Los Pleneros de la 21, the foremost bomba y plena group in New
York City, who brought this message home most dramatically. Here was a
New York Puerto Rican not much older than they (José’s around forty) who
was raised on bomba and plena music—his father was the legendary
Ramón “Chín” Rivera—and who could illustrate the musical kinship be-
tween bomba and rap by marking beats on the tabletop. Talking about the
casita “Rincón Criollo” in the South Bronx which he himself had helped
build and where he hangs out, José brought the social setting of bomba and
of plena to life for the young Latino audience, and showed that the func-
tion of those performative experiences and the sector of the population to
partake of them corresponded in many ways with the origins and origina-
tors of hip-hop in the South Bronx and Harlem some fifteen years before.
These historical links and continuities were made even stronger by an-
other presenter, Charlie Chase, a well-spoken Nuyorican of about thirty,
who had been the deejay for the Cold Crush Brothers, one of the most pop-
ular rap groups in the early days, the late seventies, before hip-hop music
had been recorded or gained any commercial success. Charlie (whose real
name is Carlos Mandes) began as a bass player in Latin bands, playing the
salsa and merengue circuit with musicians older than himself. But then
one day, attentive to the musical preferences of so many of his teenage
Puerto Rican peers, he decided to break into rap as a deejay, scratching,
mixing, sampling, and in general providing the rhythmic ground for the
hugely popular, all African American group, Cold Crush. He told of the
suspicions he sometimes evoked “because he wasn’t Black” and of his de-
Prelude: From Bomba to Hip-Hop 3
termined rivalry with the greatest deejay of those years, Grandmaster

Flash; as he explained, his street and stage name indicated, at least to him-
self, that he was “chasin’ the Flash.” But he also made clear something that
the commercial media and dominant story of hip-hop tend to leave out:
that Puerto Ricans were involved in this contemporary youth style from the
beginning, and that Puerto Rican and other Caribbean practices and tradi-
tions are woven into the very fabric of this supposedly “American” or strict-
ly “African American” genre in all its subsequent manifestations.
Another speaker, Raquel Rivera, added a further link to the chain of as-
sociations by explaining to the New York audience that rap had arrived in
Puerto Rico and was already the most widespread form of cultural identi-
fication among young people on the Island, especially the poor urban
youth. Raquel, now a doctoral student in sociology and cultural studies at
the CUNY Graduate School, had recently moved from Puerto Rico, where
she completed her master’s degree at the Centro de Estudios Avanzados
del Caribe with a thesis on rap in Puerto Rico. She described her struggle
to establish rap as an integral part of contemporary Puerto Rican culture,
and not as just another example of imposed and imported fads from the
States (“de allá,” as the saying goes). She spoke of several articles on this
theme which she had published in newspapers on the Island, and how
strongly some of the conservative cultural elite (of all political stripes) had
objected to her efforts to open up the cultural debate and break it away
from the kind of static, monolithic categories that tend to keep it removed
from the everyday experiences and tastes of the majority of the popula-
tion. Referring to Vico C, Rubén DJ, Lisa M, and many of the lesser-
known rappers of the day, she demonstrated how, rather than just a slav-
ish import or imitation of North American expressive modes, rap on the
Island had taken on a life of its own, adopting as themes—in Spanish—
the realities of everyday life in Puerto Rican society, and influenced musi-
cally more by Caribbean styles like merengue and reggae than by any re-
cent innovations in the United States.
The presentations were inspiring, and the discussion provoked by each
of them was lively, dynamic, and straight from the heart. The audience
spoke out energetically, asking José if he had done any “bomba-raps,”
Charlie Chase if the Cold Crush Brothers had also referred to women as
“bitches and ’hos,” and Raquel if she saw any parallels between so-called
“gangsta rap” and “underground” on the Island. Several slightly older
members of the audience, maybe pushing fifty, raised the issue of salsa,
4 Prelude: From Bomba to Hip-Hop
which most people identify as “our music” much more than rap, or even
the “old-fashioned” folksy styles of the trios, “la música jíbara,” or bomba
and plena. One person even mentioned loving boogaloo music in the six-
ties and suggested that, with its bold connection between Puerto Rican and
Black American styles, it seemed like an important link in the bomba–hip-
hop chain.
But the highlight of the event was clearly Latin Empire. These two
cousins from the South Bronx, Rick Rodríguez (“Puerto Rock”) and An-
thony Boston (aka MC KT—“Krazy Taino”), were familiar to most of those
present, even though they were still then, more than ten years after they
had started performing, awaiting their first major recording. Free of all
pomp and circumstance, Latin Empire captivated the already spirited gath-
ering, mixing their well-known standards like “Puerto Rican and Proud,
Boy-ee,” “En mi viejo South Bronx,” and “Así es la cosa” with new rhymes
touching on the street themes of our own days. They also blended per-
formance with conversation, fielding questions and challenges from many
sides, relating instructive anecdotes, and venturing bold philosophical re-
flections. The atmosphere during the most heated exchanges was simply
electric, charged with what seemed a collective need to address issues like
sex, violence, drugs, school, the commercialization of rap, and, of course,
the “continuity of Puerto Rican culture.”
This memorable youth gathering was billed a tertulia, the traditional
Spanish word for an open, free-wheeling forum, a kind of modest, topical
town hall meeting. Whatever the theme at hand, the aim is an open, stim-
ulating, and free environment where all in attendance can feel comfortable
setting out their ideas and asking questions. As people lingered talking and
gradually filing out of the lounge, we all had a sense that it is this kind of
environment where we can best talk about things like culture and identity.
When the subject is popular culture, and participation and performance
the vehicles of exchange, suddenly it seems possible to begin reconstruct-
ing Latino history and repair that “broken memory” so that it can serve as
an active force in the challenging social struggles ahead.

Introduction
As the populations of Latin American and Caribbean background in the

United States increase rapidly in size and diversity, it becomes all the more
important to understand the particular histories and cultures of each of the
nationalities and regional groups. For over a decade now, the categories
“Hispanic” and “Latino” have been taking hold in the public vocabulary,
with the obvious effect of blurring such distinctions and treating peoples
with roots in Mexico, Puerto Rico, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, El Sal-
vador, Colombia, and many other countries as though they were all of com-
mon stock and circumstance. Many people now considered “Latino” or
“Hispanic” find objection to this composite label, taking offense at the con-
fusion of their special personal and historical heritage with those of others.
Not that they have anything against any other group with whom they may
be equated, and in fact may often feel close bonds with other Latinos along
cultural and political lines. I once asked a class of mostly Dominican stu-
dents what had drawn them to a course on Puerto Rican history; several of
them answered that when they see the words “Puerto Rican” in the U.S.
setting, they figure it must pertain to them as well. But even in such cases
of cross-group identification, there always seems to be an important stake
in upholding the specifics of one’s own nationality, and a strong sense that
“if I’m Latino or Hispanic, then I am Dominican, or Puerto Rican, or Mex-
ican American first.”
In my writings I take the position that while there is a certain in-
evitability in the formation of pan-ethnic concepts like “Latino,” or “Asian
American,” and may well be some significant strategic advantages to their
deployment in political movements for change, their validity as sociologi-
7
8 Introduction
cal constructs depends overridingly on the attention paid to the specifics

of each of the constituent groups and their historical placement within
U.S. society. That is, there is “Latino” only from the point of view and as
lived by the Mexican, the Puerto Rican, the Cuban, and so forth; without
denying the congruencies and threads of interconnection among them
that the term implies, “Latino” or “Hispanic” only holds up when qualified
by the national-group angle or optic from which it is uttered: there is a
“Chicano/Latino” or “Cuban/Latino” perspective, but no meaningful one
that is simply “Latino.” For the generic, unqualified usage, aside from gen-
erating and perpetuating stereotypes of a derogatory or otherwise distort-
ing kind, also is employed to mislead the public into thinking that all
members and constituents of the composite are in basically the same po-
sition in the society and are all progressing toward acceptance and self-ad-
vancement from the same starting line, and at the same pace. Evading a
rigorously comparative structural analysis (i.e., how each group is posi-
tioned within the existing relations of power and privilege of U.S. society),
the public image typically gravitates toward the upper or most successful
examples of “Latino” life—what I call the highest common denominator—
with the suggestion that those who fail to match up to this pattern of ac-
commodation have primarily themselves to blame. Thus, what presents it-
self as a category of inclusion and compatibility functions as a tool of
exclusion and internal “othering.”
It is for this reason that in seeking to approach the thorny issue of Lati-
no identity I arrive there only by first elaborating some dimensions of the
national discourses and diasporic experiences of one of them; whatever in
my notion of “Latino” pertains to other or all of the groups included in the
term does so because of the complexity of the “Puerto Rican/Latino” iden-
tity formations which I present in the varied essays included in the pres-
ent collection. That the focus is on the Puerto Rican is of central impor-
tance, for of all the groups it is the one most characteristically cast as the
bottom rung, the “exception” to the Hispanic rule. For though they have
long been the second largest of the groups, enjoy a history here second in
duration only to the Mexicans, and are as fully part of the American cul-
tural landscape as any, it is the Puerto Rican population that is most com-
monly pointed to as the most nagging “problem” presented by the need for
a cultural fit between the Anglo-American north and the Hispanic south
of the hemisphere. Since at least the 1950s, the “Hispanic” conundrum
has been epitomized by the racialized, stigmatized, inner-city Puerto
Introduction 9
Rican, the “spic,” whose only cultural cousin has been the similarly placed
“pachuco” and “greaser” from the cities of the Southwest. In our times,
with the many middle-class Cuban Americans and South American exiles
to serve as foils, the relegation of the Puerto Rican has taken an even more
virulent form than ever, with age-old social pathologies and theories of cul-
tural deficiency now buttressed by the loudly touted success stories of so
many of their presumed “Hispanic” cohorts.
I attribute this special, and especially unfavorable, position and repre-
sentation of Puerto Ricans to the colonial relation between the United
States and their country of origin. Unlike the other Latino groups, the
Puerto Rican diaspora hails from a nation that has languished in a de-
pendent and tightly controlled political status for its entire history, a con-
dition that has persisted throughout the twentieth century. To this day,
more than one hundred years since U.S. troops landed on the Island in
1898 and the growing world power set up a government of military occu-
pation, Puerto Rico remains strapped with an unresolved and vigilantly
manipulated place in the world of modern nations. Thus, long after the
wave of decolonization swept the so-called Third World in the post–World
War II period, and at a time when the most fashionable theory of diplo-
matic affairs goes under the name of the “postcolonial,” this island nation
is still a colony by all indicators of international relations, its economic and
political life fully orchestrated by its mighty neighbor to the north, the pu-
tative leader of world democracy and sovereignty. Of course the eu-
phemisms abound, such as “commonwealth” status or “free associated
statehood,” as do the denials and convoluted circumlocutions, but the re-
ality—and supposed anomaly—of direct bondage and lack of national au-
tonomy stares the world in the face, and goes to condition every aspect of
Puerto Rican life, including the migration process itself as well as the so-
cial experience of the emigrant community.
Latino immigration, in general, has transpired under the sway of U.S.
power. Directly or indirectly, for positive or negative reasons, this inequality
and dependency have catalyzed the immense gravitational pull across the
hemispheric divide which has been swelling exponentially over the past half
century. In this sense, the Puerto Rican experience has been paradigmatic
rather than exceptional of the general Latino process of propelled movement
and the challenge of resettlement. But for reasons of historical reconfigura-
tion and new forms of ideological suasion, the lever of colonialism and in-
ternational domination has all but vanished from social analytical parlance,
10 Introduction
its place taken by the sundry guises of globalism, transnational movements

and networks and, at a domestic level, multiculturalism and identity poli-
tics. As a result, the worldwide experience of diasporic displacement and re-
alignment often appears dislodged from any causal connection to relations
of disproportionate political and economic power among nations, as have
the redefined cultural “differences” among the newly interacting popula-
tions. Such differences, as for example those between “Latinos” and “Amer-
icans,” or among the varied Latino groups, are typically relativized, and re-
duced largely to their symbolic dimensions, with histories and structures of
power thereby losing in analytical relevance.
With the nagging “unfinished business” of Puerto Rico, the concept and
pertinence of colonialism cannot be extricated from the new cultural poli-
tics of difference, nor from the meaning and range of “Latino” culture and
identities. The direct colonial tie as in the case of Puerto Rico is the excep-
tion, of course, the extreme limit in the range of “postcolonial,” and “Lati-
no,” grid lines. But the idea of the “colonial” becomes more widely appli-
cable if not paradigmatic for most Latinos when it is taken more generally
to refer to structures of inequality and domination, and histories of con-
quest and enslavement. In such terms, the seeming anomaly of the “post-
colonial colony” of Puerto Rico and its unassimilable diaspora takes its
place alongside its closest historical kins on the American ethnic land-
scape: the Mexican Americans, the American Indians, and the African
Americans. Variously referred to as “colonial minorities,” “conquered peo-
ples,” or “racialized subjects,” these structured forms of affiliation belie
any too facile and culturally determined version of “Latino difference.”
This common “internally colonial” condition serves to weave the “Latino”
discourse into the fabric of U.S. cultural and racial politics, thus defying
any overly “Latin Americanized” sense of the pan-national mix. Puerto Ri-
cans in the United States indeed belong among other Latinos, because of
obvious cultural affinities starting with language background and impor-
tant historical parallels; but in other ways, perhaps including their colonial
situation, they also belong among other groups. In terms of long-standing
association of a social and cultural nature, as well as common socioeco-
nomic indicators, they have shared as much with African Americans as
with any Latino counterpart.
But in addition to this “internal” pressure, the salience of the colonial
status issue in the Puerto Rican case also drives home the need for an ac-
tive transnational and political frame of reference in understanding “Lati-
Introduction 11
no matters” in an integral way. More graphically perhaps than in other in-

stances but in no way unique, for Puerto Ricans what happens “over there,”
what happens in and to the homeland or the diaspora, conditions what
happens “here.” The entire process of migration and resettlement, span-
ning a full century, has been forged and shaped by that relationship, in-
cluding its sheer demographic magnitude, which for several decades has
been hovering, astoundingly, at around half of the total Puerto Rican pop-
ulation. With increasing intensity over the decades, there has been an in-
terpenetration of life and culture of the two “sides” of Puerto Rican social
experience, its quality always defined and orchestrated as a result of politi-
cal and economic decision-making at a transnational level. The fallacy of
conjuring the Latino “difference” in the confines of domestic politics of
ethnicities surfaces most visibly in considering the situation of Puerto Ri-
cans, an ironic twist given that other Latin Americans and Caribbeans have
so often viewed them as the most Americanized and integrated into U.S.
affairs. But despite the huge gap between the public political life on the Is-
land and in U.S. communities, and the apparent indifference and wide-
spread cynicism in both directions, there is a structured codependency in
the Puerto Rican “trans-colony” that invalidates any hasty separation be-
tween the situation of “Latinos” on the domestic scene from the happen-
ings in and to their countries of origin.
From the perspective of “Puerto Rican/Latinos,” then, the category
“Latino” into which they are grouped in the 1990s has utility only if it can
account for the colonial dimension of “difference” in the U.S. setting and
as an international background. Because of their shared coloniality with
other, “non-Latino” groups, the “Latino” concept needs to be seen as con-
joined and partially overlapping with, rather than categorically distinct
from, that of other “different” groups, such as African Americans, Asian
Americans, non-Hispanic Caribbeans, or American Indians. As is indicat-
ed by the general Puerto Rican refusal of the hyphen, however, this im-
mersion in U.S. culture and politics is not to be confused with “assimila-
tion in American life” in the sense of incorporation, and of feeling
definitively, and comfortably, at home. On the contrary, this positioning
and self-positioning inside points outward, toward the continued bearing
of “foreign” policy questions and “national cultures,” however remote they
are made to seem, on their everyday life in the diaspora. The Puerto Rican
optic thus tugs the purportedly expansive “Latino” category in both direc-
tions—inward into the “entrails” of the “non-Latino” North American cul-
12 Introduction
ture, and outward toward national and regional histories of Latin America
and the Caribbean.
The essays that make up From Bomba to Hip-Hop were assembled with
these perspectives in mind. After an opening reflection on the contempo-
rary meanings of “popular culture,” the term and social practice which are
of central interest throughout (and to which I will return for further com-
ments), the subsequent two chapters take up aspects of the recent cultur-
al discourse on the Island, on the eve of the centenary of U.S. presence in
1998. In “The Lite Colonial” and “Broken English Memories,” attention
goes to the radical challenges to traditional concepts of nation and nation-
alism which have gained currency among theorists and in public opinion
in Puerto Rico, and the attempts to redefine the colonial relation in the
light of the social and intellectual changes of our times. In each case the
diasporic experience is drawn into the analytical equation, as its virtual
omission from even the most innovative revisions of the national history
signals an unwitting continuity with the very inadequacies which they aim
to address. An underestimation of the importance of the diasporic break,
or misunderstanding of the dynamic relation between diaspora and “na-
tional” life, make an integral, translocal mode of analysis elusive at best.
By introducing the epithet “lite” into the contemporary discussion of colo-
nialism, I do not mean to blunt the edge, or “heavy,” contestatory nature
of colonial contradictions in the Puerto Rican or any other case. As a play-
ful alternative to more familiar, yet evidently unsatisfactory, prefixes like
“post-,” “late,” or “neo-,” the idea is that colonialism has been taking on a
new face as its economic and political legitimations become so thorough-
ly veiled by cultural and commercial ones, and the colonial subject is most-
ly visibly so as a consumer. As it imposed modernity on the colony, so colo-
nialism is imposing postmodernity as well, and even, perhaps, some of the
aura of the “postcolonial.”
The remainder of the book, from chapter 4 on, has to do specifically
with the diaspora, with the varied and changing experiences and expres-
sions of “Nuyorican” life. Architecture and urban space, musical styles and
cultural movements, and literary traditions provide some of the sites and
moments of a cultural world defined by the interplay of continuity and
transformation, heritage and innovation, roots and fusions. The creative
reinvention of national traditions exemplified by casita and plena culture
contrasts with the bold adoption and reworking of African American and
Introduction 13
other U.S. expressive currents in Latin boogaloo, a striking 1960s forebear

to the role of Puerto Ricans in hip-hop in more recent generations. The
common thread running through all of them, as well as the story of “Nuy-
orican” literature in its present-day status, is the phenomenon of oblivion
and exclusion they face in prevailing cultural discourses, both in the U.S.
and in Latin America. Not only the past but the present of Puerto Rican cul-
tural practices encounters a kind of social amnesia by which they are
buried or subsumed under more prominent, or more familiar, or more ac-
commodating, rubrics of group identification. Once again, I would attrib-
ute these processes of exclusion and invisibility to the mechanisms of colo-
nial control.
Which brings us back, after these powerful instances of cultural particu-
larity, to the pan-ethnic “Latino” label and the uneasy Puerto Rican fit with-
in it. Beginning with chapter 7, “Pan-Latino/Trans-Latino,” the problemat-
ic of the particular and the general is subject to close scrutiny, first at a
demographic and discursive level, then as exemplified in the contrast be-
tween the emergent concept of “Latino literature” and the historical con-
tours of “Nuyorican” writing through the decades. The “life off the hyphen”
of Puerto Ricans in a “Latinized” New York, the literary expression and cir-
cumstances of the “lowercase people,” point up the exclusions and hierar-
chies of privilege at work in the public use and conceptualization of “Latin-
ismo” in current parlance. Finally, in “The Latino Imaginary” and “Latino
Studies,” I suggest ways of taking account of such exclusions and divisions
while also seeking to probe beyond them for strategies of cultural and edu-
cational change. The closing call for a “new kind of university” which would
include Latino Studies in critical and inclusive terms also serves as a return
to the spirit of the youth tertulia evoked in the prelude, where a free and po-
litically savvy exchange over the pressing issues of community and identity
is possible—that is, where cultural history is, at it should be, a matter of
survival. (I have added a “postcript” datelined 1998 so as to bring the dis-
cussions contained in the book current with the situation in that symboli-
cally important year in Puerto Rican, and Latino, history.)
As mentioned, the conceptual concern that here crosscuts the discus-
sion of national and ethnic identity has to do with another beleaguered and
polemical term, popular culture. I foreground its importance not only be-
cause of my own personal tastes and predilections, but because it retains
the dimensions of class and cultural capital which are so easily lost sight of
in considerations of group identities and interactions along ethnic cultural
14 Introduction
lines. The socioeconomic and power-defined tension implicit in the idea of

the popular, even when limited to the differential decoding of mediated
commercial culture, helps to ground the discourse of Puerto Rican or “Lati-
no” culture, or the relation between them, in the impinging realities of so-
cial position. The argument advanced here, though, is that this limitation
in the conceptual reference of popular culture is especially untenable in the
case of the cultural practices of colonial and diasporic peoples, where the
“old” and supposedly outmoded forms of vernacular, community, and
“folk” culture—the earlier denotation of popular culture—are still very
much alive. Needless to say, much of my analysis and speculation about
Puerto Rican and “Latino” popular culture should rightfully be comple-
mented by a deeper account of issues of the culture industries and of
media and other public representations of and by Latinos. But economic
and political disenfranchisement also involves a relatively greater remove
from all available means of cultural reproduction, such that any sense of
cultural agency on the part of Puerto Rican/Latinos tends to be more vis-
ibly located in the field of direct, community-based expressive practices
usually dismissed as residual enclaves or subcultures of anachronistic
“folklore.” For as one contemporary theorist of popular culture reminds us,
“Keeping up with the rate of change in our discipline can lead us to ignore
the way that a rhetoric or a problematic deemed ‘dead’ or ‘dated’ in one
context can be alive and kicking in another.”1
Finally, giving full play to the role of popular cultural practices poses the
underlying question of contemporaneity, and thus of history. All of the es-
says included here are from the 1990s, and with the exception of the study
of the boogaloo era, all are about cultural and intellectual phenomena of the
last decade of the twentieth century. They are also delimited geographical-
ly, for the most part set in and drawing their ethnographic and textual evi-
dence from New York City. Here again, there is a deliberate methodological
stress on the local and the particular as a means of approaching the global
and the general. But as Johannes Fabian maintains, creative and critical at-
tention to the popular also shows that the focus on contemporary, and of
course temporary, manifestations of cultural expression and discourse may
reinforce rather than diminish our historical sense, as it also, more obvi-
ously, may serve to counteract dangers of a historicist and positivist kind.
By privileging temporality and movement and establishing what I term
“popular culture in time,” it is possible to bring into association telling cul-
tural “moments” which remain disconnected in official and “larger” histor-
Introduction 15
ical narratives. The “coexistence of tradition and modernity” that Fabian

identifies as the sine qua non for the recognition of popular culture “as con-
temporary practice,” involves the indissoluble, but nonlinear and non-
causal, relationship between past and present, memory and desire.2
It is in the practice of popular music and dance, that quintessential “art
of timing,” that this concept of historical and performative temporality is
of course most richly exemplified; an expressive practice constituted by the
interplay of tempos, cadences, rhythms, and syncopations bears an obvious
and special relationship to the social experience of time. Indeed, my usage
“in time” intends to resonate with the title of the book Del canto y el tiempo
by Cuban musicologist Argeliers León, and with its adaptation by the Puer-
to Rican cultural historian Angel G. Quintero Rivera in the opening chap-
ter, “Del canto, el baile . . . y el tiempo,” of his book ¡Salsa, sabor y control!:
Sociología de la música tropical.3
The title From Bomba to Hip-Hop is intended in this sense as incorpo-
rating the constituents of a genealogy of Puerto Rican popular culture, or
what Fabian in somewhat more fanciful terms refers to as “historiology” as
distinct from historiography in any accepted understanding of that intel-
lectual endeavor. The path from some primordial Puerto Rican cultural
practice (bomba) to an advertently parallel one in the here and now (hip-
hop) is anything but direct and unidirectional, much less is it causal in the
sense of an influence or continuity of influences, whether conscious or as
mediated through intervening styles, movements, or periods. Though
“temporal” calls attention to “moments,” conjunctures, and contexts, the
nexus between “from” and “to” actually marks off historically associated
“spaces” of cultural practice—performative locations from which Puerto
Ricans, notably poor and black Puerto Ricans and Latinos, find it possible
to exercise the “freedom” of cultural expression and identification. The
youth gathering whose title, “From Bomba to Hip-Hop,” was adopted for
the present collection, was just such an instance of popular culture ge-
nealogy, an energetic placing “in time” of their own complex social and cul-
tural presence.
1

“pueblo pueblo”
Popular Culture in Time
1
Popular culture is energized in “moments of freedom,” specific, local plays
of power and flashes of collective imagination. It is “popular” because it is
the culture of “the people,” the common folk, the poor and the powerless
who make up the majority of society. The creative subject of popular cul-
ture is the “popular classes,” and its content the traditions and everyday life
of communities and their resistance to social domination. It is typically re-
ferred to as “low” culture, or “subculture,” and marked off from the “high”
culture of the elite. In another familiar image, it is “marginal” culture or
the culture of marginality, thus sidelined from the core “mainstream” cul-
tural life and values of society. It is this topography of top and bottom, cen-
ter and periphery, that is upset and radically unsettled in the “moments of
freedom,” those pregnant conjunctures and contexts when it becomes
clear, however fleetingly, that the top is “frequently dependent on the low-
Other . . . [and even] includes that low symbolically.” This dependence and
this secret desire for what is excluded and disdained go to account for the
deepest irony of popular culture, that “what is socially peripheral is so fre-
quently symbolically central.”1
Midway through its two-hundred-year life since the late eighteenth cen-
tury, the idea of popular culture began a gradual shift of focus from this tra-
ditional, collective creativity, commonly called “folklore,” to the domain of
the mass media, the “mass culture” of technical reproduction and indus-
trial commercialization.2 This shift has intensified over the course of the
twentieth century, as new means of reproduction and diffusion came into
place in the cultural sphere, such that by the 1940s and 1950s, especially
17
18 “pueblo pueblo”: Popular Culture in Time
with the advent of television, the mediated culture for the people came to
eclipse and replace, in most theoretical assessments, the expressive culture
of the people which had been the object of knowledge of popular culture
and folklore studies in earlier generations. While the critical theorists
Theodor Adorno and Walter Benjamin in their writings of the 1930s were
the first to describe and analyze this change, in the United States it can be
traced with some precision to the “mass culture debate” of the 1950s as ex-
emplified in the thinking of critics and commentators like Dwight Mac-
Donald, Oscar Handlin, and Clement Greenberg. MacDonald, for example,
went so far as to revise the title of his most influential essay, from “Theory
of Popular Culture” in its original 1944 version to “Theory of Mass Cul-
ture” for the publication of 1953. Even more explicitly, Handlin in the same
years so much as pronounced a requiem for traditional popular culture
with the advent of the mass media; the dean of American immigration his-
torians bemoaned the demise of regionally and ethnically differentiated
popular cultures as a result of the leveling effects of mediated mass cul-
ture. In subsequent decades this narrative of the effective replacement of
popular cultures by mass culture became common sense, such that by our
times any discussion of traditional, community-based cultural experience
has come to be regarded as a sign of romantic nostalgia which flies in the
face of contemporary realities. In most recent work, including much of that
conducted in the name of “cultural studies,” the concept of popular culture
is directly equated with the offerings of the “culture industry” and their
consumption; any productive agency or oppositionality on the part of “the
people” is effectively reduced to its ability to consume in a differential and
critical way.3
Another basis for the generalized skepticism as to the persistence and
theoretical utility of popular culture in its traditional sense has been the
ideological manipulation of the concept of “the people” in the hands of
populism in its various twentieth-century guises. The recurrent appeal to
“the people” in opportunistic political mobilizations of left, right, and cen-
ter, whether in the name of democracy, national liberation, the free world,
or the cause of labor, has so perverted that slogan as to empty it of all mean-
ing, contestatory or otherwise. The work of Ernesto Laclau is often cited as
the most rigorous critical exposé of the vagaries of populism as rhetoric
and ideology; it has served recent cultural theorists like Stuart Hall and
John Frow to rethink notions of “the people” and “the popular” in radical-
ly skeptical terms as constructs deployed for the purpose of deflecting po-
“pueblo pueblo”: Popular Culture in Time 19
litical and cultural movements from more solidly verifiable realities of class
as well as racial and sexual contestation, particularly in view of the conser-
vative hegemonies of the 1980s.4 Latin American social theorists like
Nestor García Canclini have also propounded a trenchant critique of pop-
ulism, in this case even more squarely associated with the remnants of ret-
rogressive folklorism in the social sciences.5 Reeling from the horrors of
the dictatorship period, García Canclini and other contemporary scholars
of “popular cultures” are concluding that it has become necessary to dis-
pense with that category altogether, in favor of what are considered less
misleading concepts like citizenship and civil society.6 Along similar lines,
the idea of “public culture” has been advanced, and has gained favor, as an
alternative to “popular culture” in its diverse significations.7
Thus discredited by the compelling forces of global and regional moder-
nity, the ideas of vernacular popular culture and “the people” have been re-
duced to a tenuous status at best, with the interventions of some post-
modernist thinking only adding to the general skepticism by casting it as
still another of the spurious master narratives that go to obscure the mul-
tiplicity and heterogeneity of cultural subjects and perspectives in present-
day social experience. In a characteristic move, both of the component
terms—the people and culture—are taken to be salvageable only when plu-
ralized—peoples and cultures—and beyond that, only when employed in
their adjectival form, as in the opting for “the cultural” rather than “cul-
ture” or “cultures” in the suggestive work of Arjun Appadurai.8 The shift
away from a sense of popular culture as products and traditions to a com-
plex idea of signifying “practice,” performance, and institutional process,
as in the writings of Michel de Certeau and Pierre Bourdieu, has given the
field new life and sophistication, but has by no means gone to counteract
the near consensual reluctance to sustain the tenability of the concept in
contemporary social analysis. The word folklore, the only terminological re-
course to differentiate popular cultural expression from the engulfing phe-
nomenon of popular culture qua mass cultural consumption, is so patent-
ly outmoded and laden with ideological baggage that its use only sets up
the intellectual endeavor for further ridicule. Even the notion of “tradition-
al” as distinguished from “modern” popular culture explicitly projects the
community-based, expressive variant into a past tense, and cedes to the
mass-mediated experience the crucial space of contemporaneity.
Is there any life left in “the people” as a social concept after the deaden-
ing impact of industrial mediation and ideological manipulation? Does the
household term popular culture still bear any substantive content, or has it
been become so replete with referents to every aspect and detail of social
experience as to have been depleted of any and all specificity? Even if it is
acknowledged that such cultural agency does exist, is there any way of talk-
ing about it without falling into some kind or other of essentialism or re-
ductive simplification, and without minimizing the omnipresent role of
the media and the active reelaboration of cultural meanings on the part of
the public? Put another way, is it possible to engage this direct, expressive
cultural practice of everyday life—those “moments of freedom” which Jo-
hannes Fabian sees at the core of popular culture—without positing some
space outside of and unaffected by the industrial, ideological, and mobile
demographic conditions that so obviously prevail in contemporary society
on a world scale?
2
“It takes moments of freedom to catch moments of freedom,” Fabian
writes in a phrase whose insistently temporal imagery suggests an alter-
native way of conceptualizing popular culture.9 He invites us to think of
popular culture not so much as an entity comprised of products and pro-
cesses, or as a bounded social space such as low or marginal, but as a re-
lation or system of relations. Rather than marking off boundaries and
defining separate spheres of cultural practice, perhaps popular culture is
about the traversing and transgressing of them, and characterized by a
dialogic among classes and social sectors, such as the popular and non-
popular, high and low, restricted and mass. As for thinking popular cul-
ture and developing a concept of the popular, the main correlation has to
do with the “catching,” the interplay between practice and theory, the
“people” as subject and as object of knowledge, between lived social real-
ity and the observer.
The familiar old ethnographic dilemma is at the heart of popular culture
as an idea, but it is important to see—with Fabian—the relation between
the people and the writer in terms of time, temporally, and as a historical
relationship. For only in this way can the concept of popular culture ad-
dress the need for contemporaneity and be rescued from its relegation to
archaic and residual roles in today’s global modernity and mass culture.
Fabian concludes: “Observations on the privileging, in received culture the-
ory, of shape over movement and of space over time made me consider the
problem of contemporaneity as it poses itself specifically in the study of

popular culture: as the coexistence of tradition and modernity. Such coex-
istence must be assumed and understood if our ambition is to recognize
popular culture as contemporary practice, that is, as neither derivative
epiphenomenon nor something that, in some evolutionary perspective on
history, inevitably follows tradition when the latter disappears under the
onslaught of modernity.”10
There needs to be a correspondence, or a congruence of some kind, be-
tween the energized “moments of freedom” of popular cultural practice and
the disposition of the writer at the moment and in the act of “catching.” That
symbiosis is temporal, an accordance in time and history, and conditioned
by the “coexistence of tradition and modernity.” If popular cultural practices
are “arts of timing,” in de Certeau’s phrase, then the ethnographic inter-
vention is a corresponding “art of timing,” and the relative accuracy of our
interpretation of those practices will depend on the quality of that corre-
spondence. By historicizing the ethnographic relation, the reflexive pres-
ence of the writer may help contextualize cultural practice and dramatize
the coexistence and interpenetration of historical periods, stages, and gen-
erations. While crossing multiple social spaces, the writer ignites associa-
tions across time not immediately visible at the site of cultural activity, yet
latent as meanings and indispensable to its conceptualization.
“It should already be becoming clear,” says the writer at the beginning
of Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá’s memoir El entierro de Cortijo (1983), “that
this chronicle will be the encounter of many historical crossings.”11 Like
many works of recent Puerto Rican writing, El entierro de Cortijo is a
“chronicle” of contemporary popular culture and aims to “catch” the
styles and language of everyday life in the colony in the wake of its abort-
ed—or at least contorted—modernization process under the refurbished
imperial arrangement of commonwealth status. And Rodríguez Juliá’s
chronicler goes straight to “the people”: moved by the occasion of the fu-
neral for his favorite popular musician Rafael Cortijo, the conspicuously
middle-class intellectual ventures into the notoriously “underclass” hous-
ing projects called Lloréns Torres, after the laureled national poet Luis
Lloréns Torres, in the heart of Cortijo’s home neighborhood and where
the deceased musician’s body lay in wake. Amidst the family, friends, and
local folk who have come to pay their respects, mostly poor and unedu-
cated black women, men, and children, the bespectacled writer of visibly
Mallorcan stock is nervously self-conscious of being himself “othered” by
the “Other,” and sets to thinking about the meaning of it all. He notices
that, with all the solemnity of the occasion, there is a sense of playfulness
and even festivity in the air, and he himself seems to let his guard down
so as to make the most of this “moment of freedom,” this fortunate “art
of timing.”
Surveying the scene, he sees people, regular Puerto Rican people, pay-
ing tribute to an emblem of their culture, Cortijo, whose music stands as a
supreme example of popular culture and of the “coexistence of tradition
and modernity.” Yet the event itself, marking the popular artist’s passing,
is also an act of popular culture, and it includes the writer himself and his
complex, paradoxical relation to it. The sparks of historical associations fly,
and he waxes philosophical about the meaning of death, the question of
immortality, and how “the people,” those people yet at the same time his
people, might be defined. “How to define this people?” he asks, and re-
sponds with an explanation which points to a novel way to get beneath the
representational and ideological constructions of popular culture that pre-
vail in the public mind. “To define it is easy,” he says, “but how difficult it
is to describe it! It is people people [pueblo pueblo], my Puerto Rican peo-
ple in all its contradictory diversity: . . .”12 The distinction drawn between
“definition” and “description” is an important one, as it signals the need to
go beyond a facile naming or labeling based on political rhetoric or socio-
logical categorizing (“definir”), and to somehow account for the variety,
richness, and the complexity of the phenomenon (“describir”), that is, to
retain a sense of concreteness and specificity while generalizing. The dou-
bling of the noun “pueblo” has to do, first of all, with emphasis; perhaps
the English equivalent would be “real people,” or “down-home people.” But
from the context it is clear that the reiterated “pueblo pueblo” is the term
appropriate to “description” rather than “definition,” that in order to make
it clear that he is talking about living human beings and not the abstract
slogan and category “the people” used to objectify them, it is necessary to
say it twice, “people people.”
Yet the writer is also wary of the pitfall of essentialism implicit in the
claim to unmediated experience and authenticity. His version of “the peo-
ple” is itself mediated through his own perceptions and explicitly stated
social position. Nevertheless, Rodríguez Juliá—and Johannes Fabian—
would insist that, without positing some “popular” experience outside
the dominant ideological field or mass media culture, there is a differ-
ence between mediation as a creative and intellectual activity and that of
the media with their commercial and political overdeterminations. The

Colombian cultural theorist Jesús Martín Barbero titled his important
book “From the media to mediations” (De los medios a las mediaciones),13
and argues for the value of keeping the historical sense of popular cul-
ture as “folklore” alive even while recognizing the encompassing role of
the media in twentieth-century culture.
The medium of the literary ethnographer or chronicler of popular cul-
ture, which allows for the closest possible approximation to the perspective
of that culture, is the imagination, a faculty referred to emphatically by Ro-
dríguez Juliá along with other contemporary theorists like Fabian and Ap-
padurai.14 The work of the imagination in this sense is historical memory,
that is, the association of social experiences through and in time by means
of interpretive recognition and recollection. Immediately after his pro-
grammatic reference to “pueblo pueblo,” the phrase “in all its contradicto-
ry diversity” is followed by a colon, and the chronicler offers an example:
“the sickly-looking woman with her hair in a bun and wearing sneakers be-
cause of her bunions, you know, like the bunions in the plena song ‘Los
juanetes de Juana’ ” (“la jipata señora de moño calza tenis para los juanetes
de Juana”). The ethnographic mediation continues when this succinct but
culturally rich description is brought into association with similar class and
cultural experiences as awakened in the author’s own recollection; the “lit-
tle beads of greasy sweat” he notices on the woman’s brow “remind me of
those self-sacrificing ironing-women and domestic cooks who used to pass
by on Saturdays along the streets of my childhood and head off to their pro-
letarian places of evangelical worship [al proletario culto evangélico].”15 The
black working-class woman he sees there at the wake for Cortijo takes on
emblematic significance as an embodiment of “pueblo pueblo” not for
some hidden essence or archetypicality, but by force of the historical paral-
lels and richly contradictory mnemonic associations her presence evokes.
It is important to understand that along with the obvious continuities be-
tween the woman before him and those of his memories, there is also a
sharp contrast because of the historical lapse resulting from the colonial
modernization process and its so-called “lumpenizing” or de-proletarian-
izing consequences. Both are “pueblo pueblo,” their visage and beads of
sweat may be identifiable, but intervening historical change has brought al-
terations in their everyday social practices and beliefs. In both cases,
though, their concreteness and specificity are maintained, and imaginative
memory allows for the study of popular culture in time.
3
More than merely emphasis, the effect of the doubling in the term “pueblo
pueblo” is to provide a necessary marker of specification or qualification.
It is a sign of internal difference and contradiction, and of the abiding
need to address the questions, “Which people?” and “Which popular cul-
ture?” With the hegemonic meaning of the term popular culture so identi-
fied with global media culture and communication, some specification of
the time or site of the popular becomes indispensable. It is this need for
specification that Stuart Hall stresses when he takes up, in cautiously
nonessentialist terms, the thorny question, “What Is This ‘Black’ in Black
Popular Culture?”16 He recognizes bluntly that popular culture has be-
come “the scene, par excellence, of commodification,” “the space of ho-
mogenization where stereotyping and the formulaic mercilessly process
the material and experiences it draws into its web, where control over nar-
ratives and representations passes into the hands of the established cul-
tural bureaucracies, sometimes without a murmur.”17 Though openly
“available for expropriation,” however, popular culture may signal alterna-
tive spaces, temporalities, and practices when the marker “Black” is add-
ed—that is, when there is a qualifying reference to the experiences of a
historically specified people. Accounting for these two distinct levels of
meaning, Hall demonstrates how this doubling of the term through social
markers helps in establishing a more dynamic understanding of contem-
porary popular culture: “However deformed, incorporated, and inauthen-
tic are the forms in which black people and black communities and tra-
ditions appear and are represented in popular culture,” he writes, “we
continue to see, in the figures and repertoires on which popular culture
draws, the experiences that stand behind them. In its expressivity, its mu-
sicality, its orality, in its rich, deep, and varied attention to speech, in its in-
flections toward the vernacular and the local, in its rich production of
counternarratives, and above all, in its metaphorical use of the musical vo-
cabulary, black popular culture has enabled the surfacing, inside the mixed
and contradictory modes even of some mainstream popular culture, of el-
ements of a discourse that is different—other forms of life, other tradi-
tions of representation.”18
“It is this mark of difference inside forms of popular culture,” Hall con-
cludes, “that is carried by the signifier ‘black’,” and he sees what is called
“American popular culture” as a prime example of this internal differenti-
ation: “the fact of American popular culture itself, which has always con-
tained within it, whether silenced or not, black American popular vernac-
ular traditions.”19 To further underscore his strictly historical intentions,
Hall is emphatic in stating that the “difference” marked off has to do not
only with race but with other forms of marginality and difference as well,
and that “blackness” has preeminently to do with unifying experiences of
colonization, enslavement, and diasporic displacement. The point of the
signifier, and the value of such seeming tautologies as “popular vernacu-
lar” and “pueblo pueblo,” is specification in historical time and social po-
sition, which is why Hall speaks so affirmatively of Gramsci’s concept of
“the national-popular.” Though some contemporary theorists, like the
Brazilian Renato Ortiz, claim that the “national-popular” is by now fully
eclipsed by what he calls “uma cultura internacional popular,”20 Hall ar-
gues that this national qualification remains cogent and continues to alter
the meaning of the “popular” in our times: “The role of the ‘popular’ in
popular culture is to fix the authenticity of popular forms, rooting them in
the experiences of popular communities from which they draw their
strength, allowing us to see them as expressive of a particular subordinate
social life that resists its being constantly made over as low and outside.”21
Inside and behind the surface of commonality and the homogenizing pres-
sure of “popular culture” in its hegemonic appearance, there is the popu-
lar culture defined by historical experiences of exclusion and subordina-
tion, of “difference” along the axes of social power.
It is important to recall that this dimension of national and colonial par-
ticularity has intersected the sense of popular culture as a “common,” class-
unified culture since the earliest conceptualization of the term. Long before
Gramsci, Herder and the Grimm brothers along with other “discoverers” of
the popular had in mind this differentiation along lines of national and cen-
ter-periphery contrast in their quest for some alternative to the cultural
hegemony of France and England.22 The history of the term, in fact, has wit-
nessed this tension between the popular as “low” or “common” within a
given society and that of some variant of what Gramsci then came to call the
“national-popular,” the national marker always indicating a colonial or pe-
ripheralizing relation of power. As engulfing as the “international-popular”
may have become, the vector of national and regional hierarchies has by no
evidence been effaced, and thus continues to point up contexts of popular
cultural expression of a local and community-based kind.23
Rather than among advertently isolated and disconnected groups, in our
time these “national-popular” contexts are particularly alive in diasporic
settings, and under conditions, not of purity or boundedness, but of what

García Canclini refers to, in his influential book, as “hybrid cultures.”24
The preservation and reenergizing of national traditions is most active at
the seams of contemporary transnational formations, at the point of rup-
ture and refashioning characteristic of diasporic conditions and migratory
peoples, where an appeal to those traditions helps to provide a sense of
grounding in place and time. The particularity characteristic of popular
culture practice is now present not so much in some presumed untam-
pered lineage of native heritage as in the very hybridization itself, in the
blending and juxtaposition of seemingly disparate elements of divergent
traditions and practices.
4
But cultural hybridity in García Canclini’s sense refers to more than the
fusion of cultural traditions resulting from the mutual influence among
intersecting groups, a phenomenon which he studies closely in his work
on Tijuana and the Mexican-U.S. border culture.25 He is also referring to
the mixing and interpenetration of the cultural domains themselves, the
blurring of the age-old distinctions between high and low, and between
elite, folkloric, and mass cultures. His guiding conceptual term is “re-
conversion,” by which he means the constant use of supposedly “high”
culture features by the “low” (whether folk or mass), and vice versa, such
that as a result of multidirectional “reconversions” the cultural field be-
comes in our time—in “postmodernity,” he would say—a field of influ-
ences and interactions unified by transnational demographic movements
and consumption practices. Such an interpretation of cultural relations
has its obvious appeal among contemporary readers in Latin America and
elsewhere (which accounts for the book’s huge influence), for it helps
free the conceptualization of popular culture from the usual binarisms of
high and low, inside or outside. It also allows for a more careful reading
of Bakhtin’s idea of cultural inversion and the topsy-turvy creativity of the
carnivalesque. As Hall points out, “The carnivalesque is not simply an
upturning of two things which remain locked within their oppositional
frameworks; it is also crosscut by what Bakhtin calls the dialogic.”26
An especially rich example of cultural reconversion and the dialogic in-
terplay of high and low may be seen in the current strategies of the Walt
Disney Company.27 The entertainment colossus, long the world’s supreme
purveyor of mass culture, is resolutely going upscale, dedicating a surpris-

ingly large share of its $22.5 billion in revenues (for 1998) to the patronage
of high culture. Disney chairman and CEO Michael Eisner, described as “a
man who can shape culture on a global basis like perhaps no other person
in history,” is now “the Medici behind Disney’s high art.” Currently, he is
commissioning two choral symphonies to mark the millennium, an idea
that came to him while attending a performance of Mahler’s Eighth Sym-
phony, the “Symphony of a Thousand,” at Carnegie Hall in 1996. Similar
ventures in sophistication are afoot in the areas of theater and architecture,
and the pretensions of elite cultural status are most evident and serious, as
might be expected, in France and in the vast endeavors of EuroDisney. In
1989 Eisner hired Jean-Luc Choplin, of indubitable high-culture pedigree
as the former managing director of the Paris Opera Ballet, to program the
entertainment at Disneyland Paris. In a move that would leave Theodor
Adorno and the Frankfurt School theorists aghast, the quintessential “cul-
ture industry” is on a mission to “help new culture flower,” as one of the
commissioned composers has it, “when what we’re seeing is this over-
whelming junk culture.”
And, of course, neither patron Eisner nor ambassador Choplin sees any
contradiction between their “serious culture” endeavors and what Disney
has done all along. As always, it is about the marriage, or symbiosis, be-
tween culture and business; as Eisner responds to the many attacks on his
entertainment corporation, “To be broadly commercial, you have to be
broadly talented, so nothing we do now is inconsistent with what Walt did
with his early pioneering work in animation, or with ‘Fantasia’ or with
working with Westinghouse to adapt the technology of his day to his theme
parks.” Choplin in turn, more at ease with his imbued cultural capital than
with marketing projections, is expansive in his justification of Disney’s
quest for cultural sophistication; in his view, it is the long history of “re-
conversion,” the age-old interdependence of the high and the low, that lies
at the heart of the Disney mission and points to the vision for the future.
With references ranging widely to Boticelli, Mahler, Sibelius, and Charles
Ives, he states that “they were all inspired by popular traditions, by roots. I
think we have explored a lot of one-way streets at the end of the twentieth
century, and I think art needs to go back to more popular roots. And roots
are not in the ether; they’re in popular culture.” The process of reconver-
sion is thus multidirectional, and in this case may be seen to come full cir-
cle: what starts as commercial mass culture turning to elite culture be-
comes the recognition by the newfound purveyors of high culture of the

need for “roots” in popular culture traditions.
5
The playing field of contemporary culture may be new but it is still not
level; lines have been redrawn but not erased. García Canclini is careful to
distinguish between “reconversión hegemónica” and “reconversión popu-
lar,” and thereby to lodge his theory of cultural hybridizations in structures
of corporate and state power. Homogenizing tendencies engendered by
global consumer culture are met by countervailing moves of reappropria-
tion and reindigenization. Diasporic experiences demonstrate that the glob-
al encounters opposition not only at the local but at the translocal level as
well, and thus belie the logic of a narrowly territorial geopolitics of cultural
relations. The persistence of structures of social domination in general in-
volves their persistence in the cultural field as well, though the relational
lines between them, between social and cultural power, are shifting and
oblique. That is, the socially dominant is also the culturally dominant, but
the Bakhtinian paradox has it that the exercise of cultural domination in-
herently entails a “dependency on the low-Other,” and further that “the top
includes that low symbolically, as a primary eroticized constituent of its own
fantasy life.”28
No matter how the field of cultural practices is reconfigured in line with
political and economic changes, popular culture of the vernacular, com-
munity-based kind will continue to be present as a mode of social relations,
not to be wished away or analyzed out of existence in response to the per-
vasiveness of media consumption. The need for “roots” is unrelenting, if
not intensifying, in our times, and because of the carnivalesque inver-
sion—that “what is socially peripheral is so frequently symbolically cen-
tral”—the roots of popular culture traditions are strongest among colo-
nized nationalities and racialized communities and peoples. Here is where
those “moments of freedom” are most visible, the “arts of timing” charac-
teristic of popular culture in refusing incorporation and retaining what
Hall calls “the cutting edge of difference and transgression.”29 But to “cap-
ture” such moments, as Fabian continues his temporal imagery, requires
an acute and perhaps redefined sense of time and temporal relations: it in
turns calls for “moments of freedom” and “arts of timing” as well. This
means, most obviously, historical awareness in order to counteract the ex-
cessively spatial conception of cultural relations that prevails in popular

culture theory; the primacy of context in history over the usual privileging
of an ahistorically constructed “location” in social space. The imperative is
temporality not just historicity, though, because too often history, and his-
torical contexts, are confused with a teleology of progress and “develop-
ment,” and the puzzling over “modernity” with the sense that modernity
(and postmodernity) are somehow the goal or end-result of cultural expe-
rience on an individual and collective level.
Popular culture “in time” calls for historical rather than preponderantly
spatial contexts, but above all it refers to the enactment and the “capturing”
of popular culture as the establishing of temporal relations, associations
fashioned by acts of memory and imagination. Relations in space and time,
of course, interactions and intersections among social classes, racialized
groups, diasporic locations, periods in history, generations—all are at work,
and revealed, through popular cultural practice and interpretation. But what
is particular about popular culture is its particularity, and as “moments of
freedom” the particularity of time in popular culture is that it is momentary,
that with all its embeddedness in tradition and the historical past, it is pres-
ent, it is contemporary, it is always now.
The concept of popularity itself is not particularly popular. It is not

realistic to believe that it is. There is a whole series of abstract nouns
in “ity” which must be viewed with caution. Think of utility, sovereignty,
sanctity; and we know that the concept of nationality has a quite
particular, sacramental, pompous and suspicious connotation, which
we dare not overlook. We must not ignore this connotation, just because
we so urgently need the concept popular. —Bertolt Brecht
2

The Lite Colonial

Diversions of Puerto Rican Discourse
El Girlie Show
The leader of the Independence Party called it an “infamy without parallel
in the history of our country.” Public figures of all stripes and persuasions
chimed in—politicians, journalists, church leaders, media personalities—
all indignant at this ultimate act of desecration. At a concert in Bayamón in
October 1993 none other than pop icon Madonna, the “Material Girl,” had
suggestively passed the Puerto Rican flag between her legs, bringing that
most sacred of national symbols into sacrilegious contact with “those dis-
honorable zones” (“esas zonas deshonradas”), as antiabortion, antigay cru-
sader Father Mateo Mateo put it. Patriotic and moral sensitivities con-
verged, finding in the defiled flag a common, consensual object of honor
and adoration.1
Yet it didn’t take the infamous “Madonna incident” to get Puerto Ricans
to rally around the flag. In recent years, increasingly as we approach the
centenary of the planting of the Stars and Stripes on Puerto Rican soil in
1898, the “one-star flag” (“la monoestrellada”) has assumed its role as the
most venerated singular emblem of the Puerto Rican nationality. “¡SOLA!”
was the single-word headline that took up the entire front page of the daily
newspapers in December 1995, the one-hundredth birthday of the nation-
al banner, which to this day according to colonial jurisdiction can legally be
displayed only in the company of Old Glory. But on that December morn-
ing the Puerto Rican flag waved proud and all on its own above the hal-
lowed halls of the Ateneo Puertorriqueño, long considered the official seat
of the national culture. Again, the ideological and other rifts that mark
Puerto Rican public life seemed to have been suspended, as statehooders,
31
32 The Lite Colonial
independentistas, and autonomists shared in this ironic and mildly defiant

outburst of patriotic celebration.
The irony is that as recently as the 1970s that same object of collective
veneration was considered a mark of nationalist insolence if not trans-
gression, and many today still recall being apprehended and harassed for
brandishing a flag on their bumper stickers or T-shirts. What is new, of
course, is not the intense national sentiment but its outing, not the mean-
ing of the flag but its legitimation in the public sphere, official and other.
In fact, as the “Madonna incident” shows, it is its commercial visibility
more than any moral umbrage that helps propel the national flag into the
open and out of its restricted political and ideological field of signification.
In view of this proliferation and commercial use of the flag, there were
even those who took less offense at Madonna’s spectacle; one diehard
Madonna fan (referred to dismissively as a “cocolo”) is quoted as respond-
ing, “I don’t know why there’s all the noise, because our flag [“la mono-
estrellada”] has never waved so pretty. Better between Madonna’s legs than
on Macho Camacho’s ass.”2 This irreverent remark suggests that it is not
actually the eroticization of the flag that desecrates it but its crass and
ubiquitous commodification—don’t blame Madonna but rather the sway
of the global marketplace and mass consumption for stripping the para-
mount national symbol of its traditional spiritual aura. As one commenta-
tor put it, that unflustered “cocolo” is only reminding the outraged public
that long before the Material Girl came along to fondle the flag, that cher-
ished symbol had been used on boxers’ shorts, baseball hats, ass-patches,
T-shirts, scarves, beer cans, and in cigarette and rum ads as well as ads by
American Airlines, Pizza Hut, and MacDonald’s—and yet somehow no-
body’s patriotic honor seemed to be offended.3
Madonna of course is not just any old commodity, and her self-adver-
tisement serves to market not any product or brand name in particular, but
is part and parcel of transnational consumer culture as such. The bleach-
blonde gringa flaunting the largesse of imperial morality sets off special
signals in the colonial public sphere at many levels. Indeed, when in the
following year R. J. Reynolds ran a multimillion-dollar ad campaign for
Winston, featuring the flag draped around a young man’s body and the slo-
gan “100% Puertorriqueño,” objections resonated from many quarters,
culminating in its denunciation by the newly appointed president of the
Puerto Rican Senate, Charlie Rodríguez, in his inaugural address. The
clamor was such that R. J. Reynolds was impelled to retract its use of the
The Lite Colonial 33
flag, though it held onto its long-standing image identifying Winston with
“pure” Puerto Rican-ness. Interestingly, the loudest outcry came not so
much from offended nationalists but from proponents of statehood like
Charlie Rodríguez and journalist Luis Dávila Colón, who claimed that with
its use of the flag the Winston ad was pushing the cause of Puerto Rican
nationalism! Madison Avenue, it seems, is now accused of picking up
where Pedro Albizu Campos left off, waging “the latest offensive in the ide-
ological warfare that consumes us and has contaminated our civil society.”4
But it is the “Madonna incident,” with its range of moral, racial, sexual,
and political implications, that sparked the most heated ideological reac-
tions and points up most clearly the range of contemporary intellectual de-
bate in Puerto Rico. One extended reflection, by cultural critic and univer-
sity professor Carlos Pabón, was titled “De Albizu a Madonna: para armar
y desarmar la nacionalidad” (“From Albizu to Madonna: Arming and dis-
arming the nationality”) and accompanied by a photomontage featuring
the head of the famed nationalist leader atop Madonna’s scantily clad torso.
Pabón takes the occasion to point up “the theoretical and political limita-
tions of the neo-nationalist and Puerto Ricanist discourse that dominates
the debate about identity in Puerto Rico.” In tune with much current theo-
rizing on the Island, he speaks of the nation as constructed, commodified,
and antiessentialist, and of the conversion of political nationalism of earli-
er years into a watered-down, consensual, and noncontestatory “cultural
nationalism”: “The discourse of Puerto Rican-ness has been constituted as
a paradigm of social consensus. Nationalism has been converted into a
state ideology and market culture, and in the process a problematic dis-
course was domesticated.”5 Interrogating the widespread indignation over
Madonna’s desecration of the flag, critics like Pabón and Madeline Román
in her essay “El Girlie Show: Madonna, las polémicas nacionales y los páni-
cos morales” (“El Girlie Show: Madonna, national polemics, and moral
panic”) place in question the very concept of the nation itself, pointing up
its historical contingency, moral arbitrariness, and ultimately conservative
role as a sustaining ideological metanarrative. Román in particular empha-
sizes its complementarity with other, more obviously conservative meta-
narratives of moral puritanism, elitism, patriarchy, and heterosexism.
Over against the “essentialism of the neo-nationalist discourse,” this
line of recent criticism poses the “cultural hybridity (heterogeneity and plu-
rality) of our contemporary cultural formation,” the profound contradic-
tions inherent in the national construct, and its unboundedness and rela-
tional interaction with other “national” cultures. In the theoretical lan-

guage of the 1990s, published in journals with names like Postdata, Bordes,
and Nómadas, Puerto Rican identity is described as multiple, nomadic, di-
asporic, and disengaged from the categorical moorings of the nation in its
traditional conception. The undermining of the hegemony of the national
concept has gone so far as to lead some to abandon the independence proj-
ect altogether in favor of the polemically charged idea of “radical state-
hood,” thus driving a wedge in the long-held equation of independentism
and the political struggle for democracy.6 In a highly resonant phrase,
there is a call to abandon the “heavy,” totalizing, propagandistic national-
ism of earlier years in favor of what is termed “la independencia lite.”7
Needless to say, there has been a response, sometimes vehement, to
these heretical notions, most extensively in the book-length essay by jour-
nalist and editor Luis Fernando Coss entitled La nación en la orilla: repues-
ta a los posmodernos pesimistas (The nation on the shore: Response to the
postmodern pessimists) (1996). Taking issue with the positions assumed
by Carlos Pabón and others, Coss argues on behalf of the independence
movement not as an ideological ploy but as an eclectic, nonsectarian pro-
gressive tradition in Puerto Rican history, a democratic, anticolonial public
sphere. Like other stalwarts of the independence movement, Coss retains
with faint disclaimers the “heavy,” totalizing nationalist stance, including
its traces of Hispanophilia, patriarchy, and cultural elitism. If not flag-wav-
ing and triumphalist, Coss is driven by his disgust over offenses like the
“Madonna incident” and those who are not equally outraged to a heated de-
fense of the national culture and national dignity. The nation in this view
is not just a “discourse,” “text,” or “imagined community,” but a historical
category and verifiable site of lived social experience.8
Thinking Lite
After a century of U.S. control over Puerto Rico, then, the debate over the
status and future options for the society rages as widely and intensely as
ever, with many of the present-day positions echoing closely the lines
drawn over the decades. What is perhaps new about today’s polemic, aside
from the postmodernist vocabulary, is the current of skepticism as to the
viability and validity of the national concept itself, and the appeal to other
forms of solidarity and contestation often obscured by the univocal call for
unity and self-determination along patriotic lines. Never before have the ar-
ticles of faith of Puerto Rican political and cultural self-understanding been

subjected to such radical rethinking, nor has there been such an intricate
gradation of intermediate and qualifying perspectives. Ranging among the
three formal political alternatives—autonomy, statehood, and independ-
ence—liberals and neoliberals, conservatives and U.S.-style Republicans,
feminists and postfeminists, Marxists, neo-Marxists, and post-Marxists,
postmodern pessimists and optimists, radical statehooders and old-line na-
tionalists, and countless other positions have been staked out during the
present generation, converting the battleground of earlier periods into a
veritable free-for-all of divergences and modifications. Ambiguity and vac-
illation reign supreme, with fin-de-siécle Puerto Rico being described as “a
paramount instance of the present-day ‘heterotopia,’ a marked-off geo-
graphical space housing a heterogeneity of social desires.”9
Yet as the carefully monitored plebiscites and referenda of recent years
make evident, the present collective ambiguity is more than ever an or-
chestrated one, a reflex of the vagaries and complexities of U.S. and
transnational priorities and rearrangements. Indeed, if there is consensus
on any issue, it is that Puerto Rico is a “colony.” Whether the preferred op-
tion is annexation, increased autonomy, or national sovereignty, and
whether the theoretical perspective is primarily guided by ideas of democ-
racy, socialism, feminism, anti-imperialism, or antiracism, all programs
are propounded with the purported aim of decolonization—that is, the
recognition of an ongoing condition of subordination and external tutelage
and the need to put an end to it. Though it carries a seemingly endless
array of meanings, and the formulas for challenging it span the full range
of political options, the word colony, or its connotations, resonates virtual-
ly unchallenged in Puerto Rican public life.
It is this bottom-line, largely unarticulated consensus as to the persist-
ence of coloniality that may account for the reluctance to engage the con-
cepts of postcolonial theory in the eclectic intellectual landscape of the cur-
rent debates. With all the receptivity toward the many shadings and inroads
of recent social theory in its poststructuralist, postmodernist, deconstruc-
tionist, even postnationalist variants, the idea of the postcolonial has sin-
gularly fallen on deaf ears. If it is true that postcolonial theorizing evi-
dences a spirit of “premature celebration” (as is claimed by critics like
Anne McClintock and Ella Shohat),10 then Puerto Rico is surely an obvious
case in point. Like Palestine—the example cited by Homi Bhabha and oth-
ers—Puerto Rico stands as “exceptional” and unusual in “still” being a col-
ony in the context of postcolonial globality. Puerto Rico today stands as a

test of the universalist claims of postcolonial theory, bringing to the fore-
ground the relation between a purported global “condition” (“post-” as an
“aftermath”) and the reality of national and regional conditions. That is,
both the globalizing claims of postcolonial theory and the geopolitical spec-
ification of the Caribbean as a paradigmatic postcolonial region, rest for
their validity on the inclusion of the still-colonial Puerto Rico.
Yet it is also clear that Puerto Rico is a colony in a different way, jibing
only partially and uncomfortably with the inherited notion or stereotype of
the classical colony with its earmarks of rampant socioeconomic misery, di-
rect and total political and military control, and peripheralized public life
contrasting graphically with that of the metropolis. The postcolonial, it
would seem, involves not so much the elimination or supercession of colo-
nialism but its pluralization; it signals the existence of multiple colo-
nialisms—gradations and varieties, faces and masks of colonial experi-
ence, as a legacy, as an ongoing and modulating state, as an emergent
anticipation, or even as a return to a prior condition. If anything, the case
of Puerto Rico demonstrates the need for a new and more differentiated vo-
cabulary for postcolonial discourse: if neither the familiar old “colonial na-
tion” nor a newfangled “postcolonial postnation” are appropriate, what
about the variously propounded ideas of neo-, late, or “modern” colony,
or—in order to account for diasporic fragmentations—the de-territorial-
ized concepts of “ethnonation” or “transnation”?11 Or, if colonization is per-
ceived more as a process or historical dynamic than as a finite state or con-
dition, what about “re-colonial,” or when thinking of parts of the world like
eastern Europe, Central America, or the Pacific Rim, may we not even
speak of “precolonial”?
Or, to return to the specific case of Puerto Rico, the apparently anom-
alous postcolonial colony, what about the “lite colonial”? It has the advan-
tage of resonating with “late colonial,” which helps locate it historically in
the period coinciding with and following the global decolonization process.
Rather than as a formula or program, the term “lite” may help signal the
“structure of feeling” of contemporary intellectual and cultural sensibilities
in the period since the 1970s, and especially in the decade of the 1990s.
Aside from its ubiquity in the media-speak that saturates much public dis-
course on the Island, cultural critics like Juan Duchesne Winter, Carlos Gil,
and Carlos Pabón have given it a lively currency in the theoretical debates
of the 1990s, and topical author Juan Antonio Ramos subtitles a recent
(1993) book of stories and sketches “ocurrencias ‘lite.’ ” While Duchesne

introduced it by way of a call for a more moderate, toned-down indepen-
dentista “temperament,” Pabón speaks of “the rise of a ‘lite capitalism’,”
meaning “a capitalism that has become Puerto Ricanist by exploiting for its
own benefit the national symbols, which like the flag, represent ‘our’ cus-
toms, traditions, and way of life. This is a post-Fordist capitalism which as
a result of the processes of economic and cultural globalization and inter-
nationalization seeks to incorporate ‘the other.’ ”12 “Lite” in this sense is in-
tended to contrast to the heavy, hard, rough, “dark” colonial reality and dis-
course, including the anticolonial struggle and stance, of the modernist
and modernizing period. It involves the analytical disengagement of the
age-old paired concepts of nation and nation-state, politics and culture, pa-
triotism and nationalism, consensus and contestation, which are so much
at issue in the current debate.
Yet as idiosyncratic as the qualifier “lite” may be to present-day Puerto
Rican discourse, its currency may also apply in a more far-reaching way to
the quality of colonial relations in late or postcolonial times. Might we now
speak of a process of “flexible” colonization to match the often-discussed
“flexibility” of contemporary capitalist accumulation? Much of the recent
literature on transnational political economy, from a range of political
agendas, suggests such a realignment of power relations, as is evident, for
example, in the writings of Paul Krugman (Peddling Prosperity and Pop In-
ternationalism), William Greider (One World, Ready or Not), or Robert Kut-
tner (Everything for Sale), or more recently (1993) in the book The Com-
manding Heights: The Battle Between Government and the Marketplace That
Is Remaking the Modern World by Daniel Yergin and Joseph Stanislaw. A
critical perspective might well dismiss some of this literature as a lot of
“globaloney,” or “global babble,” but the interesting policy article, “The Rise
of ‘Lite’ Powers: A Strategy for the Postmodern State,” illustrates the po-
tential attractiveness of the “lite” category in current social theory on a
world scale.13 In a similar vein, in Michael Jordan and the New Global Capi-
talism Walter LaFeber makes valuable use of the term “soft power” to refer
to the “influence of U.S. culture and commerce, rather than its military
and political muscle.”14
Without recourse to the term “lite” itself, Stuart Hall characterizes the
economic underpinnings of this new market-driven form of hegemony in
more substantive terms in his essay “The Local and the Global”: “Not every-
where, by any means, but in some of the most advanced parts of the glob-
alization process what one finds are new regimes of accumulation, much
more flexible regimes founded not simply on the logics of mass production
and of mass consumption but on new flexible accumulation strategies, on
segmented markets, on post-Fordist styles of organization, on lifestyle and
identity-specific forms of marketing, driven by the market, driven by just-
in-time production, driven by the ability to address not just the mass audi-
ence, or the mass consumer, but by penetrating to the very specific smaller
groups, to individuals, in its appeal.” In another phrase, Hall speaks of “this
concentrated, corporate, over-corporate, over-integrated, over-concentrated,
and condensed form of economic power which lives culturally through dif-
ference and which is constantly teasing itself with the pleasures of the
transgressive other.”15
Getting beyond the obvious trendiness of the term, then, the catch-
phrase “lite” indicates that as colonial subordination becomes transnation-
alized it also tends to shift from a primarily political, state-, and institution-
driven force to a commercial one impelled by markets and oriented toward
consumers. In contrast to a colonialism based on production, the “lite colo-
nial” is grounded on consumption. “Lite,” after all, especially in its cute
phonetic spelling, is primordially the language of advertising, of commer-
cial culture, and of an empire of signs maintained for the purpose of social
pacification and need-creation, including the stimulation and satisfaction
of ideological needs.16 The “lite colonial” is eminently discursive colonial-
ism, a thickly symbolic form of transnational domination which empha-
sizes both a consensual identity (“we are all Puerto Ricans, across all lines”)
and at the same time multiple identities of a nonmonolithic, fragmented
kind, including the diasporic. In accord with such “lite colonial” condi-
tions, the move for decolonization needs also to be flexible, dynamic, and
democratic in the sense of skepticism toward the postulation of a singular
vanguard force or an obligatory teleology of state power.
Under conditions of the “lite colonial” intended in this way, it is under-
standable why events like the “Madonna incident” take on such explosive
public significance in Puerto Rican discourse, and why the analysis of their
meaning for everyday life is so intricately linked with critical interventions
of a more directly economic and political kind. Colonial legitimation thus
resting strongly on the logic of commercial persuasion and its incursion
into the cultural discourse, the struggle for interpretive power moves to the
foreground of anticolonial projects, with the deconstruction of corporate-
sponsored salsa concerts, media coverage of the “chupacabras” (“goat suck-
er”) episode, or the differential reaction to the Puerto Rican Barbie Doll,
arousing active political reaction and debate.
Yet it should be borne in mind that the consumer catchphrase “lite” also
carries the implication of light-weight, watered-down, without the edge or
the kick. In order to build consumer markets with a view toward modern-
day health and environmental consciousness (or hype), products must be
deprived of some of their “fat,” or substance, or at least be promoted as
such. Correspondingly, an exclusive focus on the “lite” quality of contem-
porary colonial relations without moorings in a critique of political and eco-
nomic conditions may also signal a superficial and thin analysis, an inter-
pretation that takes at face value the camouflages and ploys of commercial
colonialism. It is, in a word appropriately laden with ambiguity, a “diver-
sion,” or in the usage expounded by Edouard Glissant, a “détour.”17
Points of Entanglement
The Martinican writer and theorist Edouard Glissant builds his monumen-
tal treatise Caribbean Discourse (Discours antillais, 1981) on the concept of “di-
version” or “détour.” Given the notorious gulfs separating the varied politi-
cal cultures of the Caribbean, it may appear far-fetched to look to a
Francophone thinker like Glissant for insights into the complex and dis-
tinctive experience of “lite colonial” Puerto Rico. But as “modern colonies,”
which retain nonindependent status and relations under conditions of post-
colonial globality, Puerto Rico and Martinique today bear stronger similari-
ties than in earlier periods.18 In fact, since the departmentalization of Mar-
tinique and the establishment of commonwealth status in Puerto Rico, both
adjustments dating from the late 1940s, the two countries have encoun-
tered similar assimilationist and consensualist tendencies in their colonial
accommodation, along with the growing prospect of a soft or gradualist de-
colonization process. There is thus in present-day Puerto Rico an intriguing
resonance in Glissant’s words about his fellow Martinicans, as when he de-
scribes them as “a people wedged in an impossible situation,” or even in his
definition of the term diversion: “The community has tried to exorcise the
impossibility of return by what I call the practice of diversion.”19
Rather than an essentializing metaphor, as guides the writings of other
Caribbean cultural theorists like Fernando Ortíz or Antonio Benítez-Rojo,
Glissant’s concept of diversion would seek the unifying thread of a pan-
Caribbean discourse in a “practice,” that is, a gesture or performative tac-
tic. Glissant’s term is also useful because it retains the ambiguity of the
word in its everyday usage: diversion means both fun or “divertissement,”
including the sense of making fun of or ironically (re)signifying (what
Achille Mbembe refers to as “how the people trick, play, toy with power”),20
and at the same time a distraction or deflection, a “detour” in the literal
sense. Unpacking this central concept in his poetic/politics on Caribbean
“discourse,” Glissant explains that “diversion is not a systematic refusal to
see. No, it is not a kind of self-inflicted blindness nor a conscious strategy
of flight in the face of reality. Rather, we would say that it is formed, like a
habit, from an interweaving of negative forces that go unchallenged.”21
In another passage which would seem equally pertinent to contempo-
rary Puerto Rican cultural experience, Glissant speaks of diversion as “the
ultimate resource of a population whose domination by an Other is con-
cealed: it must search elsewhere for the principle of domination (which is
not only exploitation, which is not only misery, which is not only underde-
velopment, but actually the complete eradication of an economic entity)
and is not directly tangible.”22
In its existential presentness and situational, unsystematic inversion or
displacement of an imposed reality, Glissant’s “diversion” bears obvious
traces of the carnivalesque, but it is important that the practice of “détour”
occurs in dialectical interplay with that of “reversion” or “rétour.” Here
again two meanings are harbored in the same term, one being “reversion”
in the primordialist, nostalgic sense, or in Glissant’s explanation, “the ob-
session with a single origin: one must not alter the absolute state of being.
To revert is to consecrate permanence, to negate contact. Reversion will be
recommended by those who favor single origins.” But Glissant has anoth-
er, more historical and contextual notion of what reversion can be, where
it serves to counterbalance the strategy of diversion: “Diversion is not a
useful ploy unless it is nourished by reversion: not a return to the longing
for origins, to some immutable state of Being, but a return to the point of
entanglement, from which we were forcefully turned away; that is where
we must effectively put to work the forces of creolization, or perish.”23
With this coupled tactic of diversion and reversion, situational deflection
and collective genealogy, Glissant’s dynamic model offers an account of
colonial/anticolonial cultural practice which pertains to much of the
Caribbean in its postcolonial condition (though Glissant, writing Caribbean
Discourse in the 1970s, is really a pre- or perhaps proto-postcolonial thinker),
and which applies with particular resonance in “lite colonial” Puerto Rico or
his native Martinique. How this practical and theoretical dynamic plays it-
self out, and what the historical “entanglements” and “creolization” com-
prise, will of course vary from country to country, and need to be approached
from, and inclusive of, particular national contexts and constructs. But as an
analytical paradigm or method, the dialectic of diversion and reversion pro-
vides a valuable supplement to the tenets of postcolonial theory in critiquing
contemporary colonial culture. It also allows for an analysis of the “excep-
tional” case of contemporary Puerto Rico in a Caribbean regional context.
Unsettling Fragments
It has often been noted that it is the diasporic situation, rather than the re-
alities of the formerly colonial nations themselves, which most directly en-
genders postcolonial theorizing.24 The postcolony implies and necessarily
includes its diaspora(s), and the rethinking of national identities and
boundaries faces a key challenge in the translocal, translocational, and
transcontextual character of diasporic history. Though usually ignored or
relegated in “Puerto Rican discourse” (and in much “Caribbean discourse”
as well), the diaspora is integral and relational to the national and region-
al; it constitutes the most obvious and profound instance of fragmentation
of the national and the most vibrant site of contemporary “creolization.”25
Though modern-day Martinique and the Martinican diaspora communi-
ties are certainly an obvious case in point, Glissant is less specific in this re-
gard. “There is a difference,” he writes in the opening sentence of the Dis-
cours, “between the transplanting (by exile or dispersion) of a people who
continue to survive elsewhere and the transfer (by the slave trade) of a pop-
ulation to another place where they change into something different, into a
new set of possiblities.”26 Though it contains the important reminder that
the Caribbean nations are themselves diasporic in their historical constitu-
tion, and that their histories attest above all to an African diaspora, his dis-
tinction is less helpful when assessing the contemporary context. For in
today’s Caribbean diasporas (notably the Puerto Rican and the Martinican),
there is some of both, survival and change, and certainly no fundamental
“difference.” Nevertheless, whether he is speaking of transplants or trans-
fers, Glissant’s general point about the relational force of diasporic experi-
ence still holds: “The history of a transplanted population, but one which
elsewhere becomes another people, allows us to resist generalization and
the limitations it imposes. Relationship [relationalité] (at the same time link
and linked, act and speech) is emphasized over what in appearance would
be conceived as a governing principle, the so-called universal ‘controlling
force.’ ”27 Diasporic experiences—African in the Caribbean, and Caribbean
in the imperial metropoles—have the effect of relativizing and de-essential-
izing, and of course de-territorializing, the traditional national construct and
its hegemonies.
For conceptualizing Caribbean diasporic identity, though, I find another
set of conceptual/processual terms more useful. Though it articulates well
with Glissant’s diversion/reversion dialectic (which he refers to as a “dialog-
ic relationship’), the paradigm outlined by Stuart Hall in his important essay,
“Cultural Identity and Diaspora” (1990), moves closer to the situation of the
(post)colonial diaspora in the contemporary world. For Hall, this situation is
“‘framed’ by two axes or vectors, simultaneously operative: the vector of sim-
ilarity and continuity; and the vector of difference and rupture. . . . The one
gives us grounding in, some continuity with the past. The second reminds
us that what we share is precisely the experience of a profound discontinu-
ity.”28 Hall says that this second axis of understanding—that is, cultural
identity in terms of ruptures and discontinuities—is “much less familiar,
and more unsettling,” and even claims that it “constitutes, precisely, the
Caribbean’s ‘uniqueness.’” “It is only from this second position,” he contin-
ues, “that we can properly understand the traumatic character of ‘the colo-
nial experience.’”29
Both dimensions of (post)colonial identity are intensified by the physi-
cal and geocultural remove and resonance of the diasporic location: a more
intense urge for continuity and a more dramatic sense of rupture. In an
important theoretical turn, the aspect of break or disjuncture, which would
seem the most debilitating, and colonizing, of experiences, actually har-
bors a sense of process, freedom, agency, and an alternative historical po-
sition. “Cultural identity,” Hall continues, “is a matter of ‘becoming’ as
well as of ‘being.’ It belongs to the future as much as to the past. It is not
something which already exists, transcending place, time, history and cul-
ture. Cultural identities come from somewhere, undergo constant trans-
formation. Far from being eternally fixed in some essentialised past, they
are subject to the continuous ‘play’ of history, culture and power. Far from
being grounded in mere ‘recovery’ of the past, which is waiting to be
found, and which when found, will secure our sense of ourselves into eter-
nity, identities are the names we give to the different ways we are posi-
tioned by, and position ourselves within, the narratives of the past.”30
What is so “unsettling” about this disjunctural aspect of diasporic expe-

rience is clearly the newfound and unknown flexibility, fluidity, and muta-
bility of identity moorings and reference points, the loss of sanctity of na-
tional symbols, the relativity of cultural needs and imperatives. To carry
Hall’s point even further in view of the Puerto Rican diaspora, a “Caribbean
location” as a site of the postcolonial must include and account for the ap-
parent drift-away, the colonial diaspora entrenched in a history of internal
(re)colonialism, a history which would seem in many ways to contradict, or
consider an impediment, or even to dispense with, the past as narrated.
Spidertown
An especially poignant, dramatic example of this radical diasporic discon-
tinuity, in fact its dramatization as an existential process, may be found in
the writings and personal stance of the young Nuyorican (or perhaps “post-
Nuyorican”) author Abraham Rodriguez. A reading of the title story of his
book The Boy Without a Flag (1992) presents in sharp, jarring terms that
particular mixed sense of being definitively broken off from, yet demand-
ing inclusion in, the new national reality and trajectory. It also offers occa-
sion to return to the constant repositioning and resemanticizing of the na-
tional symbol—the Puerto Rican flag.
In “The Boy Without a Flag” Rodriguez examines the education of a
young diasporic, South Bronx Puerto Rican in what it means to be Puerto
Rican. Whichever way he turns in his crack-ridden, hip-hop–crazed envi-
ronment, this Generation X Young Lord-without-a-cause finds himself be-
trayed by his fellow Puerto Ricans. To drive the point home, though it is set
deep in the U.S. inner city, all of the characters in the story are Puerto
Rican. And whether it is his teachers, classmates, the principal, or most
significantly his father, he finds no allies in his defiant refusal to salute “that
flag.” “Were those people really Puerto Ricans?” he asks. “Why should a
Puerto Rican salute an American flag?”31 While the school environment im-
presses him with how Americanized his compatriots can get, his father in-
culcates him with a “heavy” nationalist, anti-imperialist rhetoric and edu-
cation, and the young rebel senses a common fate with the hero Albizu
Campos he has been reading about: “They were bound to break me the way
Albizu was broken, not by young smiling American troops bearing choco-
late bars, but by conniving, double-dealing, self-serving Puerto Rican land-
owners and their ilk, who dared say they were the future. They spoke of dig-
nity and democracy while teaching Puerto Ricans how to cling to the great
coat of that powerful northern neighbor. Puerto Rico, the shining star, the
great lap-dog of the Caribbean” (23). Yet even his father, who had railed
against the “Yankee flag-wavers,” will betray him by going along with the
disciplinary posture of the school authorities. “Are you crazy?” he mutters
to his son. “Don’t you know anything about dignity, about respect?” (28).
Not that the Puerto Rican flag represents any real alternative for him ei-
ther, as is clear from his experience in the school auditorium, which he re-
counts in starkly suggestive imagery: “All I could make out was that great
star-spangled unfurling, twitching thing that looked like it would fall as it
approached all those bored young heads. The Puerto Rican flag walked be-
side it, looking smaller and less confident. It clung to its pole” (14). At the
end, he is indeed “without a flag,” estranged from the national symbols of
both of the cultures that would define him.
Yet, interestingly, he is left with some kind of insight beyond the flags,
beyond the disillusionment over his “father’s betrayal.” It is not so much
conciliation (at no point does he disavow his anticolonial stance), as it is a
deeper understanding of his own social position. Perhaps this restrospec-
tive wisdom is an expression of (postcolonial) diasporic identity, the dia-
logic between diversion and reversion, continuity and rupture. For, once
the ordeal is over, and his teacher Miss Colon tells him to “go home and lis-
ten to the Beatles,” the story ends with these sanguine musings: “I stepped
out into the sunshine, came down the white stone steps, and stood on the
sidewalk. I stared at the towering school building, white and perfect in the
sun, indomitable. Across the street, the dingy row of tattered uneven tene-
ments where I lived. I thought of my father. Her [the teacher’s] words made
me feel sorry for him, but I felt sorrier for myself. I couldn’t understand
back then about a father’s love and what a father might give to insure his
son safe transit. He had already navigated treacherous waters and now
couldn’t have me rock the boat. I still had to learn that he had made peace
with The Enemy, that The Enemy was already in us. Like the flag I must
salute, we were inseparable, yet his compromise made me feel ashamed
and defeated. Then I knew I had to find my own peace, away from the
bondage of obedience. I had to accept that flag, and my father, someone I
would love forever, even if at times to my young, feeble mind he seemed a
little imperfect” (29–30).
Like the boy in his story, Abraham Rodriguez is merciless in his relation
to Puerto Rico and being Puerto Rican, and feels “stranded” and betrayed
by the Island, which he says is no more than a “myth” to him. In an inter-

view, the author tells of the time when he tore up a T-shirt bearing the
Puerto Rican flag that he had received as a gift. When his girlfriend asked
him why he was doing that, his answer was, “It’s because I always thought
that the flag was a dishrag, so here’s a dishrag, it’s for the dishes.”32 Yet this
iconoclasm should not be mistaken for indifference, nor his sense of indi-
vidual transcendence for a lack of interest in politics. By his own account
he follows events on the Island closely, explaining that his disdain for the
flag has to do with his feeling that it has been robbed of its deeper contes-
tatory meaning. “There was no Nationalist kind of feeling,” he contends.
“That’s why I don’t like that flag.” Then, referring to the controversial “Ma-
donna incident,” he makes clear that from the vantage point of the dias-
pora and its problems, such spectacles of the “lite colonial” amount to “di-
versions” in the sense of distractions or deflections from the underlying
political realities: “You know what mystifies me?” he goes on. “Madonna
goes to Puerto Rico, and she takes the Puerto Rican flag and she puts it be-
tween her legs for a little hanky panky. The situation that Puerto Ricans
find themselves in here, in the inner city, or in any inner city in this nation,
or even in Puerto Rico, where you get drug traffickers attacking police, is a
problem directly imported from the United States, and this is a result of a
political decision that was made on the island. It’s ironic to me that Puer-
to Ricans have these amazing problems, and the one thing that makes
them get into an uproar is when some white woman takes the Puerto Rican
flag and puts it between her legs. Let’s face it: Congress has been doing that
to the island now for how many years? . . . We have bigger problems to con-
front than our depiction in a movie or that Madonna plays with the Puerto
Rican flag.”33
Under conditions of global postcoloniality, then, Puerto Rican culture
necessarily includes “Spidertown,” the eerily mythic South Bronx setting of
Rodriguez’s work and the title of his first novel, just as contemporary
“Puerto Rican discourse” must also in important ways be constituted right
there, in “mi viejo South Bronx,” the postnational fragment gone adrift.
This thought is most troubling, of course, to those who would cling to
ideas of colonial nationality appropriate, if ever, to earlier political eco-
nomic arrangements, and who insistently disavow the hybridity and mul-
tiplicity of identity formations under the transnational conditions of our
times.34 But even commentators intent on challenging those outworn po-
sitions, including some of the theorists of a “lite colonialism” cited here,
are still groping for a concept of national identity elastic and malleable
enough to account for social experiences at such blatant odds with what
remains a territorially circumscribed universe of cultural discourse. After
all, Abraham Rodriguez’s “Spidertown” is not Central Park during the
Puerto Rican Day Parade, with Puerto Rican flags of all shapes and sizes
waving everywhere in view, and bedecking everything from sidewalks to
clothing and bead necklaces to tattooed fingernails and eyelids.
The diaspora not as a monolith or inert social mass, but as a complex
and dynamic reality woven inextricably into the social fiber of the metrop-
olis, is also an integral part of the “lite colony” and its discourse. It is the
most visible sign of the de-territorialization and de-centering of colonial
boundaries, and of the constitutive role played by translocal consumption
practices in the forging of contemporary cultural identities. What Abraham
Rodriguez’s irreverent and idiosyncratic outbursts signal is that it is not
only the offspring of Operation Bootstrap and the great migration who de-
mand inclusion in the national self-reflection, but their children and
grandchildren, as well the many orphans and outcasts gathered along the
historical sidelines.
“Where the Sun Don’t Shine . . .”

The infamous “Madonna incident” was there in the news and quickly
gone, an article in “yesterday’s newspaper” (“el periódico de ayer”), swept
along in the seemingly endless maelstrom of similar diversions, spectacles
and cultural ephemera which make for headline news in the “lite colony.”
Maybe the punchy, statehood-oriented reporter Luis Dávila Colón has a
point with his tongue-in-cheek comment that “the ‘Material Girl’ invented
a brand-new dimension of patriotism.” “Wow!” he chuckles. “I’d heard of
having the flag glued to your heart, or having the flag in one’s mind, or of
boxers sporting the flag on their backside to catch low blows, or Olympic
fans donning it as a hat. But never of flying it at half-mast, down where the
sun don’t shine.”35
With all its scandalous novelty, though, this episode of “erotic patriot-
ism” is of fleeting interest in Puerto Rican political culture, eminently an
event of October immediately to be overshadowed by Halloween, and then
the imminent cataclysms of November. An “infamy without parallel in the
history of our country,” as the Independence Party leader proclaimed?
Hardly, and it is striking what a stunted historical memory is displayed by
the country’s present political leadership, and how ready they are to suc-
cumb to the everyday hype of the ubiquitous mass culture. Dávila Colón
ends his comments by predicting the victory of more-of-the-same in the
upcoming (1993) plebiscite, all to the gyrations of Michael Jackson and the
moonwalk: “Gulp. Did you see what happened in October? You didn’t like
it? Take it easy, don’t get worked up. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet’ [in English].
Didn’t I tell you what November would bring? Madonna has left. But on
November 14, on the night of the plebiscite, the Island awaits the arrival of
the ‘Dangerous Tour’ of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson. Once Halloween
is over, lock your kids in the house. And get ready to dance the moonwalk
when victory goes once again to ELA [Estado Libre Asociado (Free Associ-
ated State, the formal term for commonwealth status)].”36
As pervasive as the “lite” sensibility may appear, and as symptomatic of
the current political culture, it nevertheless remains a “diversion” in the
varied senses of the word. While indicative of a real restructuring of colo-
nial relations, it is also a mirage, a simulation of non- or postcolonial cir-
cumstances aimed at diverting attention from the continuities of colonial
history. While suggesting new ways of thinking about colonialism and de-
colonization processes, when taken at face value it is also a “making
light,” a euphemistic “detour” from the ongoing anticolonial project. As
in the commercial culture from which it derives, the “lite” may serve to
conceal the “hard” and “heavy” ingredients of the product being promot-
ed. In view of the bankruptcy of traditional forms of colonial legitimation,
the diversions of empire rest increasingly on such discursive camouflage,
and on the obscuring of the deep social inequities and the repressive con-
trol which continue to mark off colonial oppression from other modes of
transnational interaction.
3

Broken English Memories

Languages in the Trans-Colony
1
Historical memory is an active, creative force, not just a receptacle for stor-
ing the dead weight of times gone by. Memory has been associated, since
its earliest usages, with the act of inscribing, engraving, or, in a sense that
carries over into our own electronic times, “recording” (grabar). It is not so
much the record itself as the putting-on-record, the gathering and sorting
of materials from the past in accordance with the needs and interests of the
present. Remembering thus always involves selecting and shaping, consti-
tuting out of what was something new that never was, yet now assuredly
is, in the imaginary of the present, and in the memory of the future. And
the process of memory is open, without closure or conclusion: the struggle
to (re)establish continuities and to tell the “whole” story only uncovers new
breaks and new exclusions.
It is in the terms of such weighty verities that the well-known critic and
Princeton professor Arcadio Díaz-Quiñones ponders the condition of con-
temporary Puerto Rican culture. In La memoria rota (1993), his much-dis-
cussed collection of essays from the 1980s and early 1990s, Díaz-Quiñones
identifies the most glaring lapses in Puerto Rican historical memory, the rup-
tures and repressions that have left present-day public discourse devoid of
any recognizable field of critical reference.1 The “broken memory” that he at-
tributes to the current generation is rooted in centuries of imperial mutila-
tion of social consciousness, culminating in his own lived memory in the tri-
umphalist rhetoric of progress and modernization of the midcentury years.
His point about the present, end-of-the-century condition is that even though
the persuasiveness of that populist, accomodationist narrative seems to have
49
50 Broken English Memories
waned definitively, the historical gaps grounding those earlier hegemonies

remain largely unfilled. Despite Díaz-Quiñones’ emphatic disclaimer of all
“totalizing” presumptions and of any intention to set forth a “rigorous theo-
ry,” La memoria rota, loosely unified around the suggestive metaphor of the
broken memory, may well turn out to be the book of the decade in Puerto
Rican cultural theory, the 1990s counterpart to José Luis González’s El pais
de cuatro pisos of the 1980s, or René Marqués’s El puertorriqueño dócil of the
1960s, or Antonio S. Pedreira’s Insularismo of the 1930s.
Díaz-Quiñones’ critical eye ranges widely over Puerto Rican political
and literary history; his familiarity with the particular national landscape is
enriched by continual references to congruent and kindred concerns of
other cultural theorists, from Theodor Adorno to Frantz Fanon, from Ed-
ward Said to Angel Rama. Rhetorically, the disjunctures he signals in the
official story of the national culture take the form of euphemisms having
the effect of minimizing the abruptness and violence of imposed historical
change, most notably European colonization, centuries of slavery, U.S. oc-
cupation, the ideological decimation of the independence and socialist
movements, and mass emigration to the United States. He shows how the
dominant memory needs to sweeten the pill of colonial power and con-
stantly to construct and refurbish the illusion of internal harmony, com-
pliance, consensus. Emotionally charged catchwords like family, symphony
of progress, and cultural affirmation hide the seams and muffle the discord
that make up the real fabric of society, which without these comforting
mythologies appears as an intricate patchwork of contending claims and
social meanings. In La memoria rota, the very concept of “the national”—
what it means to be Puerto Rican—has become a battlefield in the ongoing
struggle for interpretive power.
One exclusion to which Díaz-Quiñones draws repeated attention—per-
haps the most pronounced break in collective memory—is the emigrant
Puerto Rican community in the United States. The exodus of Puerto Ri-
cans between the late 1940s and the early 1960s, an integral and orches-
trated part of the country’s passage into “modernity,” is still occluded from
the national history; in another new essay, “Puerto Rico: Cultura, memoria
y diáspora” (1994), the author even cites two recent history textbooks, His-
toria general de Puerto Rico (1986) by Fernando Picó and La historia de Puer-
to Rico (1987) by Blanca Silvestrini and María Dolores Luque de Sánchez,
neither of which devotes more than a few pages to the emigrant Puerto
Rican community.2 With all its revisionist correctives to the colonial, class,
Broken English Memories 51
gender, and racial biases of the traditional narrative of the nation, the “new
historiography” which has gained such prestigious intellectual ground
since the 1970s continues to present that “other half” of the Puerto Rican
population as just that, an “other” lurking in the wings of the main national
drama. Puerto Ricans en el destierro, or simply de allá, persist as a footnote,
sympathetic at best but ultimately dismissive and uncomprehending.
To its immense credit, La memoria rota places the life of Puerto Ricans
in the United States squarely on the agenda of contemporary historical
analysis. Díaz-Quiñones’ insistence no doubt is fueled by his many years
of living and working in New Jersey. He points up the long reach of collec-
tive experience back to the late nineteenth century and acknowledges the
many other writers and thinkers who have recognized its importance, such
as Bernardo Vega, César Andreu Iglesias, and José Luis González. More
than merely filling in historical blanks that they have left, though, Díaz-
Quiñones asserts the central, constitutive role of Puerto Ricans in the Unit-
ed States in the making and breaking of the Puerto Rican nation in the
twentieth century. His allusions to other contemporary theorists of dias-
poric, transnational identity, such as Said, Partha Chatterjee, and Renato
Rosaldo, serve him well in contextualizing that dramatic divide in modern-
day Puerto Rican history. Far from being unique or exceptional, the cultur-
al disjunctures, ambiguities, and reconnections undergone by Puerto Ri-
cans in both localities are paradigmatic of experiences familiar to more and
more people, and nations, of the world.
Yet for all his stitching and patching, Díaz-Quiñones still leaves the
Puerto Rican broken memory in need of serious repair. It is not enough to
point to the break and glue the pieces together by mentioning forgotten
names and events. The seams and borders of national experience need to
be understood not as absences or vacuums but as sites of new meanings
and relations. Here again, as in the exclusionary vision Díaz-Quiñones
would transcend, the Puerto Rican community in the United States still ap-
pears as an extension of discourses based on the Island, its history an ap-
pendage of the national history, with no evident contours or dynamic in its
own right. To attend to the “break” that migration has meant in Puerto
Rican history, it is necessary to remember the whole national “project”
from the perspectives of the breaking-point itself, from aboard the guagua
aérea, the proverbial “air bus.”3
Remembering in Puerto Rican today inherently involves a dual vision, a
communication where languages bifurcate and recombine. Puerto Rican
memories are mixed-code memories, lodged at the points where English

breaks Spanish and Spanish breaks English. The act of memory defies uni-
formity; it undermines the privilege typically accorded either of the sun-
dered fragments—Spanish or English, acá or allá—over the living relation
between them, as evidenced in the rupture itself. On this point the meta-
phor of Puerto Rico’s broken memory, and the elegant arguments that sus-
tain it, backs away from its deeper theoretical implications.
2
A people’s memory and sense of collective continuity is broken not only by
the abrupt, imposed course of historical events themselves but by the exclu-
sionary discourses that accompany and legitimate them. Thus, while the
massive emigration of the Puerto Rican population to the United States has
involved a geographical and cultural divide unprecedented in the national
history, it is the dismissive rhetoric of “assimilation” and “cultural genocide”
that has effected the glaring omission of Puerto Rican life in the United
States from the historical record. In La memoria rota Díaz-Quiñones repeat-
edly takes this ideological agenda to task and reinstates creative agency and
continuity in the cultural experience of the emigrant community.
In one of the most moving passages in the lead essay, “La vida incle-
mente,” Díaz-Quiñones argues that “the emigrant reinforced—in a man-
ner unforeseen by the exclusionary discourse of some sectors of the Puer-
to Rican elite—the need to maintain identities, and even the need to form
new descriptions of identity.” Rather than leave the Island behind and for-
get about their homeland, “in those Puerto Rican communities there ex-
isted the possibility of a new future that required the preservation of cer-
tain real and symbolic places and that lent a new value to the geography of
the Island, its rivers and hills, and its barrios.”4
Geographic separation and distance, rather than deadening all sense of
community and cultural origins, may have the contrary effect of height-
ening the collective awareness of belonging and affirmation. Referring to
Edward Said’s accounts of life in present-day Palestinian communities,
Díaz-Quiñones contends that “the sense of belonging, a feeling for ‘home’
and community, is affirmed with the strongest emphasis from a distance,
when there is an uncertainty as to place. Perhaps this goes to explain the
paradoxical situation that people, say in Guaynabo, can take their culture
for granted, while others in Philadelphia defend it passionately.”5
The accuracy of the “paradoxical” inversion of geographical location

and cultural belonging resounds in the countless tales of emigrants feel-
ing more Puerto Rican than ever when in the New York setting; in the
flourishing of bomba y plena and música jíbara groups in all the emigrant
neighborhoods, from Hartford, Connecticut, to Lorraine, Ohio, from Ha-
waii to Perth Amboy, in the fashioning of Island-style casitas in the aban-
doned lots of the South Bronx and Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The contrast-
ing attitudes toward cultural continuity find dramatic expression in much
of the literary and artistic work by Puerto Ricans in the United States,
most forcefully perhaps in Tato Laviera’s memorable poem “nuyorican.”
The title identifies, in English, the speaker of the poem, a monologue ad-
dressed by an irate New York Puerto Rican, in Spanish, to his lost island
homeland. “Nuyorican” is an impassioned plea by a son of the migration
to his beloved “puerto rico” not to forget why he was born “native of for-
eign lands” [“nativo en otras tierras”] and to be aware of the real play of
cultural loyalties:
yo peleo por tí puerto rico, ¿sabes?

Yo me defiendo por tu nombre, ¿sabes?
Entro en tu isla, me siento extraño, ¿sabes?
Entro a buscar más y más, ¿sabes?
Pero tú con tus calumnias,
me niegas tu sonrisa
me siento mal, agallao
yo soy tu hijo,
de una migración
pecado forzado,
me mandaste a nacer nativo en otras tierras
por qué, porque éramos pobres, ¿verdad?
Porque tú querías vaciarte de tu gente pobre,
ahora regreso, con un corazón boricua, y tú,
me desprecias, me miras mal, me atacas mi hablar,
mientras comes mcdonalds en discotecas americanas,
y no pude bailarla salsa en san juan, la que yo
bailo en mis barrios llenos de todas tus costumbres,
así que, si tú no me quieres, pues yo tengo
un puerto rico sabrosísimo en que buscar refugio
en nueva york, y en muchos otros callejones
que honran tu presencia, preservando todos

tus valores, así que, no me
hagas sufrir, ¿sabes?6
[I fight for you, puerto rico, you know?

I defend myself for your name, you know?
I enter your island, i feel foreign, you know?
I enter searching for more and more, you know?
but you, with your insults,
you deny me your smile,
i feel bad, indignant.
I am your son,
of a migration,
a sin forced on me,
you sent me to be born a native of other lands.
why? because we were poor, right?
because you wanted to empty yourself of poor people.
Now i return, with a boricua heart, and you,
you scorn me, you look askance, you attack the way i speak,
while you’re out there eating mcdonalds in american discotheques,
and i couldn’t even dance salsa in san juan, which i
can dance in my neighborhoods full of your customs.
So that, if you don’t want me, well, i have
a delicious puerto rico where i can seek refuge
in new york, and in lots of other alleyways
that honor your presence, preserving all
of your values, so that, please, don’t make
me suffer, you know?]
Such texts, structured for their emotional force around the clash be-
tween an imaginary and a “real” Puerto Rico, and between jarring iden-
tity claims of “here” and “there,” abound in “Nuyorican” literature.
Works by Sandra María Esteves and Victor Hernández Cruz, Edward
Rivera and Esmeralda Santiago, show that “la memoria rota” is the site
not merely of exclusion and fragmentation but also of new meanings and
identity. They attest to the act of memory at the break itself and thereby
move from the pieces of broken memory to the creative practice of
“breaking memory.” Discontinuity, rather than a threat to cultural sur-
vival and inclusion, helps us critically examine prevailing continuities

and imagine and create new ones. Homi Bhabha, for whom Díaz-
Quiñones expresses great admiration in La memoria rota, provides an ex-
cellent description of ironically privileged positionality “at the break.” In-
spired by Said’s move from Foucault to the scene of the Palestinian
struggle, “from the Left Bank to the West Bank,” Bhabha speaks in an in-
terview in the early 1990s of
the possibilities of being, somehow, in between, of occupying an inter-

stitial space that was not fully governed by the recognizable traditions
from which you came. For the interaction or overdetermination often
produces another third space. It does not necessarily produce some
higher, more inclusive, or representative reality. Instead, it opens up a
space that is skeptical of cultural totalization, of notions of identity which
depend for their authority on being “originary,” or concepts of culture
which depend for their value on being pure, or of tradition, which
depends for its effectivity on being continuous. A space where, to put it
very simply, I saw great political and poetic and conceptual value in
forms of cultural identification which subverted authority, not by claim-
ing their total difference from it, but were able to actually use authorized
images, and turn them against themselves to reveal a different history.
And I saw this little figure of subversion intervening in the interstices, as
being different from the big critical batallions that always wanted to have
a dominating authority, opposed by an equally subordinated agency:
victim and oppressor, sparsely and starkly blocked out.7
The experience of being “in between,” so deeply familiar to Puerto Ri-

cans in the United States, thus harbors the possibility of an intricate poli-
tics of freedom and resistance. Understood in this way as a kind of phe-
nomenology or philosophy of experiential space, the “break” appears as
both a limit and a breaking of the limit. The “third space” and “little figure
of subversion” identified by Bhabha summon the notion of transgression
and its constant crossing of lines and demarcated limits. In Language,
Counter-Memory, Practice, Foucault describes this relation between trans-
gression and limit: “Transgression is an action which involves the limit,
that narrow zone of a line where it displays the flash of its passage, but per-
haps also its entire trajectory, even its origin; it is likely that transgression
has its entire space in the line it crosses.”8
Rather than negate the limit by crossing it, transgression foregrounds

and mediates contrasts by illuminating the spaces on either side of the
limit. In a striking metaphor, Foucault suggests that the relationship be-
tween the limit and its transgression “is like a flash of lightning in the
night which . . . gives a dense and black intensity to the night it denies,
which lights up the night from the inside, from top to bottom, and yet owes
to the dark the stark clarity of its manifestation” (34).
Such insights from contemporary cultural theory point up the need to
appreciate the complexity of Puerto Rico’s “broken memory” from the van-
tage point of those living “in between,” in the space of the “break” itself.
Sandra María Esteves gives voice to this complexity in the opening lines of
her poem “Not Neither,” where she identifies as both “Puertorriqueña” and
“Americana,” yet feels that she is neither a “jíbara” nor a “gringa”:
Pero ni portorra, pero sí portorra too

Pero ni que what am I?9
Occupying and transgressing the limit can be baffling, bewildering to

the point of existential anguish, yet facing up to the confounding reality can
allow for a newfound sense of confidence and identity. Esmeralda Santiago,
for one, after years of jostling and juggling between the Puerto Rican and
U.S. parts of her life, has finally “learned to insist on my peculiar brand of
Puerto Rican identity. One not bound by geographical, linguistic or behav-
ioral boundaries, but rather, by a deep identification with a place, a people
and a culture which, in spite of appearances, define my behavior and de-
termine the rhythms of my days. An identity in which I’ve forgiven myself
for having to look up a recipe for ‘arroz con pollo’ in a Puerto Rican cook-
book meant for people who don’t know a ‘sombrero’ from a ‘sofrito.’”10
3
In what language do we remember? Is it the language we use when we
speak with friends and family in our everyday lives? Or does our choice of
a language of memory involve a transposition, a translation in the literal
sense of moving across: trasladar, “de un lado a otro” [from one side to the
other]? For Puerto Ricans, half of whom may be on either “side” at any
given time, a symbiosis between language and place, and between identity
and memory, is especially salient today. Spanish, English, Spanglish, all in
the plural and in lowercase, make for an abundant reservoir of expressive

codes with which to relate (to) the past. For language is not only the su-
preme mnemonic medium, the vehicle for the transmission of memory;
fifty years of Puerto Rican history have shown that language can also be the
site and theme of historical action, the locus of contention over issues of
identity and community that reach far beyond our preference for, or re-
liance on, this or that word or grammar. “La memoria rota,” the fragment-
ing of Puerto Rican historical memory as a result of selective privileges and
suppressions, makes its most palpable appearance as “la lengua rota,” or,
as Antonio Martorell puts it in his inspired performance piece, “la lengua
mechada” [stuffed tongue].11
In his essay “La política del olvido” (1991), Arcadio Díaz-Quiñones
shows that it is not necessary to accept the inaccurate, colonially charged
claim that Puerto Rico is a “bilingual nation” in order to stand in equally
critical opposition to the officialization of Spanish as the national language.
For while the annexationist impulse behind the bilingual-nation idea is ev-
ident, Díaz-Quiñones recognizes the “Spanish-only” campaign as no more
than chronic recourse of the autonomist leaders (in this case then-gover-
nor Rafael Hernández Colón) in their most desperate moments of oppor-
tunism. “What can be gained,” he asks, “from defining an only language in
the face of the hybridity and mixing of Spanish, English, and Spanglish
that one hears spoken in Bayamón, Puerto Nuevo, or Union City? The
Puerto Rican elites have good reason to defend their bilingualism: it allows
them to read Toni Morrison or Faulkner and partake of the high culture of
the Metropolitan Museum or the New York City Ballet, and of course Wall
Street. The diaspora of Puerto Rican emigrants has been mixing their lan-
guages over and over, in their continual trip back and forth.”12
New York, Díaz-Quiñones reminds us, has been a Caribbean and Puer-
to Rican city for over a century now, witness to and deeply influenced by
the lives and writings, the songs and struggles, of many illustrious Puer-
to Ricans, along with Cubans of the prominence of José Martí and Celia
Cruz. “I prefer the hybridity of nationalities” [“Yo prefiero la hibridez
de las nacionalizaciones”], he continues, and concludes his reflections
on the politics of language with the challenging question, addressed to-
ward Puerto Ricans on both sides of the linguistic divide: “Will we have
the capacity to decolonize our imaginary, to take leave of the colonial fog
that Hostos spoke of without relinquishing that special ‘mess’ that identi-
fies us?”13
When it comes to language, “este revolú que nos identifica” amounts

to a veritable stew, if such a tired and overloaded expression may be par-
doned in the interest of differentiating the dynamic of blending and mul-
tiple intersection from notions of transition, transfer, interference, or
even back-and-forth movement. It’s a sancocho whose ingredients in-
clude, as Esmeralda Santiago has learned, sofrito and not sombreros, be-
cause it is not random, much less a sign of confusion and incoherence,
as the “English or Español Only-ists” would have it. On closer look, bilin-
gualism as practiced by Puerto Ricans on both sides of el charco, but es-
pecially by the half “over here,” constitutes an intricate tactic and strategy
of response and assertion, with deep poetic and political implications.
“Broken” English, “broken” Spanish, English and Spanish “breaking”
(into) each other—who with any contact at all with Puerto Ricans can fail
to hear the semantic micropolitics at play in usages like “Cógelo con take
it easy!” or “No problema,” or in the bent meanings in the use of words
like anyway, OK, or brother (pronounced “brō-ther”) in a Spanish context,
or pero, verdad, este, or mira when speaking English? Whether the primary
code is Spanish or English, colloquial Puerto Rican is characterized by its
porousness, its undermining and breaking, of the authority of monolin-
gual discourse. Collective memory and identity find their appropriate ar-
ticulation in this lively, “macaronic” sensibility, where the mixed-code
vernacular voice responds in both directions to the imposition of official,
standard constructs of “the” national language. Puerto Rican dreams are
“broken English dreams,” as Pedro Pietri announced in one of his signa-
ture poems from the early 1970s.14 The cultural idiom of many Puerto Ri-
cans and other Latinos in the United States, their language of expression
and fantasy, is captured well in the title of the book by the Cuban Amer-
ican cultural critic Coco Fusco, who calls her essays on “cultural fusion in
the Americas” English Is Broken Here.15
Yet as fluid as this interlingual practice may be, there is still a here and a
there. Its being “translocal” does not erase the efficacy of “locus”; bound-
aries of difference and distance remain, most obviously in relation to place
and location. Geography is the richest metaphorical field for the politics of
linguistic and cultural breaking; the contrast between here and there per-
meates the idiom, from everyday speech to the lingo of popular songs to the
twists and turns of bilingual poetry. The “there” is not only imaginary; it is
acknowledged and even thematized as imaginary. The imaginary “there and
then” serves as an accessible foil to the intensity of lived presence, and often,
as in the poetry of Sandra María Esteves and Victor Hernández Cruz, be-
comes a resource for self-discovery and political insight.
Tato Laviera takes this locational counterpoint as the structuring princi-
ple of his dramatic poem “migración,” where the lyrics of the proverbially
nostalgiac ballad “En mi viejo San Juan” share the same lines and stanzas
with the words, also in Spanish, of a Puerto Rican on the frozen winter
streets of the Lower East Side as he reflects on the death of the song’s com-
poser, Noel Estrada. Eventually, the emotionally laden chords of “En mi
viejo San Juan,” often considered the anthem of the Puerto Rican and Latin
American emigrant, bring out the sun and, as they resound in barbershops
and nightspots in El Barrio, play their consoling yet challenging role in the
familiar here and now. This sharp dramatic interplay between two cultural
places, the quoted “there” and the unmediated physical “here,” allows for
a new mode of identity-formation freed from the categorical fixity of place.
In his essay “Migratorias,” the critic Julio Ramos concludes his comments
on Laviera’s “migración” by speaking of a practical, “portable” identity: “It
is a way of conceiving identity that defies the usual topographical connec-
tions, along with rigid categories of territoriality and their telluric meta-
phorization. In Laviera, ‘roots’ may amount to that foundation as a citation,
reinscribed as the syllable of a song. Roots that are portable, disposed to
use in a ‘mainstream ethic,’ based on practices of identity, on identity as
practice of judgment in the course of traveling.”16
The themes of spatial, historical, and linguistic counterpoint are joined
by Laviera in his remarkable poem “melao,” which enacts paradigmatical-
ly what I have been calling broken English and Spanish memories:
melao was nineteen years old

when he arrrived from santurce
spanish speaking streets
melao is thirty-nine years old

in new york still speaking
santurce spanish streets
melaíto his son now answered

in black american soul english talk
with native plena sounds
and primitive urban salsa beats
somehow melao was not concerned

at the neighborly criticism
of his son’s disparate sounding
talk
melao remembered he was criticized

back in puerto rico for speaking
arrabal black spanish
in the required english class
melao knew that if anybody

called his son american
they would shout puertorro
in english and spanish
meaning i am puerto rican
coming from yo soy boricua
i am a jíbaro
dual mixtures
of melao and melaíto’s
spanglish speaking son
así es la cosa papá17
Though the narrative voice is in English, Spanish words, sounds, and

meanings burst through the monolingual seams; every shift in geographic
and biographical reference undermines the “official” status of either lan-
guage standard. Close and repeated reading reveals a vernacular Spanish
subtext that explodes at the end but collides and colludes with English se-
mantics in the dead center of the poem. The centrally placed word disparate,
spelled the same in both languages, also “means” in both languages, but
the simultaneous meanings are not the same. The concealed (Spanish)
phonetics harbors a repressed signification, and the poetics of convergence
and divergence underlies an everyday politics of the break in cultural and
historical memory.
“La memoria rota,” evocative image of the fragmentation of Puerto
Rican historical consciousness, is thus most appropriate, especially as it
refers to the migratory experience, when reimagined as an active process
of breaking and re-membering. Arcadio Díaz-Quiñones has succeeded in
placing those lapses and exclusions indelibly on the contemporary intel-
lectual agenda and has signaled the attendant political implications of a

needed historical revision. But for Puerto Rican memory to be “repaired,”
for it to assume greater coherence and continuity, its incoherences and dis-
continuities must be probed as they manifest themselves in lived experi-
ence and expression. “Ese revolú que nos identifica,” the elusive mortar of
Puerto Rican cultural identity, appears as a magnetic field of unity and di-
versity, relations and translations. Puerto Rican memory gets “unbroken”
by melao, and by melaito, his “disparate sounding” son, as well as by
“melaito’s spanglish speaking son” when he affirms his “dual mixture” by
proclaiming, “así es la cosa papá.”
4

“Salvación Casita”
Space, Performance, and Community
The casita people had the Smithsonian jumping that night. It was Febru-
ary 2, 1991, and the occasion was the opening celebration of the new Ex-
perimental Gallery, a space within the Smithsonian Institution’s Arts and
Industries Building intended to “showcase innovative artists, scientists,
educators and designers from local, national and international communi-
ties.” As stated in the invitation, “The Experimental Gallery pushes the
edges of our museum knowledge by encouraging risk-taking in exhibition
technique and style.” Care is taken to assure us that the experimentation
is to be that of the exhibit makers, and that “Content and Subject are not
the Experiment!”1
Yet, with all these cautionary distinctions, the central space of the new
gallery was dedicated to what was clearly the featured inaugural exhibit,
“Las Casitas: An Urban Cultural Alternative.” What an experiment in con-
tent and subject for the “national museum” of the United States! For on
display was the world of those little houses, modeled after the humble
dwellings in rural Puerto Rico of years gone by, which have sprung up in
the vacant lots of New York’s impoverished Puerto Rican neighborhoods
since the late 1980s. Wherever you go in the South Bronx and East Har-
lem (El Barrio) these days you’re liable to catch sight of a casita, in its de-
sign and atmosphere magically evocative of the rural Caribbean and now
serving as a social club and cultural center for inhabitants of the sur-
rounding tenements.2
I’ll never forget the feeling I had as I made my way through the crowd
of art-world professionals and museum officials hobnobbing in the huge
domed rotunda and first set my eyes on that spanking, bright turquoise ca-
63
64 “Salvación Casita”
sita, “Rincón Criollo” (roughly, “Hometown Corner”), so familiar to me

from my forays to Brook Avenue in the South Bronx, transplanted to such
an unlikely site! The program called it a “built environment,” a “living in-
stallation, a living space of rescued images that reinforce Puerto Rican cul-
tural identity.” Clearly the innovation was not just that of the gallery staff
but of the people who built the casita “environment” in the first place. To
me, the sight of a casita in the Smithsonian was an uncanny example of the
title of the book I happened to have with me that night, Sally Price’s Prim-
itive Art in Civilized Places (1989).
The little building assumed an imposing but somehow uncomfortable
presence there in the center of that gaping, uncluttered space, and seemed
intruded upon by the oohs and ahs of its sophisticated visitors as they filed
up the “cute” porch and into the “quaint” interior. Lining the walls, the life-
scale photos of “real” casitas in their “real” home settings helped bridge
the gap somewhat, as did the explanatory captions, the decorative and
functional “objects” of casita culture, and the video showings set off in the
far corner.
But what made the difference, and brought this “experimental” repre-
sentation in the nation’s capital back in touch with the South Bronx, was the
presence of the casita people themselves. There was José Rivera, one of the
original builders of Rincón Criollo and for some years its president. There
was his brother Ramón (“Papo Chín”), who helped José build the replica
and install it in the Experimental Gallery. There was Cepeda (hardly anyone
knows him by his first name), another long-time Rincón Criollo mainstay,
who aside from his regular role as cook and emcee at casita events has
taken on the joyful task of documenting everything on video. So there, too,
was Cepeda, with his contagious toothy smile, tilted Panama hat, starched
guayabera shirt, and camcorder tucked under his chin. Norma Cruz and
Benny Ayala, the casita’s resident teachers of music, instrument-making,
and dance, were also present, as was José Manuel Soto, or “Chema” as
everybody knows him, the founding and guiding spirit behind the casita
since even before the lot was cleared. In fact, people from the neighborhood
even call Rincón Criollo “la casa de Chema.” And sharing the excitement
were other familiar faces, those of the friends of casita culture like Betti-Sue
Hertz, the director and curator of the project, Bill Aguado, director of the
Bronx Council on the Arts, project photographer Martha Cooper, consult-
ing urban anthropologists Joe Sciorra and Susan Slyomovics, and partici-
pating architect Luis Aponte-Pares.
“Salvación Casita” 65
The initial awkwardness and incongruity of the scene then began to give
way to congeniality and, as we drifted into the rotunda to partake of the
abundant food and drinks, to an air of festivity. And when the superb salsa
band, Manny Oquendo’s Libre, took the stage and started blasting its hot
guarachas and plenas, that venerable rotunda of the Smithsonian Institu-
tion seemed like a casita party, transposed and out of its habitat, but still ex-
uding that boisterous human energy which only comes of living vernacular
performance. Tweed suit jackets and lush evening gowns swirling to those
irresistible salsa sounds, museum administrators trying vigorously to keep
up with the confident steps of South Bronx street people, Libre’s congas
and trombones filling every cranny of the institution’s vast halls with trop-
ical sounds straight from New York City—beyond anyone’s expectations,
the casita had indeed proved itself to be “a living installation, a living space
of rescued images that reinforce Puerto Rican cultural identity.”
A month or so later, on a day in early spring, José Rivera called to invite me

to a special event at the casita. They were calling it “Salvación Casita,” and
there was a sense of urgency in his voice. It seems that the developers and
housing authorities were hounding them once again, not with any explicit
threats but by floating the idea that they were considering use of the “va-
cant” land for some kind of construction and development. The purpose of
“Salvación Casita” was to show, by force of sheer human presence and ac-
tivity, that the space is not at all vacant and is already being put to valid use.
As at eviction parties of years gone by, casita members recognize that the
best way to keep the authorities at bay is to celebrate the blatant fact of col-
lective occupancy.
I arrived early, in the late afternoon, to the smell of barbecued chicken
wafting from the backyard and the bustle of people, men and women, old
and young, setting up for the event. Inside the casita was like a dressing
room, with Norma Cruz seeing to the makeup and costumes of her young
dance students as they got ready to perform. On the porch, José, Benny
Ayala, and some of the other musicians were testing microphones and tun-
ing instruments, while Cepeda was already at the mike welcoming arriving
friends and neighbors and announcing future casita events and “salvation”
plans. In this homegrown performance space, the front porch is the stage,
or rather the bandshell, as the formal and spontaneous dance presenta-
tions take place among the public in the yard directly in front of the porch.
José even told me once that they built the porch a little wider than casita
custom would have it precisely with this stage function in mind, extending
it so as to accommodate all the musicians, instruments, and sound equip-
ment needed for full participation in bomba and plena performance.
The front yard, or batey, gradually started filling with people—casita reg-
ulars and associates, guests invited and uninvited, neighbors from the sur-
rounding tenements, and friends and family from El Barrio, Brooklyn, and
other parts of the Bronx. Though nearly everyone was Puerto Rican, it would
be difficult and even pointless to generalize in any other sense about the as-
sortment of people gathered for the casita event. There were as many wo-
men as men, there were blacks and whites, toddlers and elders, and every-
thing in between. Though dress tended to be very casual, the range of styles
was strikingly varied as well: baseball hats and panamas, linen blouses and
tank-tops, full dresses and cutoffs, tattered jeans and baggy slacks, Nikes,
dance flats and even a few spike heels.
The human atmosphere, despite the forbidding location and the ex-
pressed urgency of the occasion, was consistently relaxed, congenial, and
respectful. Not a trace of fear, anger, or aggressiveness was evident, nobody
seemed inclined to get “out of hand,” and even the unknowing interloper
could not help but feel welcome and comfortable. Lively gestures and
hearty laughter accompanied casual conversation, young children danced
on their parents’ laps, teeny-boppers flipped motley-colored skateboards, a
young couple strolled over to the improvised bar to buy a beer, bystanders
stood idly along the chainlink fence, passersby congregated on the street
and sidewalk to look on and wave, now and then drifting in when they rec-
ognized a familiar face.
The hub of these many disparate styles and activities, drawing them to-
gether into a single shared event, was the presence of the casita itself. Ar-
chitectural shape and detail, extemporaneous and crafted decor, spatial
arrangement and location conspire to lend the casita and its environs a uni-
fying emblematic weight, and to convert the easy ambience of the scene
into an occasion of community history. Leisurely playfulness and everyday
sociability, when in close range of the casita, become performance.
Cepeda finishes his welcome and announcements by promising “un po-
quito de salsa.” Carefully he places the mike in front of a Sanyo tape play-
er, puts on his favorite cassette, and takes to circulating with his trusty cam-
corder. Technology is clearly no stranger to the casitas, which are often
equipped with refrigerators, television sets and VCRs, stereos, and even
jukeboxes. The gathering crowd delights in the first sounds as they wait,
with growing anticipation, for the musicians and dancers to assemble. As

the sun sets behind the buildings on Third Avenue, the scattered groups
begin to take shape as an audience, and the glow of a single lightbulb sets
off the porch as a theatrical stage.
Four hours of live music are interrupted only by further announcements,
calls for donations to support the casita, and the introduction of new groups.
Of the variety of songs played—there were merengues, boleros, seises, sones,
guarachas—by far the most common and favorite were bombas and plenas.
It was these African-based forms of Puerto Rican popular music that got
everyone moving, clapping and shouting in chorus. Increasingly as the
night progressed, the line between audience and performers faded, so that
by the last hour the porch was overflowing with men and women of all ages
singing and keeping the beat with panderetas, güiros, or whatever else was at
hand. What had first seemed like a picnic or block party, and then a concert,
took on the air of a carnival.
Who were these pleneros that served as the catalysts of such an out-
burst of collective participation? The answer is close at hand: José, Papo,
Benny, Chema, the same people who founded and built Rincón Criollo.
As one plena chorus puts it, “Le cambiaron el nombre / a la casita de
Chema / ahora la están llamando / la institución de la plena” [“They
changed the name / of the casita of Chema / now they’re calling it / the
institute of the plena”]. The plena is the musical expression of the casita
and its cultural habitat; its tones and themes seem to mesh perfectly with
the collective needs and moods of the people. It is no accident that the
most celebrated plena group in New York for some years now, Los Plen-
eros de la 21, was formed and based at Rincón Criollo.
Though it originated and gained its initial popularity in the coastal
towns of Puerto Rico early in the century, the plena has a long history in
New York, as do all the forms of Puerto Rican popular song.3 The first
commercial recordings of plena, by Canario (Manuel Jiménez) y Su Gru-
po, were made in RCA’s New York studios in the late 1920s, and over the
subsequent decades all the most famous pleneros—notably Canario, César
Concepción, Rafael Cortijo, and Mon Rivera—performed, recorded, and
lived for some time in New York. Some important but lesser known plena
groups, like those of Victor Montañez and Matías Pérez, enjoyed their en-
tire careers here in New York and were hardly familiar to audiences on
the Island. Since the beginnings of the emigrant Puerto Rican commu-
nity, and still today, plenas have been a favored genre of musical enter-
tainment at social clubs, house parties, and political and social gatherings
for all occasions.
A key person to influence the grounding of the plena in New York’s Puer-
to Rican neighborhoods, especially the down-home, street variety, is the leg-
endary Marcial Reyes. For some thirty years Marcial was known throughout
El Barrio and the South Bronx for his unique style of pandereta playing and
his hundreds of plena compositions. A native of Santurce, he tirelessly
taught the arts of playing, singing, and instrument-making, and was cen-
trally responsible for organizing plena groups, such as Victor Montañez y
Sus Pleneros de la 110, which enjoyed popularity over many years in New
York’s Puerto Rican neighborhoods. Today’s pleneros also mention other im-
portant names, like Henny Alvarez, Johnny Flores, and Pepe Castillo; and of
course the towering figures of Rafael Cortijo and Ismael Rivera, with whom
most of them seem to have played at one time or another, looms large in all
of plena history since the 1950s.4 But it is Marcial Reyes, in recent years
back in Puerto Rico and still as active as ever, who is most widely acknowl-
edged for his role in promoting the bomba y plena traditions in the New York
Puerto Rican communities.
Marcial was also one of the founders of Rincón Criollo. He was there, al-
ways raising hell, throughout the clearing and building process and even
before, when Chema’s hangout was still a storefront social club across the
street. He was a fixture in all the jams on the porch in the first years, and
around 1983 he helped draw together some of the most accomplished prac-
titioners, many of them regulars of Rincón Criollo, to form Los Pleneros de
la 21. Identifying the members of the group was made easier because, like
other forms of traditional popular music, plena performance has often
been shared from generation to generation along family lines. Even among
the Rincón Criollo mainstays, several are from families of pleneros and
bomberos; most notably, José and Papo Chín are the sons of Ramón “Chín”
Rivera, the renowned panderetero, vocalist, and composer who played with
the likes of Rafael Cepeda, Mon Rivera padre, Vicente Pichón, and even
“Bumbún” Oppenheimer.
The worlds of the casita and the plena are thus symbiotically related as
forms of performative expression of working-class Puerto Ricans, especial-
ly those of Afro-Caribbean origins from the coastal areas of the Island.
Both are rooted in the everyday life of the participants, and their improvi-
sational quality make both optimally inclusive as to the terms of involve-
ment. Just as anyone of good will is welcome at casita events, so taking part
in plena jams is open to any newcomer who can to keep a beat. One of
Chema’s compositions says it clearly: “Oye todo el que llega / sin instru-
mento desea tocar / coge hasta una botella, un cuchillo de mesa / y pega a
marcar” [“Anyone who shows up wanting to play / even without an instru-
ment / pick up a bottle and knife from the table / and keep the beat”].
It seems that this affinity between architectural and musical expression
goes back a long way, to the origins of both practices at the beginning of
the century. Old photos of Barrio San Antón in the southern coastal city of
Ponce, considered the birthplace of the plena, show unpaved streets lined
with casitas. The structural concept is the same as that evident in New York
today, most notably with the front porch facing out onto an open public
space. It takes no great stretch of the imagination to place a group of plen-
eros behind the porch railing and people socializing and dancing in the
front yard.
Despite their conscious adherence to early traditions, both casita and
plena practice evidence inevitable adjustments in their contemporary New
York setting. With the casitas this change is obvious, because of such im-
pinging factors as land-use codes and the winter climate. In one of his
compositions, a takeoff on the well-known song “Los Carboneros,” José
Rivera remembers being in the casita before it had heat, and playfully
complains to the negligent “super” to provide some coal: “Super, hace frío,
carbón / me levanto por la mañana / pa’ irme a trabajar / el super no se
levanta / y a mí me pasmá” [“Super, it’s cold, burn some coal / I get up in
the morning / to go to work / the super doesn’t get up / and I’m freezing
to death”]. The irony in this song refrain is of course double, since unlike
their antecedents in Puerto Rico the casitas here are not intended, or al-
lowed, to be lived in. And as that icy winter scene suggests, the immediate
reference-points for New York casitas, everything from construction mate-
rials to furnishings and décor, all pertain to the surrounding urban setting.
The changes in the plena involve not only the role of amplification,
recording, and thematic references to life in New York. Here there is also
a mingling of vocal and instrumental styles which in traditional, Island-
based plena remained differentiated according to region or individual
artist. In speaking of the members of Los Pleneros de la 21, for example,
José readily identifies styles from Mayagüez or Santurce, or the trademarks
of Mon Rivera padre or Emilio Escobar.
Another interesting and important difference is the role of women. While
in the tradition, plena musical presentation has been an overwhelmingly
male experience, with women only present as dancers or an occasional vo-

calist, at Rincón Criollo the women came forward as instrumentalists. At
“Salvación Casita” the women were slamming away at the pandereta, a sight
which I’m told is virtually unimaginable in the Puerto Rico of recent memo-
ry. Maybe this is still another throwback, like casita architecture, to very early
times, since history has it that two of the first masters at the pandereta were
women: Catherine George, known as Doña Catín, and her daughter Carolina
Mora Clark, who went by the name of Carola among friends and neighbors
in her native Ponce.5
Though live bomba and plena music is the central activity at the casita
event, the musical porch / stage is situated spatially between two other per-
formance areas, the dance floor / yard directly in front and the casita inte-
rior backstage, each of which stands in a different relation to the musical
presentation. The space for dancing allows for immediate, kinetic interac-
tion with the rhythms and flows emanating from the porch; in the batey,
physical communication with the musicians and instruments is all but in-
evitable. Inside the casita, on the other hand, even when the carnival at-
mosphere reaches its highest pitch, there always seem to be people just sit-
ting around talking, or children playing on the floor or watching television,
apparently heedless of the whole boisterous affair.
The front yard of Rincón Criollo is paved with bricks, unlike other ca-
sitas where the batey is either bare earth or covered with cement. This spe-
cial effect came about accidentally, it seems, when one of the associates, a
bricklayer by trade, started placing down bricks he had gathered from a de-
molished building nearby just to see what it would look like. Everyone liked
it right away, José recalls, because of what they called the “Old San Juan ef-
fect,” and before you knew it, after they all pitched in to help, the batey of
Rincón Criollo was fashioned with colonial-style pavement.
Dancing at the “Salvación Casita” party, as in other casita activities, took
on the full range of forms, from individual and couple steps to open group
participation, from inconspicuous head-bobbing and foot-tapping to the
formal presentation, in folkloric costume, of the young women in Norma
Cruz’s bomba y plena class. At several points in the evening, most notably
during this rehearsed display of coordinated shimmying and traditional
movements, the crowd in attendance was an audience. They also moved
aside to admire and cheer when a particularly adept couple, like Norma
Cruz and her partner Consorte, took to the center of the batey to demon-
strate the perfect synchronization that comes of years of dancing plena to-
gether. Another memorable and more unusual display, which brought hi-
larious delight to the party, was when a man in his sixties, clearly one of the
neighborhood personalities, got out there and danced a whole number by
himself. Sporting a weathered, hip-length leather jacket and a black base-
ball cap turned slightly to one side, he shimmied, twisted, and jerked his
way through the entire ten-minute piece with remarkable timing, all the
while oblivious to the friendly snickers and guffaws of the onlookers.
Aside from these moments of choreographic exhibition, most of the
crowd was out there on the brick floor. There was none of the self-con-
sciousness that sometimes prevails at dance clubs and even house parties,
as people moved about in every which way, young with old, tall with short,
gliders with hoppers, women with women, even, at some points, men with
men. As the energy level rose, those seated on the sidelines joined in as
well, clapping and swaying in their seats, and groups of onlookers outside
the fence took to dancing on the sidewalk. The energy of collective per-
formance radiated outward from the incandescent wooden porch filled
with waving panderetas, güiros, congas, and accordions.
Inside the casita was like another world, though only a thin wooden wall
and a few yards separated it from the porch trembling with percussive
sound. Two women and an elderly man sat at a kitchen table talking. Four
or five children were watching Saturday Night Live. A toddler was playing
with a cat on the floor. A teenage couple was whispering and giggling in
the back doorway. Another woman was busy rearranging some of the wall
hangings: a calendar with the Puerto Rican flag, a picture of nationalist
leader Pedro Albizu Campos, a leaflet with the face of the woman poet Julia
de Burgos. Out through the back door you could see a few people lined up
waiting to use the outhouse. There was a tranquility and everydayness that
offered a welcome respite from the eventful intensity outside. And yet, de-
spite the contrast, this peaceful scene was also, in some remarkable way, an
integral part of the performance. The completeness of the event required
somehow this space for the nonevent, as though it were a reminder that
when the party is over the casita itself, the community’s home away from
home, will still be there.
In Puerto Rico the casitas were often clustered at the mouths of rivers. Peas-
ants and rural workers displaced by the abrupt economic changes under
American rule, and again at midcentury by the beginnings of industrializa-
tion, found along the riverbanks and marshy deltas the only land available
for them to settle. There, removed from the facilities of the nearby towns
and cities, they would patch together their makeshift shanties and eke out
their subsistence by fishing, truck gardening, and seasonal stints on the
huge sugar plantations. As they built their humble dwellings these squatter
families always knew that their days there were probably numbered, and
that at any moment agents of the government or the corporations could lay
claim to the land and send them packing.
Papo Chín and José Rivera remember such moments from their child-
hood in “El Fanguito,” the crowded slum in the mangroves of Santurce
where they grew up in the 1950s. When the eviction notices came, they and
their neighbors would disassemble the casitas, transport the wood planks
and panels to the other side of the lagoon, and set them up again. And life,
they recall with a wry smile, would return to normal, as though nothing
had happened. “What did we care which side of the water we lived on?”
Since its earliest use, casita architecture has been eminently portable; ca-
sita settlements were built more with the dream than with the real prospect
of settling in mind. With displacement the most pressing fact of life, the il-
lusion of permanence becomes paramount. The same is true of the cultur-
al world of the casita people: while the music, dancing, pig roasts, and every-
day activities give the impression that they are rooted there and always have
been, they are lived with the knowledge that it had all occurred somewhere
else yesterday, and could well be happening somewhere else tomorrow.
This duality between apparent fixity and imminent relocation may ac-
count for the special appeal of casita design among the impoverished and
disenfranchised residents of the South Bronx. Under the present condi-
tions of inner-city life, they too, like their nomadic ancestors in Puerto Rico
or at some earlier time in their own lives, face the constant threat of re-
moval, of having to pick up and do it somewhere else. Potential displace-
ment is especially the condition of their gathering sites for cultural and
recreational activity. For while they may enjoy a semblance of stability, how-
ever tenuous, in their tenement apartments or housing projects, over the
years economic circumstances have forced them to move their public get-
togethers from the dance halls to the storefront social clubs to the vacant
lots. And from the vacant lot where to but another vacant lot?
The scramble for public space converged with the need to clean up the
rubble and treacherous abandon left by the demolition ball and the arson-
ists, and then to plant and harvest. In some cases the first little structures
were intended as tool sheds for the neighborhood gardeners, who were then
spurred on by a reluctant nod from the city agencies in the form of Opera-
tion Greenthumb. The transition to the present casita as cultural center with
adjoining mini-farm was only a matter of time and lively cultural memory,
but at the price of stricter official vigilance, more elaborate security meas-
ures, and, of course, a far heightened sense of impermanence.
Such social conditions, in addition to their dense historical symbolism,
make the casita settings themselves into acts of performative expression.
Whatever may be going on at any given moment, the whole scene—casita,
garden, batey, farm animals, outhouse, people milling and playing—is like a
moveable stage, an array of theatrical props that can readily be packed up and
reassembled in some other place and time. The chainlink fence around the
yard, aside from its obvious security function, goes to accent the sense of en-
closure, of boundedness and fixity within certain marked-off confines. Here
we are, it seems to say, nestled between these particular buildings on this par-
ticular block, and we’re comfortable and having a good time here. But this in-
sistence on demarcation and spatial specificity is actually a performative re-
sponse to the very fluidity of cultural and social borders characteristic of their
historical experience.
The aesthetic of casita performance thus needs to be viewed from two
perspectives: performance at the casita and the casita itself as performance.
Spatially, there is an angle on the multiple levels and zones of performative
expression inside the fence, and an angle from outside the fence, where the
casita and its enclosure appear as though from aerial range in their larger
architectural context. It is from this second optical approach, where the sur-
rounding buildings, sidewalks and streets, and the whole urban design
come into play, that performance refers to an act of imaginative transposi-
tion, or construction as anticipated provisionality and recontextualization.
For the community, building and being at the casita kindles a performative
sense of vividly imagined place and time: it is “as if” we were in Puerto Rico
or Puerto Rico were here, or “as if” Puerto Rico were still as it was back in
the days when people like us lived in casitas. But from the wider angle the
constructed illusion means that casitas exist “as if” there really were a set
place proper to the community. Either place engenders metaphor, or place
itself is metaphor.
Beyond its practical and symbolic functions for the community in which
it is located, the casita stands as a highly suggestive emblem of contempo-
rary Puerto Rican culture, and of diasporic vernacular culture in general. For
peoples caught up in circulatory, back-and-forth migratory motion and there-

by subject to the constant renewal of personal and historical ties, culture is
experienced as dramatic movement and change, adaptability and resilience.
Uniqueness, stasis, and even the inexorability of territory and sequence give
way to a logic of negotiation and interchangeability. The performance act, ob-
ject, and site are all eminently transferable, replaceable, mutable; borders,
however vigilantly patrolled, are traversable and ultimately collapsible. If eco-
nomic and political conditions forbid such transactional mobility, performa-
tive memory makes it possible, or even necessary. We did this back then,
over there, so let’s do it again now, over here. In fact, we’d better if we’re
going to survive.
As emblem, the casita is intended to mean many different things to dif-
ferent people. It is no wonder, then, that artisans in Puerto Rico are mak-
ing plaster-cast miniature casitas for home adornments, that there are ca-
sita T-shirts and casitas in ads for all kinds of products, that a town festival
in Cabo Rojo featured a “real” casita and casita kiosks in the plaza, or that
additions atop some flat-roof urbanizaciones (suburban housing develop-
ments) are designed after casitas. Nor is it an incongruity that when it
could no longer afford a regular site the former Black and White in Color
Gallery decided to become mobile as the Casita Gallery, or that Puerto Ri-
can artist Humberto Figueroa’s exhibit at the Museo del Barrio a few years
ago included two prefab casitas in the center of the gallery floor.
Nevertheless, despite the casitas’ seemingly boundless, protean adapt-
ability, there are still grounds for some serious misgivings about the sight of
a replica of Rincón Criollo in the halls of the Smithsonian Institution in
Washington. The tourists from middle America and the D.C. cultural elite
will surely never make it up to Brook Avenue and 159th Street, and it is un-
likely that they will come to appreciate the pressing human conditions that
made this “quaint” little structure possible, or necessary. On the other hand,
if they are willing, for even an hour, to give themselves over to the intense
performance energy of Manny Oquendo’s Libre and Los Pleneros de la 21,
then maybe they will be able to listen in on casita language in a way that will
dramatize their own relationship to the people of the South Bronx. But
when I saw those fancy coattails and evening gowns flying to the rhythms
of salsa and plena, and José and Cepeda grinning, I was able to sense more
deeply than ever the irony in the phrase “primitive art in civilized places.”
Even as a happy recollection, that euphoria of conviviality and taste of
carnival could only be momentary and, in view of the historical meanings
of casitas, ultimately illusory. For however benevolent and “innovative” the

intentions guiding the inauguration of the Experimental Gallery, the very
format and location of “Las Casitas: An Urban Cultural Alternative” only
serve to illustrate with particular poignancy the ideological weight sur-
rounding the concepts “primitive” and “civilized” and any account of their
supposed conciliation. The very idea of limiting “risk-taking” to exhibition
style and technique, and the emphatic disclaimer that “Content and Sub-
ject are not the Experiment!,” fits perfectly into critical analyses of hege-
monic cultural theory and practice like that of Sally Price.
As tenaciously as those die-hard dichotomies of the “civilized” and the
“primitive” and “technique” and “content” tend to hold sway in cultural
discourse, it is the other paired terms of the title, “art” and “places,” which
suggest more fruitful lines of thinking about casitas and their contextual
transformations. On what grounds and to what end are casitas to be con-
sidered “art,” and what role do shifting and contrasting “places,” under-
stood spatially and temporally, play in deepening our critical involvement?
Both in the Smithsonian and in the South Bronx, and even in their “origi-
nal” appearance in Puerto Rico, casitas mark off “alternative spaces,”
scenes, and practices which diverge from and as such challenge prescribed
arrangements and uses of social space. But clearly they are “alternative” in
different ways, and it is close historical attention to the changing relations
between “art” and “place,” expressive practice and sociocultural geography,
that allows for some insights into these critical distinctions.
In their passage from Puerto Rico in the first half of the century to the
South Bronx in the 1980s to the Smithsonian in 1991, casitas have occu-
pied three different “places,” and their construction and use constitute, or
relate to, “art” in three different ways. Between its primarily functional,
habitational presence in the Puerto Rico of not-too-distant memory and its
recreational, nostalgic reincarnation in the Bronx and El Barrio in more re-
cent years, and between these homegrown community centers and “Las
Casitas” in a museum gallery, two major transformations occur in the
meaning of casitas as sites and forms of cultural practice. Though both at-
test to the seemingly limitless adaptability and negotiability inherent in
what I have termed a casita “aesthetic,” these changes are obviously of a
very different order. In broad terms, but with the idea of “place” in view, the
first move is one of de-alienation, the second of alienation. Casitas like
Rincón Criollo have the effect—and surely this is their intention—of bridg-
ing distances of space and time, and of providing a respite from the in-
hospitable and atomizing conditions of their tenement apartments. With

its heightened symbolic reference, the “home” for poor families in Puerto
Rico of yesteryear becomes a “home away from home” for poor Puerto
Rican communities in the U.S. inner city today.
The Smithsonian’s “Rincón Criollo,” on the other hand, is the casita as
sheer display, disengaged from any community-based needs and desires.
Though in relation to their “originals” in Puerto Rico the new casitas also
have a museum-like sense of preservation and exhibition, the “public”
served by its construction and use is in sociological terms the same popu-
lation, only at a later chapter in its history, and the casita’s functionality for
everyday collective life, while rearticulated, is still present. What was, at
least in part, the casita as community museum is now the casita “installed”
in a museum; if not exactly a commodity, it has become an artifact, an ob-
ject, and in any case no longer a process and ongoing expressive and rep-
resentational practice. And again, though the intention may be to bridge
the disparate worlds of the museumgoers and the casita people, whatever
proximity is achieved is itself a simulation. The net effect, after the inau-
gural ball is over, is an accentuation of distance, difference, and ultimate
incompatibility based on hierarchies of cultural power. The museum ca-
sita, with all its rhetoric of welcoming respect, amounts to cultural tourism
of a special kind: instead of intruding on turf by going to it and interlop-
ing, the museum exhibit of vernacular culture does so by “installing” the
cultural turf on display in one’s own turf. Even the casita people them-
selves, whose presence did so much to enliven and authenticate the en-
counter, were there as part of the display, as “performers” in a masked,
scripted sense rather than as participants in a process of cultural creativity
and reenactment.
For it is clear, when the historical trajectory of casita life is brought to bear,
that the other face of the validation and celebration of community culture by
the dominant society is its repudiation and eventual suppression. By analyti-
cally juxtaposing “casita as community museum” and “casita within institu-
tional museum,” we can recognize how powerless folkloristic fancy is in de-
taining the advances of the bulldozer. The “preservation” of the community’s
own cultural reality, the act of “salvación casita,” finally falls to the casita com-
munity itself.
So far at least, the “Salvación Casita” campaign has been a success:
Rincón Criollo is still there, literally holding ground against the constant
incursion of the developers and housing authorities. The surrounding lots,
vacant over the years and allowing for a sense of open space and wide hori-
zons, are now, after the mid-1990s, filled with new housing units, of the
two- and three-story “post-projects” variety, harbingers of bigger, better,
and—for the casita people—more threatening developments ahead. Yet
not a Mother’s Day or New Year’s season goes by without that embattled
corner turning into a party. Dance classes and membership meetings con-
tinue, and time and again Cepeda is back at the microphone to rally new
rounds of support in defense of the casita.6 A copy of the brochure from
the Experimental Gallery’s opening exhibit has its place on the wall inside,
one memorable but not particularly consequential page in the life-story of
“urban cultural alternative,” Rincón Criollo.
5

“Cha-Cha with a Backbeat”

Songs and Stories of Latin Boogaloo
“Bang Bang”
“Let’s just try it out, Sonny. If it doesn’t work, I’ll buy you a double.” Jimmy
Sabater remembers the night he kept coaxing his bandleader, Joe Cuba, to
play a new number he had in mind. It was 1966 at the Palm Gardens Ball-
room in midtown Manhattan, and the house was packed. “It was a Black
dance,” Jimmy recalls, “de morenos, morenos americanos de Harlem and stuff,
you know, they had Black dances one night a week there and at some of the
other spots. So that night we were playing selections from our new album,
We Must Be Doing Something Right, that had just come out, the one with ‘El
Pito’ on it, you know, ‘I’ll never go back to Georgia, never go back . . .’ The
place was packed, but when we were playing all those mambos and cha-
chas, nobody was dancing. So at the end of the first set, I went over to Joe
Cuba and said, ‘Look, Sonny’ (that’s his nickname), ‘I have an idea for a tune
that I think might get them up.’ And Joe says, no, no, no, we got to keep on
playing the charts from the new album. Then toward the end of the second
set, I went on begging him, and said, ‘Look, if I’m wrong, we’ll stop and I’ll
buy you a double.’ So finally he said OK, and I went over to the piano and
told Nick Jimenez, ‘Play this’ . . . Before I even got back to the timbal, the
people were out on the floor, going ‘bi-bi, hah! bi-bi, hah!’ I mean mobbed!”
As Joe Cuba himself recalls, “Suddenly the audience began to dance side-to-
side like a wave-type dance, and began to chant ‘she-free, she-free,’ sort of
like an African tribal chant and dance.”1
The new tune by the Joe Cuba Sextet was “Bang Bang.” Within weeks it
was recorded and released as a single which soon hit the national Billboard
charts and stayed there for ten weeks, one of the few Latin recordings ever
79
80 “Cha-Cha with a Backbeat”
to reach that level of commercial success. It even outdid “El Pito,” which
the year before had also made the charts, and the album on which “Bang
Bang” appeared, Wanted: Dead or Alive, was a huge hit as well. It was the
heyday of Latin boogaloo, and Joe Cuba’s band was at the height of its pop-
ularity. The year 1966 also saw the closing of the legendary Palladium
Ballroom, an event marking the definitive end of the great mambo era in
Latin music which had already been waning since the beginning of the
decade. And, looking ahead to developments to come, it was some six
years later at that very same Palm Gardens venue, by then called the Chee-
tah Club, that the Fania All-Stars were filmed in performance in the mak-
ing of the movie Nuestra Cosa (Our Latin Thing), which is sometimes re-
garded as the inauguration of “salsa.” Between the mambo and salsa, in
the brief period spanning the years 1966–1968, the boogaloo was all the
rage in the New York Latin community and beyond. It was both a bridge
and a break, for with all the continuities and influences in terms of musi-
cal style, the boogaloo diverged from the prevailing models of Latin music
in significant ways.
Jimmy Sabater’s story about the making of “Bang Bang” helps explain
the social function of boogaloo, while the song itself is characteristic of
its style and musical qualities. As neighbors and coworkers, African
Americans and Puerto Ricans in New York had been partying together for
many years. For decades they had been frequenting the same clubs, with
Black and Latin bands often sharing the billing. Since the musical revo-
lution of the late 1940s, when musical giants like Mario Bauzá, Machito,
and Dizzie Gillespie joined forces in the creation of “Cubop” or Latin
jazz, the two traditions had come into even closer contact than ever, with
the strains of Afro-Cuban guaguancó, son, and guaracha interlacing and
energizing the complex harmonic figures of big band and bebop experi-
mentations. For African Americans, that same midcentury mambo and
Cubop period corresponded to the years of rhythm and blues, from the
jump blues of Louis Jordan to the shouters and hollerers and street cor-
ner doo-woppers of the 1950s. Scores of American popular tunes of those
years bore titles, lyrics, or musical gimmicks suggestive of the mambo or
cha-cha, while many young Puerto Ricans joined their African American
and Italian partners in harmonizing the echo-chamber strains of doo-wop
love songs and novelty numbers.2
With all the close sharing of musical space and tastes, however, there
were differences and distances. African American audiences generally
“Cha-Cha with a Backbeat” 81
appreciated and enjoyed Latin musical styles, yet those who fully under-
stood the intricacies of Afro-Cuban rhythms and came to master the
challenging dance movements remained the exception rather than the
rule. Most Black Americans, after listening admiringly to a set of mam-
bos and boleros, will long for their familiar blues and R&B sounds and,
by the mid-1960s, it was of course soul music. Popular Latin bands thus
found themselves creating a musical common ground by introducing the
trappings of Black American culture into their performances and thus
getting the Black audiences involved and onto the dance floor. “Bang
Bang” by the Joe Cuba Sextet, and Latin boogaloo music in general, was
intended to constitute this meeting place between Puerto Ricans and
Blacks, and by extension, between Latin music and the musical culture
of the United States.
“Bang Bang” begins with a short piano vamp, which is then immediate-
ly joined by loud, group handclapping and a few voices shouting excitedly
but unintelligibly, and then by a large crowd chanting in unison, “bi-bi, hah!
bi-bi, hah!” The chant is repeated four times, increasing each time in in-
tensity and accompanied throughout by the repeated piano lick, handclap-
ping, and shouting, which is then supplemented by Jimmy Sabater on tim-
bales, all the while building up to the resounding chorus “bang bang!” This
refrain phrase is introduced by the solo vocal, then repeated over and over
by the group chorus while the solo—none other than the legendary Cheo
Feliciano—goes off into a kind of skat soneo or adlib, blurting out random
phrases, mostly in Spanish, very much in the improvisational style of the
son montuno. This lead vocal interacts with the choral “bang bang” and with
the bongo bells (played, it turns out, by Manny Oquendo), and throughout
the song resounds in indirect and playful dialogue with another solo voice
line, in English, carried by Willie Torres, mostly exhorting the crowd and
the band with slang phrases like “come git it” “sock it to me,” “hanky
panky,” and the like. Somewhere in the middle of the four-minute record-
ing is the line, “Cornbread, hog maw, and chitlins,” repeated several times
and then teased out with Spanish comments like “comiendo cuchifrito” and
“lechón, lechón!” The last half of the song involves three or four false end-
ings, as over and over the irresistible rowdy clamor is rekindled by the same
piano vamp, with the solo vocal exchanges taking on a more and more gos-
sipy and jocular tone.
Though some changes were obviously required for the studio recording
of the tune, “Bang Bang” remains very much a party. Like many other pop-
ular songs of boogaloo, it reenacts a bawdy happening at the peak of its

emotional and sexual energy, with instrumentals and vocals playing in full
and wild association with the crowd. Joe Cuba recalls, thinking mainly of
“Bang Bang,” that “when I recorded in those days I always left a big boom
mike overhanging above all the musicians to put in a little live effect.” The
musical texture of the song is a patchwork of noises, emotive outbursts,
cries of glee, short musical phrases, and the recurring, abiding counter-
point of the crowd chorus and the leitmotiv piano lick. The lyrics, though
of no consistent narrative or dramatic significance, nevertheless do have a
meaning, which is the interplay of Black and Latin festivity and culture, the
playful mingling of African American phrases and cultural symbols with
those from Puerto Rican daily life. Musically this same message is carried
across with the collage-like mixing of familiar trappings from mambo and
R&B styles. The perspective is clearly that of the Latino, and Latin music is
the main defining sound of the piece; but the traditional features and struc-
turing principles of the Afro-Cuban model are consistently overridden by
their conjoining with qualities from the R&B and soul traditions. The over-
all effect of the recording is one of collective celebration, gleeful partying
where boundaries are set not so much by national and ethnic affiliation, or
even language or formalized dance movements, but by participation in that
special moment of inclusive ceremony.
As “Bang Bang” illustrates, the defining theme and musical feature of
boogaloo is precisely this intercultural togetherness, the solidarity engen-
dered by living and loving in unison beyond obvious differences. Its
emergence coincided with the historical moment of the Civil Rights
movement and the coming-of-age of the first generation of Puerto Rican
youth born and raised in New York City. Latin music expert and produc-
er René López calls boogaloo “the first Nuyorican music,” and a consen-
sus has gathered in concurrence with that description. It is the sound that
accompanied the teenage years of the Young Lords and of the Nuyorican
poets in the later 1960s; Piri Thomas’s groundbreaking novel Down These
Mean Streets was published in 1967. Like those experiences, it attests to
the guiding, exemplary role of African American culture and politics for
that generation of Puerto Ricans growing up in New York. “Bang Bang”
is an explosion of excitement arising from that cultural conjunction, the
linking of Puerto Rican backgrounds with the African American influ-
ences so prevalent in all aspects of social life, including of course their
music and dance.
“Lookie Lookie”
Latin boogaloo burst onto the scene in 1966, the year that saw the record-
ing not only of “Bang Bang” but of the other best-known boogaloo tunes as
well. Johnny Colón’s “Boogaloo Blues,” Pete Rodríguez’s “I Like It Like
That,” and Hector Rivera’s “At the Party” all hit the record stores in 1966–
67 and made overnight stars of many of the young musicians in El Barrio
and in the clubs throughout the New York area. Much to the concern, and
even hardship, of the established bandleaders from the 1950s and early
1960s, it was the young boogaloo musicians who seemed to come out of
nowhere who were suddenly hot—getting top billing, selling the most
records, and receiving enthusiastic requests for airplay. The standbys, on
the other hand, notably Tito Puente and Charlie Palmieri (Eddie’s brother),
suddenly found themselves in dire straits. As Joe Cuba recalls, with booga-
loo the career of his band, which had been around for over ten years by
then, was catapulted into the national and international spotlight; now they
were sharing shows and touring with big-time performers like the Su-
premes, the Temptations, Marvin Gaye, James Brown, and the Drifters,
and traveling widely. They had a long and successful run at the Flamboyán
Hotel in Puerto Rico, where boogaloo also caught on like wildfire. The
most popular band in Puerto Rico in those years, El Gran Combo, brought
out an album with six of the twelve cuts listed as boogaloos, and included
the immensely popular “Gran Combo’s Boogaloo.” The fever then held on
for another year or two, longer than most of the dance crazes of those
years, and even the disdainful holdouts among the more sophisticated mu-
sicians, like Eddie Palmieri and Tito Puente, came around to recording
their own boogaloos. It was a time when, as many of the musicians attest,
you could not not play boogaloo and expect to draw crowds and get record-
ing contracts.
Jimmy Sabater got that piano lick which served as the fuse for “Bang
Bang” from a tune by Ricardo (Richie) Ray. “Bang Bang,” for all its sym-
bolic interest in responding directly to African American tastes and for
all its commercial success, was not the first boogaloo tune, nor did it even
mention the word in its lyrics. Who was the first one to use the term, or
to start making Latin music explicitly called boogaloo? Several musicians
involved at the time point in the direction of Richie Ray, whose two al-
bums Se Soltó (On the Loose) and Jala Jala y Boogaloo drew immediate
attention when they came out on Alegre in 1966 and 1967. Evidently,
when Pete Rodríguez, Johnny Colón, and other boogaloo bands were
introducing their new sides under that designation, Richie Ray had al-
ready made the term and associated musical styles familiar to dance and
listening audiences. Discussions of origins always stir up debate and dis-
sension, but if Richie Ray wasn’t in fact the first he is certainly responsi-
ble for giving music called boogaloo a certain standard of fascination and
quality, which little of what followed was able to live up to.
The experienced bassist and cognoscente Andy González for one doesn’t
even think of Richie Ray as a boogaloo musician. For González, Ray’s band
was a straight-up mambo and son montuno act, and like a lot of other groups
they just took up boogaloo when it was the thing to do. While it is true that
Ray and his vocalist Bobby Cruz had a broad repertoire and a career that out-
lasted the boogaloo era, the group did make its mark with those two albums,
and the boogaloo tunes included are at least of the caliber of the other more
traditional numbers. More importantly, there is in these recordings, per-
haps more than anywhere else in Latin boogaloo, some statement about
what the music is about and how it fits in relation to other, more familiar
Latin rhythms. “Danzón Bugaloo,” “Guaguancó in Jazz,” “Azucaré y Bon-
go,” “Lookie Lookie,” “Richie’s Jala Jala,” “Colombia’s Boogaloo” and “Stop,
Look, and Listen” constitute a body of songs that provides a rich sense of the
compatibility and kinship of traditional Afro-Cuban sounds with various
strains of African American music. When standby vocalist and composer
Willie Torres says repeatedly that for him boogaloo was a further experiment
at moving Latin music in the direction of jazz, he might have had Richie
Ray, and perhaps Johnny Colón, foremost in mind.
Unlike most of the young musicians coming up, Ray was formally
trained at the piano, was gratefully indebted to the great Noro Morales,
and had some years of experience playing with famed jazz trumpeter Doc
Cheatham. Cheatham in fact stayed with Ray through the boogaloo years,
and it is his trumpet that lends a special quality to songs like “Mr. Trum-
pet Man”—probably the most famous of all of Ray’s tunes from that era—
and “Lookie Lookie.” More than the trumpet parts, though, it was Ray’s
own work on piano that established the primacy of that instrument in
threading the typically patchwork fabric of the boogaloo format, thus giv-
ing it an anchor in the jaleo and montuno so emblematic of Latin dance
music but with a subtle trace of the blue note. As in “Bang Bang” the re-
peated piano vamp occurs in continual counterpoint to the vocal and
other instrumental lines and serves as a constant reminder of the synco-
pated and rhythmic grounding of the Afro-Cuban tradition. With all the
admixture of prevailing pop styles of contemporary American music (not

to mention the so-called British invasion), most conspicuously represent-
ed perhaps by Motown and the Beatles, Richie Ray’s boogaloos emphasize
musically that the perspective within that fusion is that of the Puerto
Rican Latino in New York. But, interestingly in a tune like “Colombia’s
Boogaloo,” it is the voice of the Latino who has gained something of value
from New York, referring to boogaloo as “el nuevo ritmo,” that he wants
to share with his fellow Latin Americans. On his imagined visit to Colom-
bia he brings with him “guanguancó, mambo y bolero” because “it comes
from the heart” (“me sale del corazón”), but he also bears “el rico booga-
loo,” the refrain being “boogaloo, boogaloo, yeah, yeah.”
In fact, the “jala jala” seems to be Ray’s own adaptation of still another
new dance fad, in this case one introduced by El Gran Combo in Puerto
Rico, and as is clear from its spelling (it’s not “hala hala”), it was intended
as a more strongly Latin-accented version of the boogaloo or within the
boogaloo category. The signature tune “Richie’s Jala Jala” is actually about
returning to Puerto Rico, where people enjoy the move and sound of the
new rhythm, which is basically a guaracha jazzed up with some trumpet
and piano work (“en Puerto Rico la gente goza más, . . . jala jala pa’ vac-
ilar”). Perhaps the most programmatic of these early boogaloos is the ap-
pealingly simple “Lookie Lookie,” with its insistent refrain, “Lookie lookie,
how I do the boogaloo,” sung with an obvious Spanish accent. Again it is
a kind of show-and-tell, this time indirectly through something he heard in
Mexico but again indicating the diffusion of boogaloo to Latin America and
its origins in New York; the brief narrative of the English lyric goes, “Down
in old Mexico, just a few days ago, as I walked down the street, a little boy
said to me, I will show you señor, what I learned in New York . . .” Main-
taining a basic Latin feel throughout, the song unfolds in three parts: a
slow, narrative first half, then a short repeat section at double the tempo,
and a finale featuring an open, airy trumpet solo (by Doc Cheatham) with
timbal and piano accompaniment. Though the mix varies from part to part,
the overall effect of the tune is one of seamless affinity and mutuality be-
tween the son montuno and jazz idioms. If Richie Ray doesn’t go down as
the founder of Latin boogaloo, he certainly served as its representative in
Puerto Rico and Latin America; his international orientation and frequent
tours made of him, as one of his best songs is titled, “El Señor Embajador.”
But as Richie Ray recalls, the key idea motivating him, Bobby Cruz, his
brother Ray Maldonado (whence the name Richie Ray), and the other mu-
sicians in their group at the time was “crossover.” Recognizing how much
American audiences liked Latin music, they were intent on finding ways of
making it even more accessible, and of course expanding their market
range, by combining the Cuban rhythms with familiar pop sounds in the
air in those years. In addition to echoes of the Beatles and Motown, for ex-
ample, the opening tune on the breakthrough Se Soltó album, “Danzón
Boogaloo,” is actually a playful Cubanized version of “Whipped Cream” by
Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. Among the proliferation of dance
crazes of the 1960s, they were particularly aware of the sweeping popular-
ity of the twist, and Richie Ray even suggests that Chubby Checker used
the word “boogaloo” in several of his songs. In the years prior to their
boogaloo releases, the band spent long stints playing in the hotels in the
Catskills, carefully trying out such crossover possibilities, choosing their
songs, and developing arrangements.
With all their calculations, though, it was a more spontaneous situation
in live performance that Richie Ray recalls as their first contact with booga-
loo. After their apprenticeship in the Catskills, they started to play in the
major venues around New York City, such as the Village Gate and the Palm
Gardens. It was a night at Basin Street East when they noticed the public,
mostly Blacks and Latinos, dancing a step they had never seen before.
When they spoke with their friends in the crowd, they were told that the
dancers were combining Latin moves with steps from the boogaloo and
that “they go real well together.” The bandmembers then took to observing
the dance moves closely and fitting the rhythms and other musical quali-
ties to the movements. As in the case of “Bang Bang,” it was the interac-
tion between music and dance cultures, and between performers and pub-
lic, that was of formative importance in the emergence of Latin boogaloo,
and which in Richie Ray’s case resulted in the songs in boogaloo style that
brought them to the height of their popularity.
Preludes in Boogaloo
But the roots of boogaloo run deeper than its presumed founding act, even
if it is of the accomplishment shown by Richie Ray and his group, with its
creative mingling of jazz and rock flavors into a range of traditional Cuban
styles, all in the name of boogaloo. Indeed, without using the word, “Bang
Bang” and “El Pito” are closer to the core of what boogaloo is about, musi-
cally and socially, than anything in the Richie Ray and Bobby Cruz reper-
toire of those years. The bawdiness, the strong presence of funk and soul
music, the abrupt break with some tradition-bound conventions of Latin
style, all figure centrally in most boogaloo and point more clearly to the
musical influences that set the stage for that brief yet dramatic transition
in Latin music of the mid-1960s period. After all, Jimmy Sabater got the
inspiration for “El Pito” (which in 1965 might well have preceded the songs
on Richie Ray’s Se Soltó album) not from Ray’s piano but from basic mo-
tives of “Manteca.” Jimmy was thinking of Machito and Dizzie Gillespie
and their historic recording of the tune that became the cornerstone of
Latin and jazz fusion. Even the words of “El Pito” (“I’ll never go back to
Georgia”) were spoken by Dizzy at the beginning of the “Manteca” record-
ing and comprise a phrase that Jimmy associates more than any other with
African American experience and expression. What appealed to him most
for the purposes of “El Pito” was the perfect fit between the rhythm of that
spoken phrase and the cadence of Latin musical phrasing: “Never go back
to Georgia, never go back.” It was all this, Jimmy comments, “and none of
us had ever been to Georgia.”
Puerto Rican musicians during the boogaloo era, whether newcomers or
those with years of experience, were all formed during the illustrious
mambo period of the 1950s. All of them, even those who venture furthest
into non-Latin musical fields, acknowledge their indebtedness to the “Big
Three,” and speak with awe and unqualified gratitude of the crowning
achievements of the Machito, Tito Rodríquez, and Tito Puente orchestras,
especially in their unforgettable home at the Palladium. Mambo, guaguancó,
son guajira, guaracha, bolero, cha-cha-chá, all performed at the peak of their
potential, was the music that nourished and inspired Latin musicians dur-
ing the 1950s and throughout the 1960s and beyond. Both major crazes of
that decade—the charanga-pachanga fever of the first half and the boogaloo
of the second—arose and faded in the afterglow of the Palladium years.
But the new generation of Latinos emerging in the 1960s, including
the musicians then in their ’teens and twenties, was reared on another
musical culture as well. While surrounded by a full range of Latin styles at
home, on the radio, and in family and neighborhood occasions, many
young Puerto Ricans in the 1950s and early 1960s were listening to and
singing doo-wop and other rhythm and blues and rock and roll sounds.
While the “older” musicians associated with boogaloo, those then in their
thirties, had earlier performed with or in association with the bands of the
mambo era, the younger ones typically recall that their favorite music
when growing up (“our music”) had been R&B and other forms of African
American popular song, especially doo-wop. Influential boogaloo com-
posers and performers like Tony Pabón of the Pete Rodríguez band, John-
ny Colón and his vocalists Tito Ramos and Tony Rojas, in addition to
Bobby Marín, King Nando, and countless others were members or some-
times founders of doo-wop groups even before they connected, or recon-
nected, with Latin music. Bobby Marín speaks authoritatively of the Puer-
to Ricans involved in some of the major doo-wop acts, beginning with the
three who formed the Teenagers with Frankie Lymon, and who evidently
composed some of his biggest hits. For King Nando it was the Drifters
who was his favorite group after he arrived from Puerto Rico in the 1950s,
and for Jimmy Sabater it was the Harptones, though his all-time “king,” of
course, was Nat King Cole.
Two musical languages thus coexisted in the world of the boogaloo mu-
sician—that of his cultural and family heritage and that of life among peers
in the streets and at school. The challenge was, how to bring these two
worlds together and create a new language of their own. King Nando tells
of how as a teenager raised on doo-wop and early rock and roll he once
went to the Palladium and heard Tito Rodríguez play “Mama Guela.”
“From then on,” he recalls of this moment in 1961, “I Latinized all my R&B
arrangements.”3 The musical career of Johnny Colón, whose band gained
fame with its 1967 recording of “Boogaloo Blues,” began when he formed
and sang with the East Harlem doo-wop group the Sunsets. For Colón,
boogaloo was above all “a kind of bridge, a way for the young, R&B-reared
Latino musicians and fans to link back with their musical heritage.” This
musical linkage took many forms, and only some of it was called boogaloo;
the boogaloo repertoire actually ranges along a continuum from basically
Latin sounds and rhythms with the trappings of African American styles
on one end, to what are R&B, funk, and soul songs with a touch of Latin
percussion, instrumentals, Spanish-language lyrics or inflections. The only
proviso for it to be part of the world of boogaloo is that both musical idioms
be present, and that both the Latino and the African American publics find
something of their own to relate to.
Though foreshadowed by similar trends in the Cubop and Latin jazz of
the previous generation, the crosscultural fusions characteristic of the boo-
galoo period differed in significant ways. For one thing, the Latin musi-
cians of the boogaloo period had both traditions—the Latin and the African
American—acting as active forces in their experience from the beginning
of their musical efforts, while with few exceptions there was in the 1940s
and 1950s still a divide between Latin and African American musicians in
terms of background familiarity. Furthermore, boogaloo involved the mix-
ing of Afro-Cuban style with the vernacular, blues, and gospel-based cur-
rents of African American music, the R&B and soul sounds that saturated
the airwaves and enlivened broadly popular settings of the 1960s period,
selling to broad markets not even approximated by any jazz offerings. It
was the dance and party music of the wide American and international
public that the boogaloo fusion took as the most direct partner of the pop-
ular Latin sounds, such that aside from the most immediate connection to
African American styles, boogaloo involved the engagement of Latin
Caribbean music with the pop music market to a degree unprecedented in
previous periods. Salsa personality Izzy Sanabria considers Latin boogaloo
“the greatest potential that we had to really cross over in terms of music.”4
While mambo and doo-wop thus form the dual heritage from the 1950s
that went into the making of boogaloo, there are more immediate precur-
sors, from the early 1960s, that anticipate many of the features of Latin
boogaloo and help to understand in a broader context the fad that was to
hold sway in the Latin music field later in the decade. That context may be
thought of as New York Latin music of the 1960s, the period before the ad-
vent of salsa, in chronological terms, or in such musical expressions as
“Latin soul,” the whole range of Latin–African American fusions of which
boogaloo is a part. Before boogaloo hit the scene, for example, there was
Latin music in English, connecting to soul and funk rhythms and sounds
(as well as jazz), based on improvised conversation or party noise, and with
sales capable of cracking the national charts. In songs like Willie Torres’s
“To Be with You,” Ray Barretto’s “El Watusi,” Mongo Santamaría’s “Water-
melon Man,” and Eddie Palmieri’s “Azúcar,” all recorded in the early 1960s,
many of the identifying ingredients of Latin boogaloo are already present,
and at a level of musical achievement seldom surpassed during the booga-
loo years. They were, along with Tito Puente’s “Oye Como Va,” the most
popular Latin recordings of those years, and all involved an inflection of
Latin traditions in the direction of African American R&B and soul sounds.
They are among the “classics” of Latin soul (excepting perhaps Puente’s,
where the association is based more on Santana’s Latin rock cover version
of 1969), and thus prefigure in varied ways the whole gesture of boogaloo.
“To Be with You” has been called the “all-time classic Latin Soul bal-
lad,” and there are few New York Latinos around from the early 1960s
who would dispute that judgment.5 What may appear surprising is that
such stature is accorded a song performed entirely in English, and which
evidences far more “soul” than “Latin.” It was written in the early 1950s
by Willie Torres and Nick Jiménez, a team responsible for composing
some of the first pieces of Latin dance music in English, starting with a
version of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” in cha-cha tempo, and the very
popular “Mambo of the Times.”6 Torres, reflecting on those early cross-
overs, feels there was a need for English lyrics, not only in order to reach
non-Latino audiences but among the New York Latinos of the day as well.
“You have to remember,” says Torres, whose musical career extends back
to the early 1940s, “that most of us were Nuyoricans, born here, bred
here. Machito and them, they were like the anchor, but as it kept going,
most of the kids, their Spanish was limited, like mine. I spoke Spanish at
home because I had no choice. But as far as having a great knowledge of
it, I didn’t. So I got with Joe,” he continues, referring to bandleader Joe
Cuba, and he might have added Nick Jiménez, Jimmy Sabater, Cheo Feli-
ciano, and the others. “He was of my era, too. So we said, let’s do this in
English, and it worked out.” It is thus clear that long before the boogaloo
era, as exemplified by the early years of the Joe Cuba Sextet, there was al-
ready a major bilingual and English-dominant Latin music community in
New York.
Torres never got to record “To Be with You” with the Joe Cuba band,
though he sang it before countless hotel and club audiences through the
1950s, beginning with a memorable debut at the Stardust Ballroom in
1953. Torres even recorded the tune on the Manisero album of the Alegre
All-Stars, where producer Al Santiago labeled it a “bolero gas.” But Torres
had left the Joe Cuba group in 1956, and so it was Jimmy Sabater, the lead
English vocalist of the band at the time, who came to immortalize the song
in the 1962 pop single. Its inclusion in the 1967 Steppin’ Out album draws
the song into association with boogaloo, with which it has mainly its pen-
chant for English lyrics in common. But it is, no doubt, Latin soul, of the
Nat King Cole with a slight Latin accent variety. The “Latin” musical ac-
cents of this R&B love ballad are also muted, with bolero tempo and bongo
slaps playing off against the vocal harmonies and crescendos that carry the
romantic feeling of the song. As tailored as the sound is to an American
ballroom setting, Torres is quick to recall that “To Be with You” is actually
an interpretation of an old bolero, “Nunca (No Te Engañé),” and that he
himself often sang it in Spanish, as “Estar Contigo.”
Willie Torres did get to be “El Watusi,” though. “You remember that
song ‘El Watusi’?” he asks. “Well, you’re looking at him. For real, I’m the
other voice. Not the deep one that does most of the talking, but the other
one, el watusi himself, the one he’s talking about, and to. Ray Barretto, who
did the tune, got me to be the other voice, to just grunt a few words in re-
sponse to the deep one, the one who’s talking about el watusi as the biggest
and baddest in all of Havana: ‘Caballero, allí acaba de entrar el watusi. Ese
mulato que mide siete pies y pesa 169 libras . . . El hombre más guapo de
La Habana.’ That deep Cuban-sounding voice was Wito Cortwright, the
guy who used to be second voice and güiro player in Arsenio Rodríguez’s
band. We were the voices. And so I am el watusi.”
Few beyond Willie Torres’s own circle would know that he was the voice
of the fearsome neighborhood tough guy, but Ray Barretto’s 1962 record-
ing went on to hit the Top Twenty on the U.S. pop charts in 1963, peaking
at number three in May of that year. It thus became the first recording by
a Latin band to reach that milestone, and stands to this day as the greatest
commercial success, still unsurpassed in Barretto’s long and varied career.
“El Watusi” was originally the B-side novelty number intended to accom-
pany the more accomplished “Charanga Moderna” as part of the raging
charanga-pachanga craze in New York Latin music. But it was “El Wa-
tusi”—that odd, charanga-flavored sample of braggadocio in tough-talking
Cuban street Spanish—that caught on and set the stage for the boogaloo
phenomenon in other ways. Here it is obviously not the bilingual or Eng-
lish lyrics, nor the admixture of R&B sounds, though there can be no
doubt that there were many African Americans among its fans. In this
case it is the spontaneous, conversational nature of the voices and the gen-
eral rowdy crowd atmosphere that anticipates songs like “El Pito,” “Bang
Bang,” “At the Party,” and others in the boogaloo mode. The handclapping,
which accompanies the unchanging bass beat throughout the tune, be-
came a hallmark of Latin boogaloo, as did (in many cases) the free and
open song structure. “Lyrics?” Willie Torres recalls, laughing. “We made it
all up as we went along.”
But the fluke hit “El Watusi” prefigured the boogaloo craze in other ways
as well, an association underlined by Willie Rosario’s popular 1968 record-
ing of “Watusi Boogaloo.” The commercial success of this tune by a Latin
band hitting the charts was itself proof that it was possible to play around
with Latin sounds and have a hit. But there were other reasons for the ap-
peal of this zany Spanish rap with the charanga flute beyond its musical
novelty which also point to a relation with boogaloo. For the watusi was
also one of the most popular dances in the same year as the release of Bar-
retto’s recording, especially after the release of the smash hit “Wah Watusi”
by the Orlons, which was high on the charts for thirteen weeks, peaking at
number five, in the previous year. The dance craze itself was introduced by
the Vibrations with their 1961 hit “The Watusi,” which in turn is based on
the similar tune “Let’s Go, Let’s Go, Let’s Go,” by Hank Ballard and the
Midnighters (the group, incidentally, which sang the original version of
“The Twist” in 1959, a year before Chubby Checker’s historic cover ver-
sion). The word watusi, then, along with its sundry undefined connotations
and connection to a well-known dance move, was in the air when “El Wa-
tusi” came out, such that Barretto’s recording, in a musical language total-
ly unrelated to the American watusi, rode the wave of that catchy familiar-
ity of the moment.
Clearly, Latin boogaloo was similarly implicated in the prevailing dance
crazes and pop categories in its time a few years later. Though there is no
certainty as to its place of origin—Chicago and New York being the main
contenders—it is established that the boogaloo was “the most successful
new dance of 1965–66,” the very years of the emergence of Latin boogaloo,
quickly overshadowing the jerk, the twine, and the monkey of the previous
season.7 The first of the many boogaloo records, according to this version,
was “Boo-Ga-Loo” by the Chicago dance/comedy/singing duo Tom and Jer-
rio, who got the idea from seeing the dance done at a record hop. “The
record, released on ABC, was a huge, million-selling hit for the pair in
April 1965.” A slew of boogaloo recordings then followed (including the
Flamingos’ “Boogaloo Party”), many of which became moderate hits on the
soul and funk markets. Another account of Black boogaloo, less oriented
toward city of origin and pop charts and more toward musical force, iden-
tifies as the quintessential sound that of classic soul tunes like “Mustang
Sally” and “In the Midnight Hour,” both of which were made popular by
Wilson Pickett. It was Pickett, too, who recorded the huge 1967 hit “Funky
Broadway.” Whether boogaloo is defined by these recordings, some more
memorable than others, or the peculiar dance move, which “had a totally
new look compared to previous dances, and its popularity crossed over to
whites,”8 it is clear that boogaloo was the foremost name for funky soul
music at that moment in its history, and that Latin boogaloo took its name
and direct crossover impulse from that immediate source. Though closer
musically to its African American namesake than was “El Watusi,” Latin
boogaloo evidences the same process of mass popularity through associa-

tion, and on a far more influential scale.
But neither “To Be with You” nor “El Watusi” exemplified or foreshad-
owed the main musical quality of Latin boogaloo, which is the fusion of
Afro-Cuban rhythms with those of funk. That accomplishment is most di-
rectly attributable to Mongo Santamaría and Willie Bobo, and most famil-
iar to general audiences in another chart-setting hit of the times, Mongo’s
“Watermelon Man,” listed nationally in August 1963. Some would even
consider “Watermelon Man,” written by Herbie Hancock, to be “the origi-
nal boogaloo,” but here the reference is specifically musical. For beyond
the adlibbed, conversational atmosphere in the vocals—a few grunts, ani-
mal sounds, and exhortations—Mongo’s tune has the sound, the rhythmic
feel of the Latin-funk fusion, most notably in the percussive backbeat on
the timbales and other, mostly Afro-Cuban elements of the rhythm section.
While the moaning brass sound is more in the Latin jazz idiom for which
Mongo is famous, the rhythmic texture of the piece is closer to that of R&B,
and it is the pronounced backbeat that anticipates the signature effect of
Latin boogaloo.
Though it was Mongo’s recording of “Watermelon Man” that drew
broad attention to this musical possibility, there were other musicians
who shared this early Latin-funk field with him and who personified more
directly the Puerto Rican–Black American rhythmic fusion. One was ob-
viously Willie Bobo, the black Puerto Rican born William Correa in Span-
ish Harlem who was Mongo’s protegé since the late 1940s. “I was his in-
terpeter,” he said of his relation to the great Cuban drummer Mongo, and
“in return he showed me the different shades of sounds the drum is ca-
pable of producing.”9 In tunes like the significantly titled “Fried Neck
Bones and Some Home Fries,” Bobo stands squarely at the crossroads of
Afro-Cuban and African American cultures, with a particularly sharp
nose for funk. At the other side of the Latin-Black divide is Pucho, the
African American Henry Lee Brown from Harlem who formed the Latin
Soul Brothers, comprised of African American musicians and famous for,
among other things, their 1967 recording “Boogaloo on Broadway.” It is
Pucho, in fact, who remembers Willie Bobo circulating among the musi-
cians smelling for funk. Pucho recalls that his band was, along with
Mongo’s and Willie Bobo’s, one of the top three Latin-funk acts in the
years before boogaloo, his own group serving as the training ground for
the other two, which surpassed his in prominence. He played timbales,
one of various African Americans from Harlem who mastered the instru-
ment according to the recollection of Benny Bonilla, the timbalero for the
Pete Rodríguez band. During the mid-1960s Pucho would typically make
Latin boogaloos by taking known soul hits of the time (he mentions “Mus-
tang Sally” and “In the Midnight Hour,” among others) and “put[ting]
Latin rhythms to them.” And it was Pucho, the deft timbalero for the Latin
Soul Brothers, who coined his own catchphrase for the music of Latin
boogaloo—“cha-cha with a backbeat.”
Ironically, the Latin musician who stood most prominently at the thresh-
old of boogaloo was the one who held it in the most utter disdain. For it was
Eddie Palmieri, who to this day regards boogaloo as the most tragic retro-
gression in New York Latin music, whose bold creativity brought Latin music
into the 1960s and opened the eyes and ears of the musicians of the booga-
loo era to what Latin music could be like for their own generation. The ad-
miration for him among musicians associated with Latin boogaloo is unani-
mous. Palmieri’s La Perfecta, with five excellent albums since 1963, was the
hottest Latin band around by the mid-1960s when boogaloo hit the scene. He
had top billings everywhere, and with Manny Oquendo on timbales, Barry
Rogers and the Brazilian José Rodrigues on the trademark trombones, and
Palmieri’s ingenious arrangements, he set the standard for sheer musician-
ship and audience appeal, among Latins and audiences of many other na-
tionalities. In fact, in another foreboding of boogaloo’s social appeal, Palmieri
had a huge, enthusiastic following among African Americans.
The origin of one of Palmieri’s biggest hits of those salad years, “Azú-
car,” directly prefigures the making of vintage boogaloo songs like “Bang
Bang” and “I Like It Like That.” “ ‘Eddie, play some sugar for us,’ Blacks
would yell at him time and again. ‘Sugar’ was the word they invoked when-
ever they wanted a fiery up-tempo Palmieri tune. Palmieri wrote ‘Azúcar’
(Sugar for You) and it attracted an even larger number of Blacks to his
dances.”10 This is but one example of Palmieri fashioning the qualities of
Latin music in response to an African American dance public, just as the
Joe Cuba, Richie Ray, Pete Rodríguez, and other groups were to do in the
subsequent boogaloo phase.
Though a proto-boogaloo model in this sense, however, and preceding
the vintage hits in popularity by only a few years, Palmieri has never had a
kind word for anything related to boogaloo. He scorned the amateurishness,
the banality, and especially the retreat from serious and creative adaptations
of Afro-Cuban models being developed in those years after the blockade of
Cuban music following the 1959 revolution. “It was like Latin bubblegum,”
Palmieri recalls. “ ‘Bang Bang,’ what’s that? It’s like something you find in
a Frosted Flakes box. And half the musicians didn’t even know what side of
the instruments to play out of.” Aside from his musical judgment, which
was shared by many, including many of those associated with boogaloo,
Palmieri was of course thinking of the disastrous impact the boogaloo craze
had had on established musicians such as his brother Charlie and of course
Tito Puente, Machito, and even Tito Rodríguez. The top billings and fre-
quent bookings they had grown accustomed to were suddenly in jeopardy,
and their recordings vastly outsold; ominous changes were afoot in the Latin
recording and broadcast fields. Though he accepts the recognition, Palmieri
considers himself among the victims of boogaloo rather than a benefactor,
and of course would resist being considered a model of any kind for what
was for him the boogaloo “epidemic.”
“¿Qué qué, Eddie Palmieri, boogaloo?” Such is the first line of “¡Ay Qué
Rico!,” a boogaloo by Eddie Palmieri. The lead voice is Cheo Feliciano’s,
while on bass is the legendary Israel “Cachao” López doing a shing-a-ling (a
string-based variant on boogaloo), on a recording from 1968, when booga-
loo fever was already beginning to subside. The final irony of the Palmieri-
boogaloo story is that it was Eddie Palmieri, the staunchest antagonist of
everything boogaloo, who composed and led what is arguably the best booga-
loo recording of them all. “¡Ay Qué Rico!” is bawdy, festive, conversational,
and has all the trappings of Latin boogaloo sounds. Its special attraction in
the boogaloo repertoire is that its playful irony seems to be directed at it-
self—as if it is saying, “You want boogaloo, here’s boogaloo!”—and of course
its consistent musical excellence. That and another number on Palmieri’s
important Champagne album of 1968, “The African Twist,” show Palmieri
fully in the spirit of Latin funk. Another play with pop styles, “The African
Twist” was written and sung by an African American woman, Cynthia Ellis,
in a style reminiscent of Motown. In these tunes it is clear that Palmieri was
not spending his time berating boogaloo, but taking it to another level.
“I Like It Like That”

“Eddie Palmieri was the headliner,” recalls Benny Bonilla, the timbalero for
Pete Rodríguez y Su Conjunto. “They needed a cheap band to open up for
him, so they heard about us. So the booking agents, I remember it was two
West Indian guys, came to hear us at one of our gigs, and they liked us. So
they asked us for a short recording to help promote the dance on the radio.
We looked at each other and said, ‘Recording? We ain’t got no recording.’
And they said, no problem, we’ll book a studio, just do a short spot, one
minute, and we’ll use that.” Pete Rodríguez and his bandmembers started
groping around for something to play and couldn’t come up with anything.
Then Benny Bonilla remembers Tony Pabón, the group’s trumpeter, vocal-
ist, and composer, saying “Let’s try this.” He taught Pete how to do that
piano vamp, and started adlibbing: “Uh, ah, I like it like that.” The spot was
played on the radio and, according to Benny, “the phone at the station start-
ed ringing off the hook.”
“I Like It Like That” was recorded in 1966, in a full studio session for
Alegre, and the Pete Rodríguez orchestra became an overnight sensation
in El Barrio and around the city. The group had been around awhile, since
the end of the 1950s, but mostly as openers, a backup band with low billing
beneath all the major attractions: Machito, Tito Puente, Tito Rodríguez, El
Gran Combo, Johnny Pacheco, Orquesta Broadway. They even played on
the closing nights of the Palladium, all of which featured the likes of Eddie
Palmieri, Vicentico Valdéz, and Orquesta Broadway. “We didn’t have the
best band,” Benny Bonilla admits. “We had no training or anything. We
were out there to have fun.” Unlike the Joe Cuba Sextet or even Richie Ray,
the other possible initiators of Latin boogaloo, the Pete Rodríguez band had
not established itself before the advent of boogaloo. Its recognition began
and ended with the boogaloo craze, making it, of all the major groups, the
boogaloo band par excellence.11 And “I Like It Like That,” by far their great-
est hit and known to the world through cover versions, movie soundtracks,
and Burger King commercials, might well be considered the quintessential
song of Latin boogaloo.
The musical inspiration of the conjunto was Tony Pabón. Though Pete
Rodríguez was the bandleader and played piano, and Benny Bonilla was
important on the timbales, it was Pabón who wrote and arranged most of
the songs (including all of the popular ones), sang many of them, and was
always there on trumpet. “Tony was a rock and roller,” recalls Bonilla, who
was a good ten years older than Pabón. In addition to covering all the Latin
sounds, he sang doo-wop, loved jazz, and seemed to be open to many mu-
sical styles. His turn to boogaloo illustrates this lively eclectic interest and
jibes perfectly with the stories of the Joe Cuba and Richie Ray groups,
though it leaves open the issue of origins. Whichever was the “first” Latin
band to play boogaloo, they all turned to that style in response to African
American dance audiences and tastes. “In early 1966,” Pabón recalls, “we
kept getting repeated requests from dancers to add a little soul to the
music. At the time nothing similar to the Boogaloo was being played, nor
was the word Boogaloo used. Pete asked me to write music that would
please the promoters of the dances. A week later I heard Peggy Lee singing
‘Fever.’ I wrote a tune inspired by the bass lines of ‘Fever’ and I called it
‘Pete’s Boogaloo.’ We introduced the phrase ooh-ah, ooh-ah. Symphony Sid
introduced it on the radio. Sid told us there were calls for the tune so we
decided to continue with the new sound.”12
Whether it was the first one ever written or performed, “Pete’s Boogaloo”
was the first Latin boogaloo song to be played on the radio. It is the lead-off
tune on their first album, Latin Boogaloo. It is not a particularly interesting
piece, with the boogaloo-style handclapping, rowdiness, and backbeat in-
serted as a section between rather standard montuno and mambo fare, and
the song’s title unwisely calling attention to Pete’s uninspired work on
piano. And there is nothing of Peggy Lee or “Fever” but the bass lines, and
even they are hardly discernible. Nevertheless, with “I Like It Like That,”
and generally the tunes on the second album (of which it is the title song),
the group comes into its own. Tony Pabón’s compositions “El Hueso,” “Mi-
caela” and “3 and 1” from that album, and then “Oh, That’s Nice” and “Here
Comes the Judge,” are among the group’s hits of those years, and they all
seem to draw on tunes or phrases from R&B and other popular tunes of the
time. “I got four gold records while Pete got the money from royalties,”
Pabón mentions. “So I left the band to form La Protesta in 1970.”13
“I Like It Like That” has all the trappings of Latin Boogaloo: the opening
piano lick, the handclapping and ever-present chorus throughout, the rau-
cous laughter and shouting, the adlibbed conversation and goofy comments,
the ecstatic buildups and restarts, the intertwining of montunos and mambo
rhythms with R&B-style backbeats, and vocals with lyrics in English. Inter-
estingly, it is here that the slow bass figure on piano reminiscent of “Fever”
is foregrounded, and it plays off well against the upbeat tempo of most of the
tune. (It is worth mentioning that “Fever” was first recorded by Little Willie
John back in 1958 and was written by the prolific and sadly unsung R&B
composer Otis Blackwell from Brooklyn, who also wrote songs made famous
by Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis.) Again, as in “Bang Bang,” Hector
Rivera’s “At the Party,” and countless other tunes of the genre, “I Like It Like
That” exudes a wild, festive party atmosphere—a bembé—and the music in-
cites and participates in the fun. From the excitement and energy in Tony
Pabón’s lead voice, it sounds as though the musicians are out there dancing
with the crowd, instruments and all. And as in “Bang Bang” and “At the
Party,” the chorus includes voices of women and children, adding to the in-
clusive and participatory spirit of the occasion.
What is different about “I Like It Like That,” among the best-known Latin
boogaloos, is the lyrics, and particularly the refrain. While the male swagger
and dance exhortations are commonplace, here there is a specific reference
to boogaloo and an emphasis on the contribution of Latin rhythms: “Let me
say this now,” the song begins, “here and now let’s get this straight / Booga-
loo, baby, I made it great / Because I gave it the Latin beat / You know,
child, I’m kind of hard to beat.” The claim is not repeated, but the point is
made—without the “Latin beat,” boogaloo would not be what it is—and this
is reinforced by the flow of the song, which seems to move continually in
the direction of the blaring trumpets, piano montunos, and the free-wheel-
ing interplay of soneo and chorus so familiar to lovers of Latin music. The
refrain, which is also the title of the song and of the album (A Mi Me Gusta
Así), remains the most memorable feature of all—for it is the domain of the
chorus, of everyone involved, repeated over twenty times, and all the while
improvised, played with, and built up to. More than “bang bang,” “lookie
lookie,” or “at the party,” it is a playful, catchy phrase with multiple enten-
dres. It signals personal joy and pleasure (“like”), but the indefinite “it” and
“that” leave the specific reference open, whether it be to the song itself, the
way the band is playing (the “Latin beat”), the dance moves, the party spirit,
sex, rum, marijuana, whatever. Like the song itself, the phrase signals a kind
of seductive ambiguity.
Interestingly, the phrase “I like it like that” was not new to Tony Pabón’s
song. Like the “Fever”-inspired bass figure, it was in the air during those
years, especially in the world of R&B. In 1961 a song by that title rose to num-
ber two on the national charts and was on people’s lips everywhere: “Come
o-o-o-o-n, let me show you where it’s at / The name of the place is . . . I like
it like that.” The original was composed and sung by Chris Kenner, a New Or-
leans songwriter whose other big hit, covered by several groups and immor-
talized by Wilson Pickett, was “Land of a Thousand Dances.” In 1964 “I Like
It Like That” was covered by the Miracles, reaching number 27, and in the
following year Michael Rodgers got it onto the charts again. There is no say-
ing whether Tony Pabón was humming Kenner’s song in any of its versions
when he made up his tune for the Pete Rodríguez band, and of course he
uses it in a different way, adding an infectious melodic lilt. But it is clear that
the phrase was by then a familiar part of pop music lore, as contagious as “get
a job” or “gee whiz.” In fact, in “Land of a Thousand Dances,” “I like it like
that” is even mentioned as one of the “thousand dances” proliferating at the
time, along with the twist, the hully gully, and the others. Moreover, the re-
frain plays a similar role in Pabón’s song to that in Kenner’s original and then
in the various covers. The 1961 recording was produced by the great Allen
Toussaint, who also leads it off with a syncopated piano lick in the style of
Professor Longhair or Huey “Piano” Smith. One of the notable characteris-
tics of Toussaint’s many productions, according to one account, was “the use
of ingenious hook lines, often delivered at a pause at the end of a chorus. Two
superior examples of this device became hits in spring 1961: Ernie K-Doe’s
‘Mother-In-Law’ and Chris Kenner’s ‘I Like It Like That.’ ”14 In Toussaint’s
production of Kenner’s song, it should be noted, as in Pabón’s, it is the cho-
rus that blares out the phrase rather than the solo in response to the chorus,
as it is in “Mother-In-Law.”
While no deliberate reference can be ascertained in the use of the same
hook-line in the manner of Toussaint and New Orleans R&B, the parallels
are striking and point up the affinities among Afro-Caribbean–based mu-
sical idioms. Tony Pabón was of course sensitive to such affinities, and he
could count on the same awareness in his experienced percussionist,
Benny Bonilla. By the time he got to the boogaloo days, Bonilla had already
played timbales in a range of bands, and at countless gigs, many of them
for non-Latino audiences. Along with his early training on congas, bongos,
and the timbal, he and other of the Latin percussionists also had ongoing
contact with many African American drummers in Harlem and picked up
American-style percussive techniques. While in the late 1950s Black musi-
cians were coming to master the Latin timbal (such as Pucho, but Bonilla
also mentions Art Jenkins and Phil Newsome), Latin timbaleros like him-
self and Jimmy Sabater were picking up on ways to use their instrument in
the manner of an American snare drum, for the “American effect.” In his
countless gigs at hotels and lounges, he often had to play fox trots and
other traditional American rhythms along with the mambos and cha-chas.
He tells of how they used to put a set of keys on the drum to get that brush
and cymbal sound. And of course he talks about the hallmark 2/4 backbeat
found in Latin boogaloo. Almost imperceptibly, it is this flexible timbal that
modulates the energy of “I Like It Like That,” as Sabater did with the Joe
Cuba band, moving it through the slower vocal parts, then setting up the
buildups and kicking in with full backbeat when the band and chorus are
letting all the stops out. The biculturalism of Latin boogaloo is contained
in the timbal, the only stick drum commonly used in Latin music and
brought center stage by master timbaleros like Manny Oquendo and of
course Tito Puente.
“Boogaloo Blues”
Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Latin Boogaloo thrived during the years of the
1960s counterculture, the heyday of flower power, hippies, psychedelic
drugs, and sexual liberation. Young people were listening to the Beatles,
the Rolling Stones, and Jimmi Hendrix as they milled in their publicized
“be-ins.” “Boogaloo Blues,” the only one of the major hits of Latin booga-
loo to use the word boogaloo in its title, touched on many of these chords
of appeal to the youth culture of the times, and its market. The song is an
acid trip, an orgasm, a loud party, a brooding reverie, a taunt and seduc-
tion, all to a fusion of bluesy jazz piano, R&B vocalizing, and outbursts of
montunos and Latin rhythms. Like most other boogaloo tunes, it is a seem-
ingly disheveled patchwork of musical modes and tempos, the only struc-
turing principle being the repeated movement from slow handclapping
and bass beginnings to a buildup and climax of energy, and then a restart
and new buildup. Yet, as representative as it is taken to be of Latin booga-
loo as a phenomenon, “Boogaloo Blues” is in some ways idiosyncratic
among the best-known recordings of the genre, in part because here the
lyrics tell a story.
Tito Puente said the song sounded like a Coca-Cola commercial. The
judgment of “el Maestro” may be harsh, and must have been discouraging
to Johnny Colón and his youthful bandmembers. But there can be no
doubt that the song is to a significant degree a fabrication of the recording
industry. Despite the creativity and sincerity of the musicians, who did
want to put out a new kind of sound in tune with their times, the inter-
vention of experienced record producers and radio disk jockeys proved de-
cisive in the construction of the song, and in its immediate popularity.
The story of “Boogaloo Blues” begins at Los Guineitos, an after-hours
club on the second-floor loft of a building in East Harlem. In earlier years
it had been the storage place for bananas (guineos) sold at the many Ital-
ian produce stores in the neighborhood. On weekends the upstairs stor-
age loft came to serve as a late-night club owned by two brothers from the
neighborhood, who lent it out as a rehearsal space during the week. That
night in 1965 the influential record producers George Goldner and Stan
Lewis were there, at the invitation of Johnny Colón, to see if they were in-
terested in the band’s material for recording on their Cotique label. John-
ny was improvising some blues figures on piano, with the band and lead
vocalists Tito Ramos and Tony Rojas then segueing into a rendition of the
Latin standard “Anabacoa.” Goldner and Lewis told them that they liked
the piano intro and suggested that for the recording they follow through
on the bluesy feeling and drop the “Anabacoa” part. Tito Ramos then com-
posed lyrics to match the piano part, and the result was “Boogaloo Blues.”
As the bandmembers remember it, Goldner and Lewis embraced each
other when they heard it. The band went on to play its new song to avid
fan reception, first at a local church dance, then in the prestigious dance
spot, the Colgate Gardens. Within months of the recording, and with the
help of repeated airplay by deejay Symphony Sid, a close friend of Gold-
ner and Lewis, “Johnny Colón, Tito Ramos and Tony Rojas were popular
celebrities in Black and Spanish Harlem.”15
The members of Johnny Colón and His Orchestra all grew up within
blocks of the Banana Club, as the produce loft was called in English. They
were young, even younger than the Pete Rodríguez group; the band was
not even formed until 1964, when Pete Rodríguez was already getting
billings at the major spots and with the leading names in Latin music. As
teenagers in the 1950s, they all sang doo-wop—Johnny as leader of his
own group, and Tito and Tony with many of the impromptu streetcorner
harmonizers around Central and East Harlem. Johnny Colón, the band-
leader, was most active in promoting the group’s chances for recognition,
and sought out the right people in the music industry. When Goldner and
Lewis caught wind of them, the veteran doo-wop and rock and roll pro-
ducers for the influential Roulette label sensed that the group, with its
dual upbringing in Latin and R&B styles, might be ideal for their new Co-
tique venture. For Cotique (as the name reveals, an offshoot of the Tico
label which Goldner had recently left) was to specialize in Latin boogaloo.
With the Johnny Colón band they had a group of youngsters who not only
had the right cultural mix but who knew little or nothing about music as
a profession, or as a business. What did they know about cutting out the
“Latin part” of the song and its Spanish lyrics, if the producer doesn’t like
it? Who were they to refuse to stay in the blues, R&B “groove” if George
Goldner, that old hand at picking up on emerging tastes and markets, says
it “won’t work”?
Here was a band, then, that could be made for and of the boogaloo
craze, who could make a big-selling record just by tapping the many
sources of energy and attraction alive at the moment, give it a Latin flair for
added excitement, and call it boogaloo. As vocalist Tony Rojas recalls, “Boo-
galoo Blues” was written not so much to appeal to Black dance audiences,
as was the case with Latin boogaloo in its first and most definitive impulse,
but “to please the record producers. We wanted to do what they wanted, or
thought was right.” Of course he and his closest partner, composer and
lead singer Tito Ramos, were well aware of the drug and free-sex culture of
the day; they had no qualms about considering themselves part of it in
some ways, and knew that young people in El Barrio were also into it. But
they also knew that the big-time producers and promoters would warmly
welcome their sultry lyrics about sex in the park (“take it off, take it all off”)
and their taunting, stoned-out choruses, “LSD has a hold on me” and
“1–2–3, I feel so free.”
In addition to the susceptibility to commercial exploitation, because of its
narrative lyrics “Boogaloo Blues” also best exemplifies the thoroughly male
and sexist perspective of much of boogaloo music. Like most other pop mu-
sic fads, whether of those years or at any stage, as performance Latin booga-
loo amounts to an extended masculinity ritual, with virtually no women in-
volved in any aspect of the musical scene beyond that of chorus and
audience, and with the sexual playfulness of the songs uniformly from a
masculine point of view. More than a string of off-color incitations and dou-
ble entendres, “Boogaloo Blues” is a story of sexual conquest, totally or-
chestrated by the commanding presence of the male solo voice. He is all
power and self-confidence, while the “girl,” “that one girl who cried and
cried,” is voiceless, confused, spaced-out, and ultimately helpless in the face
of his irresistible advances. Though it is she who defines the acronym—“L”
is for love, “S” for strong, and “D” for dynamic—she does so only through
the words of the chorus, and those magical words are descriptive of him and
of her feelings for him. Even compared to the Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with
Diamonds,” the psychedelic anthem that served as an obvious model here,
“Boogaloo Blues” is unequivocally phallic in its imagery. When coaxing her
into letting her guard down, the male lead asks, “Baby, why are you so blue?
Don’t you like my boogaloo?,” where the word “boogaloo” itself stands
rather blatantly for his penis, as the composer had fully intended.
But for Tito Ramos and the other members of Johnny Colón’s band,
their signature song was most of all about freedom, the overcoming of
“hang-ups” and the transgression of moral and cultural limits. Speculating

as to why the song was so popular among Puerto Rican audiences, Tony
Rojas claims that in El Barrio LSD evoked not so much the drug itself as a
vague fascination with liberation and carefree youthfulness associated with
the counterculture. For the musicians, this breaking of barriers and defi-
ance of cultural norms was also what the music itself, Latin boogaloo, was
all about. “It wasn’t straight Latin, it wasn’t straight American,” they state,
but was a pushing of the conventions of each by use of the other. The
patchwork-like, stylistically intermingling texture of the tune matched its
multiple reception among diverse audiences, with people dancing Latin
style, American style, or just moving to the groove in whichever way they
felt most comfortable. Tony recalls shows when most of the audience was
just swaying to the song. The song’s opening lines—“I remember that
time, when the world was mine, and as I sing this same tune, which we call
the boogaloo blues”—set the story into a strange kind of nostalgia for the
present, as though the ecstasy of the moment were already an old tune
from days gone by. With its mammoth sales, like the other big boogaloo
hits outstripping by many times previous sales of any other Latin music,
“Boogaloo Blues” was a crossover dream come true. It might not have sold
too many Coca-Colas, but it sure sold a lot of records.
By the end of 1967, within a year of its rise to instant stardom, the
Johnny Colón orchestra had already disbanded. While the bandleader
himself went on to musical achievement by forming the successful and
long-lived East Harlem Music School and a range of further musical en-
deavors, Tito and Tony soon organized TNT, another Latin Soul band that
enjoyed big hits with their songs “Mr. Slick” and “Meditation.” According
to Johnny Colón, “Boogaloo Blues” is still selling to this day, boosted by its
rerelease on compact disk and its inclusion in recent anthologies. The
musicians see it as the centerpiece of a revival of Latin boogaloo thirty
years after its heyday. But compared with its “competing song,” as they
refer to “I Like It Like That,” to today’s ears their big hit appears dated and
locked into the clichés of its historical moment. Its bluesy piano intro is
not only too long—it extends a full 1:20—but shows none of the tightness
and inventiveness of a Richie Ray, not to mention an Eddie Palmieri. At
nearly seven minutes, the song itself is too long as well, and despite its de-
liberately free organizational structure and storytelling lyrics, ultimately
disjointed and rambling. To give due credit to the musicians, who are to
this day bursting with talent and ingenuity, other numbers on their 1967
Boogaloo Blues album showed a more successful execution of both Latin

and R&B stylistic possibilities, as did several of the later efforts by TNT.
But the sway of the market, which so largely determined the structure and
preferred context of “Boogaloo Blues” and fashioned it into such a block-
buster hit, is also responsible for the identification of the group with that
one song. And it occurred by the use of the category boogaloo, even
though the song itself is only partially representative of that musical phe-
nomenon and its stylistic trappings.
“Gypsy Woman”
The boogaloo fever and marketing potential, while bringing important and
timely innovations to Latin music of the day, spawned a whole crop of new
musicians and groups, all responding to the opportunity to combine their
two musical heritages, Latin and African American. Some were adept and
experienced musicians and composers who managed to record sizable hits,
like Hector Rivera with his “At the Party.” Rivera provided a range of bands,
including Joe Cuba’s and Eddie Palmieri’s, with many of their compositions
and arrangements, and “At the Party” was on Billboard’s charts for eight
weeks in 1966–67, peaking at number 26. Though he brought in seasoned
musicians for the recording, notably Cachao on bass and Jimmy Sabater on
timbales, and though he boasts of using an African American singer, Ray
Pollard, for the R&B vocals, “At the Party” has a derivative effect when heard
today, not quite matching the freshness and playfulness of “Bang Bang,”
resonating too closely with Sabater’s other big seller “Yeah Yeah,” and lack-
ing the infectious hook-line refrain and shifting tempos of “I Like It Like
That.” Rivera himself never liked or used the term boogaloo, and he is sure-
ly right in claiming far more interests and accomplishments than are im-
plied in it. But given the influence of commercially motivated tastemakers
in stamping performers and their acts, he is known to posterity primarily by
that one tune, and by his association with the boogaloo period.
But the rash of Latin boogaloo bands was comprised mostly of newcom-
ers, young singers and novice instrumentalists who jumped on the band-
wagon and, for better or worse, made their musical start and left their mark.
Singers like Joey Pastrana and Ralfie Pagán, for example, enjoyed immense
popularity in El Barrio at the time, and are remembered fondly for their
soulful ballads infused with Latin rhythms and typically trailing off into or
interspersed with Spanish lyrics. King Nando (Fernando Rivera), the gui-
tarist and singer from El Barrio famous for his shing-a-lings, captivated
audiences in the summer of 1967 with his composition “Fortuna,” a slow,
grinding number inspired by memories of his native Puerto Rico. The
Lebrón Brothers, a family-based group from Brooklyn, were another crea-
tion of George Goldner’s boogaloo hit-making machine, though before be-
ing named (by Goldner) they had minor hits on their own with tunes like
“Tall Tales” and “Funky Blues.” Yet they were also casualties of the same
process, and like so many of the other youthful acts of the time, they re-
member the experience with a note of bitterness. Speaking of Goldner and
their best-known album, the group’s spokesman Angel Lebrón comments
that “when we recorded ‘Psychedelic Goes Latin’ . . . , we didn’t get paid
for it. Despite the propaganda that was printed then, the boogaloo band-
leaders were the hottest bands at the time. The boogaloo era came to an
end when we threatened to rebel against the package deals.”16 Beyond
these examples, young musicians with evident potential and genuine pop-
ularity, there were other groups who appear to have been made for the oc-
casion, bearing bubblegum-sounding names like the Latin-aires and even
the La-Teens. But this gimmicky nomenclature can be deceiving, as a for-
gotten group like the Latin Souls produced some impressive a capella
songs, and there is no telling how many of the selections of the Hi Latin
Boogaloos, organized by Gil Suarez, might have survived oblivion were it
not for the vagaries and interested selectiveness of the commercial gate-
keepers. The Coquets, a pair of African American woman singers who did
backup for Joey Pastrana, might also have made a contribution to the rep-
ertoire of Latin soul vocalizing.
But of all these upstarts from the boogaloo era, the one who stands apart
and who has enjoyed a long though difficult career since, is surely Joe
Bataan. His first recording, “Gypsy Woman,” was an immediate and last-
ing hit among Black and Puerto Rican audiences when it was released in
1967, the midst of the Latin boogaloo era. Yet neither that song, a Latinized
cover of Curtis Mayfield’s huge 1961 hit with the Impressions, nor any of
his many other compositions, are considered boogaloo, nor has he ever
wanted them to be. “I don’t like the word, never did,” Bataan comments.
“In fact I hate it. I consider it insulting and always have. My own music,
and most of what’s called boogaloo, is for me Latin soul.” He sometimes
refers to it as “La-So” for short, and after salsa set in, he takes credit for
coining the term “salsoul,” which was then popularized as the name of a
briefly successful record label.
Though raised in El Barrio and a well-known figure in the street gangs

there during the late 1950s and early 1960s, Bataan was not of Puerto
Rican ethnic parentage. “My father was Filipino and my mother was Afri-
can American, and my culture is Puerto Rican,” as he explains it. His child-
hood associates were as much African American as Puerto Rican, and his
music, which he undertook after spending years in prison, has tended to
have greater appeal among Blacks and Whites than among strictly Latino
audiences. If the music of the Latin boogaloo period made up a continuum
from Latin to R&B, Bataan’s is clearly on the Black side of the spectrum.
But he has always been an extremely eclectic composer and performer,
drawing ideas and experiments from a wide range of sources. And far
more explicitly than any of the young barrio musicians of the time, he was
inspired in his creations by his own experience and from life in the streets.
Even a reluctant admirer like bassist Andy González, who had little regard
for the music itself, had to admit that “if you want to know what was going
on in the streets, listen to the songs of Joe Bataan.”17
Bataan’s life in music is a story of survival and determination, and pro-
vides further insight into the machinations of the industry. “Music was my
salvation,” he says. “At 15 I began a five-year sentence at Coxsackie. One day
after a guard’s lecture shook me up I decided I was going to learn a skill and
stay out of prison. . . . Through trial and error I learned to play the piano. I
imitated Eddie Palmieri’s style, he was my man. . . . In 1965 I organized a
band and [promoter] Federico Pagani got us steady gigs.”18 The band con-
sisted of very young kids from the neighborhood, with little or no musical
experience. When his singing of “Gypsy Woman” caused an enthusiastic re-
sponse from the audience, he continues, “Pagani referred me to Goldner.
After I sang ‘Gypsy Woman’ for him, he told me in a polite way, ‘It’s great,
but let someone else sing it. You do not have a masculine voice.’ ” Bataan
was furious, offended perhaps more in his masculinity than his musician-
ship, and was determined to get even. “I signed a contract with [famed dee-
jay] Dick ‘Ricardo’ Sugar, who in turn introduced me to Jerry Masucci of
Fania after he heard me sing at the Boricua Theater. I signed with Fania and
recorded ‘Gypsy Woman’ in 1967.”19
Bataan explains the popularity of his music, created as it was with so lit-
tle professional training or support, to be the public’s identification with
his realistic themes taken from everyday life in society, and not just the par-
ties and good times. Well-known early tunes like “What Good Is a Castle,”
“Poor Boy,” and “Ordinary Guy,” he says, “were bestsellers because I was
singing about me, my life, my experiences. . . . Mr. Goldner once told me

that my songs were sad. Suddenly I realized it was true. There never was
much happiness in my life. I rarely used the word love. Many people iden-
tified with my songs because they also experienced the same pain, day after
day.”20 Even his first hit, “Gypsy Woman,” an upbeat dance tune overtly
about admiring love for an exoticized woman, is also tinged with a tone of
sadness, partly due to Bataan’s own unpretentious, “ordinary guy” voice
with its characteristic flattening at the end of each line. Without being
gloomy or morose, his songs do not typically revel in the kind of ecstasy
and enthusiasm notable in most songs identified with Latin boogaloo.
They seem like the sounds left after the party is over, or coming from out-
side the party looking in. Their effect is not to dampen the festive atmos-
phere—thousands of young people have partied to his music over the
years—but they tend to remind the revelers of the hard, cold world around
them in everyday life. Their musical simplicity and apparent lack of so-
phistication are thus deceptive, and in no way negate the emotional depth
and homespun creativity of his fusions of Black and Latin cultural idioms.
Joe Bataan stands as the social conscience, and with his contributions to
the formation of later styles like disco and rap, the continuation of Latin
boogaloo as a cultural impulse of the 1960s.
Bye Bye Boogaloo

“The Boogaloo didn’t die out. It was killed off by envious old bandleaders, a
few dance promoters and a popular Latin disc jockey.” By 1969, just three
years after its explosive entry onto the New York music scene, Latin boogaloo
was gone, and most musicians involved, young and older, agree with King
Nando’s explanation of its rapid demise. “We were the hottest bands and we
drew the crowds. But we were never given top billing or top dollar. The
Boogaloo bandleaders were forced to accept ‘package deals’ which had us
hopping all over town . . . one hour here, one hour there . . . for small change.
When word got out we were going to unite and no longer accept the package
deals, our records were no longer played over the radio. The Boogaloo era was
over and so were the careers of most of the Boogaloo bandleaders.”21
Not everyone bemoaned its passing in equal measure, of course, or
views it in such conspiratorial terms. The boogaloo was, after all, just an-
other dance fad on the American pop scene and thus destined to a fleeting
life span and instant oblivion. Latin boogaloo was more than that, as it
marked an important intervention in the history of Latin music as well,

and served as an expression of Puerto Rican and African American cul-
tures in those pivotal years of their experience in New York. But in the
name of boogaloo, rather than the broader Latin soul concept, the style was
doomed to fade, as a new generation of young Latinos came to seek out
something that they, too, could call their own. The “next big thing” for
Latin music in New York went by the name of salsa.
“Boogaloo was eclipsed? Yeah, I guess so. And you know, thank God, in
a way.” Willie Torres, the veteran vocalist and composer in whose career
boogaloo was just a phase, was relieved when the fever subsided, though
he qualifies his judgment when he recalls the sheer fun they had playing
music in those years. “Un vacilón,” he says, “it was a goof.” He himself did-
n’t go on past boogaloo, leaving the music business in 1970 to take a job
driving a bus with New York City’s Municipal Transit Authority. But he is
comforted to think that the proven musicians, abruptly sidelined by the
boogaloo craze, did have a chance to come back and prove their longevity.
“Sure, a lot of promising young talent got blocked, but look at Cheo Feli-
ciano, Eddie Palmieri, Tito Puente, Ray Barretto, Larry Harlow . . . They
and a lot of other greats survived the craze and went on to greater heights
than ever.” For Willie Torres, the main responsibility for the eclipse of boo-
galoo in the name of salsa, aside from the musicians themselves, was Fania
Records. Though the category “salsa” did not come into currency until
1972, it was Fania that shook New York Latin music loose of the boogaloo
and went on to define the sound of the 1970s to world audiences.
Boogaloo, shing-a-ling, jala jala—none of that was part of the package,
nor was the fusion with R&B or the street origins of the music. The booga-
loo musicians were not named to the Fania All-Stars, and none was pres-
ent on that historic night at the Cheetah when “Our Latin Thing” was
filmed. Not that Fania has been consistent in excising these sounds, hav-
ing been the first to record Joe Bataan, Willie Colón, and other initiates.
Fania’s invaluable 1983 anthology ’60’s Gold, which includes many of the
boogaloo classics, is evidence that the company was anything but conspir-
atorial in its marketing strategy. But Izzy Sanabria, sometimes called “Mr.
Salsa” for his role as man-about-town master of ceremonies and publisher
of Latin New York magazine, points to Fania in drawing the relationship be-
tween musical tastes and potential economic gain. “What destroyed it,” he
says, speaking of Latin boogaloo, “was a movement by Fania. And what
happened was, Puente and the others, who were not with Fania at the time,
put down the Latin Boogaloo because the kids were off clave. I mean even-
tually Puente recorded the Boogaloo. But you see, they were not on clave.
They were not perfectly syncopated. But they were singing English lyrics.
And this music became extremely popular. . . . So this was eventually eased
out, in order to return to the more typical, correctly played music, suppos-
edly. They were critical of all these kids. I mean Tito Puente used to de-
scribe Willie Colon as a kiddie band. Which it was.”22
Because of the broad visibility achieved by salsa in the intervening
years, the musician most widely (though mistakenly) associated with the
inner-city, streetwise spirit of boogaloo is surely Willie Colón. Born in
1950, Colón was perhaps too young in the boogaloo days to participate
and never recorded any boogaloos, either in name or in musical style. But
his first album, El Malo, came out in 1967, during the height of boogaloo,
and achieved great success. Though the musicianship of the “kiddie
band” was widely scorned by knowing musicians, that and subsequent re-
leases featured album covers establishing his identity as a “bad” street
tough. Of course, Ray Barretto’s 1967 album Acid was also a major hit of
that year, which along with his all-time 1962 hit “El Watusi” makes him
another Fania stalwart bearing a continuity with the boogaloo era. As is
Larry Harlow, along with Johnny Pacheco perhaps the musical master-
mind behind Fania, who dabbled—unsuccessfully—with boogaloo during
those years. But it is Willie Colón, along with his vocalist Hector Lavoe
whom many of the boogaloo musicians remember from the streets, that,
justifiably or not, represents the bridge between the boogaloo era and the
advent of salsa. As part of the Fania stable, he then went on to become
“more and more of a force in this business,” as Sanabria concludes, much
to the “amazement” of Tito Puente.
But the “movement by Fania,” its effort to establish a certain range of
identifiable stylistic possibilities for its “salsa” concept, was more intent
on change than continuity, at least with the immediate past. The empha-
sis would be on “roots,” continued recovery and reworking of Afro-
Cuban traditions in their varied combinations with jazz. English lyrics
were out, as was any strong trace of R&B or funk. The rich legacies of
Arsenio Rodríguez, Orquesta Aragón, Machito, Arcanio, and the whole
guaguancó-son-mambo tradition took precedence over any experimenta-
tion with American pop styles. Even traditional Puerto Rican music,
though always secondary to the Cuban, served as sources, as in the dan-
zas, aguinaldos, seises, and plenas in a few of the landmark albums by
Eddie Palmieri and Willie Colón from the salsa period. Explicit musical
references to the African roots of the music were typically via Cuba and
the Caribbean, even in stereotypical terms as in one of Colón’s biggest
hits, “Che Che Colé.”23 The African American connection with the New
York Latino community receded in prominence, at least in terms of ver-
nacular musical styles. Willie Colón even raises the all-Spanish lyrics to
a matter of principle, saying that “the language was all we have left. Why
should we give in on that one?”24 A point that is perhaps easier to insist
on when you can count on the likes of a Tite Curet Alonso, the prolific
Puerto Rican songwriter who composed many of Colón’s most memo-
rable lyrics.
“The Boogaloo might have been killed off,” notes Latin music historian
Max Salazar, “but Latin Soul lived on.”25 With a broader understanding of
the musical and social experience called boogaloo, or salsa for that matter,
and disengaging it from those commercially created categories, it becomes
possible to see the continuity and coherence of the Latin–African Ameri-
can musical fusion in clearer historical perspective. Many of the musicians
themselves preferred the idea of Latin soul all along, even during the peak
of boogaloo’s popularity, and the term may be seen to embrace musical
styles both before and after the rise and fall of boogaloo, perhaps even in-
cluding much of what has been called salsa. With the help of his guiding
concept of “Afro-American Latinized rhythms,” Salazar is able to identify
an entire lineage of musical follow-through on the impulse of boogaloo, an
inventory that includes not only direct holdovers from the era like Louie
Ramírez, Bobby Marín and his Latin Chords, and Chico Mendoza, but un-
expected standbys like Johnny Pacheco, Mongo Santamaría, and the Fania
All-Stars, along with non-Caribbean Latinos like Santana and Jorge Dalto.
Dislodged from the power of Fania’s formative influence, the term salsa it-
self can be thought of in more expansive and inclusive terms, and as is nec-
essary a full twenty-five years after its “founding,” can also be conceived in its
various stages and tendencies. Maybe, as Tito Ramos suggests, boogaloo
should be considered part of what he calls “salsa clásica” (as against the “salsa
monga,” “lame salsa,” of more recent years), and its repertoire a significant
inclusion among the “oldies” of the genre. Certainly the music radio pro-
gramming in Puerto Rico and other parts of Latin America present it in that
way, as do some of the recent anthologies of Latin music from the 1960s and
1970s. The sounds of Pete Rodríguez, Joe Cuba, and Richie Ray are still
adored in countries like Colombia and Venezuela, and there no sharp dis-
tinction is made between those old favorites and what is called salsa.
In retrospect perhaps it is true, as is claimed by some commentators,
that the most important influence of Latin boogaloo was not even in the
Latin music field but on Black American music, it having been “one of the
single most important factors in moving Black rhythm sections from a
basic four-to-the-bar concept to tumbao-like bass and increasingly Latin
percussive patterns.”26 That may be the case, but of course that impact
started well before boogaloo, and it should be no reason to understate the
change which that eclipsed era brought to Latin music, even if mainly by
negative example. Growing out of a time of “strong Puerto Rican identifi-
cation with Black politics and culture,” cultural critic George Lipsitz has it,
Latin boogaloo “led organically to a reconsideration of ‘Cuban’ musical
styles . . . as, in fact, Afro-Cuban and . . . a general reawakening of the
African elements within Puerto Rican culture. Condemned by traditional-
ists as a betrayal of the community, Latin Bugalu instead showed that the
community’s identity had always been formed in relation to that of other
groups in the U.S.A.”27 Whatever musical elements of boogaloo might
have been left behind, the social context of which it was an expression, the
historical raison d’être of Latin soul, has only deepened through the years.
A Latin boogaloo revival? Many of the musicians speak of a rekindled in-
terest on the part of the present generation, and the huge success of Tito
Nieves’ 1998 I Like It Like That album, which also contains still another
cover of “Bang Bang,” is an obvious indication. They also point to the en-
thusiasm of fans in Puerto Rico, Latin America, Western Europe, and Ja-
pan. In England it is now classified, along with kindred styles, as “Latin
Acid” or “Acid Jazz,” and much is included under that umbrella, from rere-
leases of Hector Rivera and Mongo Santamaría’s old material to the work
of Pucho and other African American musicians in the Latin groove. The
Latin Vogue, Nu Yorica: Culture Clash in New York City, and ¡Sabroso! The
Afro-Latin Groove are some of the compilations of recent years, and all of
them include Latin boogaloo classics and related and more recent materi-
al. The Relic label has even issued a collection titled Vaya!!! R&B Groups Go
Latin, which comprises twenty tunes by doo-wop and R&B groups from the
1950s who mixed in mambo and other Latin rhythms, starting with the
Crows’ “Gee” and the Harptones’ “Mambo Boogie” in 1954.
But a renewal of the spirit of boogaloo in our time, and a recuperation
of some of the musical experiments seemingly left by the wayside, will
need to be forward-looking and not just nostalgic. With the emergence of

hip-hop in the late 1970s and 1980s, another common space was forged
for joint African American and Latino musical expression, and again it was
Black and Puerto Rican youth from New York City who created and laid
first claim to that new terrain. As with boogaloo, it is again the African
American dimension that appears most visible, but the Latino input can
also be established.28 Commercially successful acts like Mellow Man Ace
and Cypress Hill introduced such fusions of rap and Latin sounds in the
early 1990s, as have rappers in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic.
Current salsa stars like La India and Marc Anthony were reared on rap and
house and got their starts there, while salsa musicians as far-ranging as
Manny Oquendo’s Libre, El Gran Combo, and Tito Rojas have turned to rap
techniques and collaborations to diversify their repertoire. Salsa in English,
a long-standing crossover goal, is attempted with increasing frequency,
though until now with minimal musical success. Surely it is in the context
of such experiments, as the adjacent and kindred Black and Latino cultures
continue to intermingle, that the spirit of Latin boogaloo may live on in the
years ahead. Jimmy Sabater, the all-time master of “cha-cha with a back-
beat,” has that spirit in mind when he says, “Boogaloo? Boogaloo for me
was basically an early form of rap.”
6

Puerto Rocks
Rap, Roots, and Amnesia
By the early 1990s, hip-hop had finally broken the language barrier.
Though young Puerto Ricans from the South Bronx and El Barrio have
been involved in breakdancing, graffiti writing, and rap music since the
beginnings of hip-hop back in the 1970s, it is only belatedly that the Span-
ish language and Latin musical styles came into their own as integral fea-
tures of the rap vocabulary. By the mid-nineties, acts like Mellow Man Ace,
Kid Frost, Gerardo, and El General became household words among pop
music fans nationwide and internationally, as young audiences of all na-
tionalities came to delight in the catchy Spanglish inflections and the
guaguancó and merengue rhythms lacing the familiar rap formats. Mellow
Man Ace’s “Mentirosa” was the first Latino rap record to go gold in the
summer of 1990; Kid Frost’s debut album Hispanic Causing Panic in-
stantly became the rap anthem of La Raza in the same year; Gerardo as
“Rico Suave” has his place as the inevitable Latin lover sex symbol; and El
General has established the immense popularity of Spanish-language reg-
gae-rap in the Caribbean and Latin America.
Who are these first Latin rap superstars and where are they from? Mel-
low Man Ace was born in Cuba and raised in Los Angeles, Kid Frost is a
Chicano from East L.A., Gerardo is from Ecuador, and El General is Pana-
manian. But what about the Puerto Ricans, who with their African Ameri-
can homeboys created hip-hop styles in the first place? They are, as usual,
conspicuous for their absence, and the story is no less startling for all its
familiarity. Latin Empire, for example, the only Nuyorican act to gain some
exposure among wider audiences, is still struggling for its first major
record deal. Individual emcees and deejays have been scattered in well-
115
116 Puerto Rocks: Rap, Roots, and Amnesia
known groups like the Fearless Four and the Fat Boys, their Puerto Rican
backgrounds all but invisible. Even rap performers from Puerto Rico like
Vico C, Lisa M, and Rubén DJ, who grew up far from the streets where hip-
hop originated, enjoy greater commercial success and media recognition
than any of the Puerto Rican b-boys from the New York scene.
This omission, of course, is anything but fortuitous and has as much to
do with the selective vagaries of the music industry as with the social place-
ment of the Puerto Rican community in the prevailing racial-cultural hier-
archy. As the commercialization process involves the extraction of popular
cultural expression from its original social context and function, it seems
that the “Latinization” of hip-hop has meant its distancing from the spe-
cific national and ethnic traditions to which it had most directly pertained.
But instead of simply bemoaning this evident injustice, or groping for elab-
orate explanations, it is perhaps more worthwhile to trace the history of
this experience from the perspectives of some of the rappers themselves.
For if New York Puerto Ricans have had scant play within the “Hispanic rap
market,” they have one thing that other Latino rappers do not, which is a
history in hip-hop since its foundation as an emergent cultural practice
among urban youth.
Such an emphasis is not meant to imply any inherent aesthetic judg-
ment, nor does it necessarily involve a privileging of origins or presumed
authenticity. Yet it is easy to understand and sympathize with the annoy-
ance of a veteran Puerto Rican deejay like Charlie Chase when faced with
the haughty attitudes he encountered among some of the rap superstars
from the Island. “The thing about working with these Puerto Rican rap-
pers,” he commented, reflecting on his work producing records for the
likes of Lisa M and Vico C, “they are very arrogant! You know, because they
are from Puerto Rico, and I’m not, right? I feel kind of offended, but my
comeback is like, well, yeah, if you want to be arrogant about that, then
what are you doing in rap? You’re not a rapper. You learned rap from lis-
tening to me and other people from New York!”1 Actually this apprentice-
ship was probably less direct than Charlie Chase claims, since they more
likely got to know rap through the recordings, videos, and concert appear-
ances of Run DMC, LL Cool J, and Big Daddy Kane than through any fa-
miliarity with the New York hip-hop scene of the early years.
Where did those first platinum-selling rappers themselves go to learn
the basics of rap performance? Again, Charlie Chase can fill us in, by re-
membering the shows he deejayed with the Cold Crush Brothers back in
Puerto Rocks: Rap, Roots, and Amnesia 117
the early 1980s. “When we were doing shows, you know who was in the
audience? The Fat Boys. Whodini. Run DMC, L.L. Cool J, Big Daddy Kane.
Big Daddy Kane told me a story one time, he said, ‘You don’t know how
much I loved you guys.’ He said, ‘I wanted to see you guys so bad, and my
mother told me not to go to Harlem World to see you guys perform be-
cause if she found out I did she’d kick my ass!’ And he said, ‘I didn’t care,
I went. And I went every week. And I wouldn’t miss any of your shows.’
That’s how popular we were with the people who are the rappers today.”
To speak of Puerto Ricans in rap means to defy the sense of instant am-
nesia that engulfs popular cultural expression once it is caught up in the
logic of commercial representation. It involves sketching in historical con-
texts and sequences, tracing traditions and antecedents, and recognizing
hip-hop to be more and different than the simulated images, poses, and for-
mulas the public discourse of media entertainment tends to reduce it to.
The decade and more of hindsight provided by the Puerto Rican involve-
ment shows that, rather than a new musical genre and its accompanying
stylistic trappings, rap constitutes a space for the articulation of social expe-
rience. From this perspective, what has emerged as “Latin rap” first took
shape as an expression of the cultural turf shared, and contended for, by
African Americans and Puerto Ricans over their decades as neighbors,
coworkers, and “homies” in the inner-city communities. As vernacular cul-
tural production prior to its commercial and technological mediation, hip-
hop formed part of a more extensive and intricate field of social practice, a
significant dimension of which comprises the long-standing and ongoing
interaction between Puerto Rican and Black youth in the shared New York
settings. Not only is the contextual field wider, but the historical reach is
deeper and richer as well: the Black and Puerto Rican conjunction in the for-
mation of rap is prefigured in important ways in doo-wop, Latin boogaloo,
Nuyorican poetry, and a range of other testimonies to intensely overlapping
and intermingling expressive repertoires. Thus when Latin Empire comes
out with “I’m Puerto Rican and Proud, Boyee!” they are actually marking off
a decisive moment in a tradition of cultural and political identification that
goes back several generations.
I have gained access to this largely uncharted terrain by way of conver-
sations and interviews with some of the protagonists of Puerto Rican rap.
Early hip-hop movies like Wild Style and Style Wars, which documented
and dramatized the prominent participation of Puerto Ricans, sparked my
initial interest and led to a burst of research (which hardly anyone took se-
riously at the time) and a short article published in various English and
Spanish versions in the mid-1980s. At that time, the only adequate written
consideration of Puerto Ricans had to do with their role in the New York
graffiti movement, as in the excellent book Getting Up by Craig Castleman
and an important article by Herbert Kohl. Steven Hager’s Hip-Hop in-
cludes a valuable social history of youth culture in the South Bronx and
Harlem at the dawn of hip-hop, with some attention to the part played by
Puerto Ricans in graffiti, breakdance, and rap music.2 Otherwise, and since
those earlier accounts, coverage of Puerto Rican rap has been limited to an
occasional article in the Village Voice or Spin magazine, generally as a side-
line concern in discussions of wider style rubrics like “Hispanic,” “Span-
ish,” or “bilingual” rap. Primary evidence of a historical kind is even hard-
er to come by, since Puerto Rican rhymes were never recorded for public
distribution and many have been forgotten even by their authors.
Chasin’ the Flash

Charlie Chase calls himself “New York’s Number One Puerto Rican DJ,”
and that’s how he’s been known since back in the seventies when he was
blasting the hottest dance music on the waves of WBLS and in the early
eighties when he was deejay for the legendary Cold Crush Brothers. When
he says “Number One,” he means not only the best but also the first:
“When I started doing rap, there were no Hispanics doing it. If there were
I didn’t know about it. Anyway, I was the first Hispanic to become popular
doing what I did. I was a deejay.”
Charlie was born in El Barrio in the 1950s, and though his family moved
a lot it was always from one Puerto Rican and Black neighborhood to an-
other. “I grew up in Williamsburg from the age of two to nine. I moved to
the Bronx, on Brook Avenue and 141st, !que eso por allí es candela! I grew
up there from ten to about thirteen, then I moved back to Brooklyn, over
in Williamsburg, Montrose Avenue, por allá on Broadway. Then we moved
back to the Bronx again, 161st and Yankee Stadium. From there we went to
180th and Arthur, and from there it was Grand Concourse and 183rd, then
Valentine and 183rd, then back to 180th. I mean, we moved, man! I’ve been
all over the place, and it’s like I’ve had the worst of both worlds, you know
what I mean?”
Charlie’s parents came from Mayagüez, Puerto Rico. Though family vis-
its to the Island were rare, that Puerto Rican background remained an ac-
tive influence throughout his upbringing. At home he was raised on Puer-

to Rican music. “You see I always listened to my mother’s records. She was
the one who bought all the Latin records. She bought them all. She bought
Tito Puente, she was into trios, el Trio Los Condes.” Even his career in
music seems to have been handed down to him as part of that ancestry. “I
come from a family of musicians. My grandfather was a writer and a mu-
sician; he played in bands. So did my father; he played in trios. So I kind
of followed in their footsteps. My father left me when I was ten and I never
learned music from him; he didn’t teach me how to play instruments. For
some reason or other, it must have been in the blood, I just picked up the
guitar and wanted to learn.”
Charlie makes clear that he didn’t start off in rap or as a deejay. “I’m a
bass player. I played in a Spanish ballad band, merengue band, salsa band,
rock band, funk band, Latin rock band. I produced my first album at the
age of sixteen and it was a Spanish ballad album. We played with the best,
Johnny Ventura, Johnny Pacheco, Los Hijos del Rey, Tito Puente. The
name of the group was Los Giramundos.” So it turns out that Charlie
Chase, famed deejay for the Cold Crush Brothers, started off gigging in a
Latin band when he was fifteeen years old and could have had a whole ca-
reer in salsa. “Yeah,” he recalls, “but there was no money in it. There were
a lot of people being ripped off. . . . I said, man, I want to do something
else.” Fortunately, he did have somewhere to turn, for alongside his in-
herited Latin tradition there was his dance music and R&B. Talking about
his transition to deejaying he remembers: “I was a music lover. I grew up
listening to WABC, Cousin Brucie, Chuck Leonard, all of these guys, and
I was always into music. In school I would always have the radio on. It was
always a big influence in my life and then I turned into a musician. I start-
ed playing with the band, and then a few years later I got into deejaying,
and then the deejaying was making more money for me than the band.”
It all seems to make sense, I thought, but what about that name? What’s
a Puerto Rican doing with a name like Charlie Chase? “My name was Car-
los,” he said. “Charlie is a nickname for Carlos.” Fine, I said, but what about
Chase? “Chase?” he repeated, hesitantly. “There is a story behind that
which I never told anybody, and I don’t know if I want to say it. Because
when this person reads this, he is going to be so souped.” (Little was I to
know how much this little story has to say about the situation of young
Puerto Ricans in the early days of rap.) “I made up my name because of
Grandmaster Flash. Flash is a friend of mine. I first saw Flash doing this,
cutting and all of this, and I saw that and I said, aw, man, I can do this. I
was deejaying at the time, but I wasn’t doing the scratching and shit and I
said, I can do this, man. I’ll rock this, you know. And I practiced, I broke
turntables, needles, everything. Now ‘Chase’ came because I’m like, damn,
you need a good name, man. And Flash was on top and I was down here.
So I was chasing that niggah. I wanted to be up where he was. So I said,
let’s go with Charlie Chase.”
There’s no telling how “souped” Grandmaster Flash will get when he
finds out, but his friend and main rival (along with Grandmaster Theo)
back in the days, grew up as Carlos Mandes. “It’s Mandes,” Charlie em-
phasized, “m-a-n-d-e-s. Not Méndez.” Whatever the origin of his Puerto
Rican name, ever since he started chasing the Flash Carlos Mandes has
been known, by everyone, as Charlie Chase. He doesn’t even like it when
“Mandes” appears on the records he wrote. “Nobody knows my name was
Carlos Mandes. They’d laugh. They’d snap on me.”
Charlie might think that Mandes sounds corny now, but at the time the
problem was that it didn’t fit. He never tires of telling about how difficult
it was to be accepted as a Puerto Rican in rap, especially as a deejay, and be-
cause he was so good. “A lot of Blacks would not accept that I was Spanish.
You know, a lot of times because of the way I played they thought I was
Black, because I rocked it so well.” As a deejay he was usually seated in
back, behind the emcees and out of sight. In the beginning, in fact, his in-
visibility was a key to success. “I became popular because of the tapes, and
also because nobody could see me. Since they thought I was Black, you
know, because I was in the background.” Even when they saw him, he says
that “they still wouldn’t believe it. They are like, ‘no, that’s not him! That’s
bullshit! That’s not him!’ A few years went by and they accepted it, you
know. I was faced with a lot of that. You know, being Hispanic you’re not
accepted in rap. Because to them it’s a Black thing and something that’s
from their roots and shit.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Puerto Rican?” Charlie remembers
being faced with that challenge time and again when he went behind the
ropes, among the rappers, at the early jams. He had to prove himself con-
stantly, and he recalls vividly the times when it took his homeboy Tony
Tone from DJ Breakout and Baron to step in and save his skin. “I turn
around and see him breaking on them and I hear what he’s saying and I’m
like, oh shit!” As tough as it got, though, Charlie knew very well that he
wasn’t out of place. “I was the type of kid that, you know, I always grew up
with Black people. . . . My daughter’s godfather is Black. He’s like my

brother, that guy.”
But the best proof was that Charlie was with the Cold Crush Brothers,
who were all Black. “We all grew up in the streets, man. It’s like a street
thing. Once you see that the guy is cool, then you’re accepted, everything
flows correctly.” And it’s not that Charlie just did everything like the other
brothers, to fit in. Aside from his “mancha de plátano,” those indelible ear-
marks of the Puerto Rican, he had his own personal style about him that
he wasn’t about to give up just to be one of the boys. He remembers about
Cold Crush that “the only thing was, it was a trip when it came to the dress-
ing bit. You see, I don’t dress like the average hip-hopper and never did.
They wanted to wear Kangols, Martin X, and these British walkers and all
that stuff at the time, and I was like, that’s not me, fellas. That’s not me,
man. At that time, I combed my hair back in a DA.” Not only did he refuse
to fit the mold, but Charlie’s insistence helped the group arrive at the look
that helped to establish their immense popularity in those years. “We came
up with a look that everybody copied afterwards, which we all felt comfort-
able with. It was the leather and stud look, which we popularized in rap
and through that look we became hard.”
Besides, as alone as he was sometimes made to feel, Charlie knew that he
wasn’t the only Puerto Rican who was into rap. “Hispanics always liked rap,
young Puerto Ricans were into it since the beginning. I wasn’t the only one
who felt the same way about music like that. There were plenty of them, but
they didn’t have the talent, they just enjoyed it. Me, I wanted to do it, you
know. Forget it, there were plenty of people. I mean, when you grow up in
the streets, it’s a street thing, man.” In its street beginnings, Puerto Ricans
were an integral part of the rap scene, and not only as appreciative fans.
Though their participation in production and performance was submerged
(far more so than in breaking and graffiti), they were an essential and pre-
ponderant presence in the security crews that, in the gang environment,
made the whole show possible. “It was rough, man,” Charlie recalls. “All of
my crew, the whole crew, were Spanish, maybe two or three Black guys. They
were all Spanish, and when we jammed we had bats. If you crossed the line
or got stupid, you were going to get batted down, alright? And that was that.
That was my crew, they would help me with records, they were security. The
guys in my group were Black, but the rest of the guys, security, were His-
panic. . . . People’d be like, yo, those are some wild Spanish motherfuckers.
Don’t mess with them, man.”
But with a little coaxing Charlie will even call to mind some other Puerto
Rican rappers from those days. There was Prince Whipper Whip and Ruby
D (Rubén García) from the Fantastic Five, OC from the Fearless Four with
Tito Cepeda, Johnny who was down with Master Don and the Def Commit-
tee. “Then there was this one group,” Charlie recalls, “that wanted to do Latin
rap songs, way back. And they had good ideas and they had great songs, but
they just didn’t have enough drive, you know? They had a great idea, they had
a routine. They had these crazy nice songs, but they just weren’t ambitious
enough. . . . Robski and June Bug, those were the guys.” Years before anybody
started talking about “Latin rap,” Robski and June Bug were busy working
out Spanglish routines and even rendering some of the best rhymes of the
time into Spanish. “They took our songs and translated them into Spanish.
They blew our heads, man! It was weird, because they actually took every-
thing we said and turned it into Spanish and made it rhyme. And they did a
good job of it.”
But in those days using Spanish in rap was still a rarity, especially in
rhymes that were distributed on tapes and records. It wasn’t only lack of
ambition that prevented Robski and June Bug from making it, “ ’cause at
that time,” Charlie says, “a lot of people were doing it underground, but
they couldn’t come off doing it, they couldn’t make money doing it. The
people that did it, did it in parties, home stuff, the block, they were the stars
in their ghetto.” But Charlie himself, “chasing the Flash,” was with the first
rap group to be signed by CBS Records, the first rap group to tour Japan,
the group that played in the first hip-hop movie, Wild Style. At that level,
rapping in Spanish was still out of the question. Charlie explains what it
was like for him to face this constraint, and gives a clear sense of the deli-
cate generational process involved in the entry of bilingualism into com-
mercially circumscribed rap discourse. “I always stressed the point that I
was Hispanic doing rap music, but I couldn’t do it in Spanish, you under-
stand? But that was my way of opening the doors for everybody else to do
what they’re doing now. You see, there are certain degrees, certain levels
and steps that you have to follow. And being that I was there at the very be-
ginning, that was the I way I had to do it, that was my contribution. I feel
sorry that I couldn’t do it then, but I want to do it now and I’m making up
for it, because now I can. . . . I wanted everybody to know that I was Span-
ish, rocking, ripping shit up. In a Black market.”
At that early stage in negotiating Puerto Rican identity in rap, the key
issue was not language but what Charlie calls “the Latin point of view”;
pushing rhymes in Spanish was not yet part of the precarious juggling act.
“For me it’s the Latin point of view. You see, what I emphasize is that I’m
Hispanic in a Black world. Not just surviving but making a name for my-
self and leaving a big impression. Everything that happened to me was al-
ways within the Black music business, and I always was juggling stuff all
of the time, because I had to be hip, I had to be a homeboy. But I also had
to know how far to go without seeming like I was trying to kiss up or some-
thing, or ‘he’s just trying to be Black.’ When you deal with the people I deal
with, especially at a time when rap was just hard core and raw, you’re talk-
ing about guys who were títeres, you know, tough guys. I had to juggle that.
I had to play my cards correct.”
If Spanish wasn’t yet part of the “Latin point of view,” the music was, es-
pecially the rhythmic texture of the songs which is where as the deejay
Charlie was in control. He remembers sneaking in the beat from the num-
ber “Tú Coqueta,” right “in the middle of a jam. I’m jamming, I throw that
sucker in, just the beat alone, and they’d go off. They never knew it was a
Spanish record. And if I told them that they’d get off the floor.” Even the
other rappers couldn’t tell because the salsa cuts seemed to fit in so per-
fectly. “It was great! I would sneak in Spanish records. Beats only, and if the
bass line was funky enough, I would do that too. Bobby Valentín stuff. He
played bass with the Fania All-Stars, and he would do some funky stuff.”
As a bassist in Latin bands, Charlie knew the repertoire to choose from.
But he also knew that he had to walk a fine line and that he was ahead
of his time, not only for the R&B-savvy rappers but for Latin musical tastes
as well. In fact it was because of the resistance he faced from the Latin mu-
sicians, and not only the better pay, that Charlie decided to leave Los Gira-
mundos and go into rap full time. “Sometimes I’d go to gigs and in be-
tween songs I’d start playing stuff from rap music and the drummer would
like it too, and he’d start doing some stuff. And sometimes people would
get up to dance to it and the rest of the guys in the band would get furious
at us, and they would say, ‘What are you doing? If you’re not going to play
a song, don’t do it.’ They would break on me. They didn’t want that stuff.”
Not that Charlie didn’t try to interest Latin musicians in mixing some ele-
ments of rap into their sound. He especially remembers working on a
record concept with Willie Colón. “He could have had the first Latin hip-
hop record out and it would have been a hit. It was a singing rap. He was
singing, right, there was a little bit of rap, and I was scratching. I did the ar-
rangements. What happened was, the project was being held and held and
held. What happened? He put out the record, an instrumental! He took out
all the raps, then he overdubbed. Killed the whole project. He slept on it.”
But as Charlie learned early on, when it comes to the emergence of new
styles in popular music it’s all a matter of timing. He himself had trouble
relating to the use of Spanish in rap when he first heard it on record. Back
in 1981 the group Mean Machine came out with the first recorded Spanish
rhymes in their “Disco Dream,” a side that deeply impressed some of the
present-day Latino rappers like Mellow Man Ace and Latin Empire when
they first heard it, though that was some years after it was released. But
Charlie knew Mean Machine when they started and recalls his reaction
when “Disco Dream” first came out. “It was strange, and it was new. At first
I didn’t jive with it because I was so used to and I myself got so caught up
in that whole R&B thing that when I heard that, it didn’t click with me. And
I was like, ‘Naw, this is bullshit!.’ ” But with time tastes changed, as did
Charlie’s understanding of himself and his own role. “And then,” he goes
on, “something made me realize one day that, wait a minute, man, look at
you, what are you? You don’t rap like they do, but you’re Hispanic just like
them, trying to get a break in the business. And I said, if anything, this is
something cool and new.”
Seen in retrospect, Mean Machine was only a faint hint of what was to
become Latino rap in the years ahead. The Spanish they introduced
amounted to a few party exhortations rather than an extended Spanish or
bilingual text. Charlie draws this distinction, and again points up the
changing generations of Latino presence in rap.
“The way that they did it was not like today. Today it’s kind of political,
opinionated, and commercial, and storytelling. What they did was that
they took a lot of Spanish phrases, like ‘uepa’ and ‘dale fuego a la lata,
fuego a la lata,’ stuff like that, and turned them into a record.” However
perfunctory their bilingualism and fleeting their acclaim, Mean Machine’s
early dabbling with Spanglish rhymes did plant a seed. Puerto Rock of
Latin Empire attests to the impact “Disco Dream” had on them: “They did-
n’t continue. After one record, that was it. I know them all, we keep in con-
tact. Mr. Schick came out with, ‘Tire su mano al aire / Yes, means throw
your hands in the air / y siguen con el baile means / dance your body till
you just don’t care.’ And then it ended up with, ‘Fuego a la lata, fuego a la
lata / agua que va caer.’ So we were like bugging! We were more or less do-
ing it but in English and got crazy inspired when we heard that record. We
was like, Oh, snap! He wrote the first Spanish rhyme! We was skeptical if
it was going to work, and when we heard the record we were like, it’s going
to work.”3
The disbelief and strategic invisibility that surrounded Latino participation
in rap performance in the early years gave way to a fascination with some-
thing new and different. Charlie sees this process reflected in the changing
fate of his own popularity among hip-hop audiences. “It was kind of compli-
cated,” he recalls. If at first he became popular because “nobody could see
me,” he later became even more popular because “everyone found out I was
Hispanic. And it was like, ‘yo, this kid is Spanish!’ and ‘What? Yo, we’ve got
to see this!’ ” Once he began to feel this sense of curiosity and openness, a
new stage appeared in rap history, and Charlie was quick to recognize its po-
tential, commercially and politically. He tells of how his enthusiasm caught
the attention among some of the Latin musicians, especially his friend Tito
Puente, who seemed to be fondly reminded of their own breakthrough a gen-
eration before. “These guys, they love it. Because for one, it’s for them get-
ting back out into the limelight again, you know, in a different market. . . .
The musicians are very impressed to see that somebody like me wants to
work with them in my style of music. And when I tell them about my history
they are very impressed because in their day, when they came out, they were
the same way. When Tito Puente came out, he was doing the mambo and it
was all something new. It was all new to him, too. So he can relate to what
I’m doing. And for him it’s almost like a second coming.”
After the decade it has taken for Puerto Rican rap to come into its own,
Charlie now feels that the time is right for the two sides of his musical life
to come together, and for full-fledged “salsa-rap” to make its appearance.
“For this next record I want to do a project, where I want to get all the East
Coast rappers together, I want to get POW, I want to get Latin Empire, I
want to get a few other guys that are unknown but that are good. I want to
join them, I want to bring in Luis ‘Perico’ Ortíz, I want to bring Tito, I want
to bring Ray Barretto, you know. Bring them to handle all the percussion
stuff and then my touch would be to bring in the rap loops, the beats, the
bass lines, the programming. I’ll program and also arrange it. And they
will come in, Luis ‘Perico’ would do the whole horn section, Tito would
come in and handle all the percussion section, and Ray Barretto would
handle the congas. And I would get my friend Sergio who is a tremendous
piano player, a young kid, he’s about twenty-four, twenty-five now, he works
for David Maldonado. I just want to kick this door wide open, once and for
all, and that’s the way I’m going to do it.”
As ambitious as such a project may sound, bringing together Puerto

Rican musicians across musical traditions is only half of Charlie’s strategy
for promoting Latino unity. For “if any Hispanics want to make it in this
business,” he claims, “they’ve got to learn to pull together, no matter where
you’re coming from, or it’s not going to work. It’s not going to work, man.
Kid Frost on the West Coast right now, he’s got a little thing going. He and
I are working around a few things. He’s got his Latin Alliance on the West
Coast. I’ve got a lot of Latin people who work with me on this. I’m trying
to form something here where we can merge, cover the whole United
States. That’s the best way we can do it, if we unify.”
Yet with his repeated emphasis on Latino unity, Charlie has more than
commercial success in mind. His own experience, he now feels, leads him
to set his sights on the political and educational potential of his musical ef-
forts. “Because what I did, I had to unite with Black people to get my suc-
cess and become Charlie Chase, ‘New York’s Number One Puerto Rican
DJ.’ Ironically, I did it with Black people. Which proves, man, that anybody
can get together and do it. If I did it with Black people, then Hispanics can
do it with Hispanics and do a much better job. That’s my whole purpose
right now. I mean, I have made my accomplishments, I have become fa-
mous doing my thing in rap, I have respect. Everybody knows me in the
business. I have all of that already, man. I’ve tasted the good life, I’ve
toured the world, I’ve done all of that. Now I want to do something mean-
ingful and helpful. Hopefully, because a lot of kids are being steered the
wrong way.”
Puerto Rocks
Moving into the 1990s, then, the prospects and context have changed for
Latino rap. Hugely popular albums like Latin Alliance, Dancehall Reggaes-
pañol and Cypress Hill have been called a “polyphonic outburst” marking
the emergence of “the ‘real’ Latin hip-hop.” Kid Frost’s assembly of Latin
Alliance is referred to as “a defining moment in the creation of a nation-
wide Latino/Americano hip-hop aesthetic.” Unity of Chicanos and Puerto
Ricans, which has long eluded politicos and admen, is becoming a reality
in rap, and its potential impact on the culture wars seems boundless:
“Where once the folks on opposite coasts were strangers, they’ve become
one nation kicking Latin lingo on top of a scratch’, samplin’ substrate. . . .
There is no question that we are entering an era when the multicultural
essence of Latino culture will allow for a kind of shaking-out process that
will help define the Next Big Thing.”4 Not only is the use of Spanish and
bilingual rhyming accepted, but it has even become a theme in some of the
best-known rap lyrics, like Kid Frost’s “Ya Estuvo,” Cypress Hill’s “Funky
Bi-lingo,” and Latin Empire’s “Palabras.” Latino rappers are cropping up
everywhere, from the tongue-twisting, “trabalengua” Spanglish of one
Chicago-Rican group to the lively current of Tex-Mex rap in New Mexico
and Arizona.5 And it’s not only the rappers themselves who have been
building these bicultural bridges: Latin musical groups as varied as El Gran
Combo, Wilfredo Vargas, Manny Oquendo’s Libre, and Los Pleneros de la
21 have all incorporated rap segments and numbers into their repertoire.
But while he shares these high hopes, a seasoned veteran of “the busi-
ness” like Charlie Chase remains acutely aware of the pitfalls and distor-
tions involved. After all, he had witnessed firsthand what was probably the
first and biggest scam in rap history, when Big Bad Hank and Sylvia Robin-
son of Sugar Hill Records used a rhyme by his close friend and fellow Cold
Crush brother Grandmaster Cas on “Rapper’s Delight” and never gave him
credit. The story has been told elsewhere, as by Steven Hager in his book,
but Charlie’s is a lively version. “This is how it happened. Hank was work-
ing in a pizzeria in New Jersey, flipping pizza. And he’s playing Cas’ tape,
right? Sylvia Robinson walks in, the president of Sugar Hill. She’s listen-
ing to this, it’s all new to her. Mind you, there were never any rap records.
She says, ‘Hey, man, who’s this?’ He says, ‘I manage this guy. He’s a rap-
per.’ She says, ‘Can you do this? Would you do this on a record for me?’
And he said, ‘Yeah, sure. No problem.’ And she says, ‘Okay, fine.’ So he
calls Cas up and says, ‘Cas, can I use your rhymes on a record? Some lady
wants to make a record.’ You see what happened? Cas didn’t have foresight.
He couldn’t see down the road. He never imagined in a million years what
was going to come out of that. He didn’t know, so he said, ‘Sure, fine, go
ahead.’ With no papers, no nothing. And it went double platinum! Double
platinum! ‘Rapper’s Delight.’ A single. A double platinum single, which is
a hard thing to do.”
Charlie doesn’t even have to go that far back to reflect on how commer-
cial interests tend to glamorize and, in his word, “civilize” rap sources. He
tells of his own efforts to land a job as an A&R (artist and repertoire) per-
son with a record label. “All of this knowledge, all of this experience. I have
the ear, I’m producing for all of these people. I mean, I know. You cannot
get a more genuine person than me. I can’t get a job.” The gatekeepers of
the industry could hardly be farther removed from the vitality of hip-hop.
“I go to record labels to play demos for A&R guys that don’t know a thing
about rap. They talk to me and they don’t even know who I am. White guys
that live in L.A. Forty years old, thirty-five years old, making seventy, a hun-
dred thousand a year, and they don’t know a thing! And they’re picking
records to sell, and half of what they’re picking is bullshit. And I’m trying
to get somewhere and I can’t do it.”
As for promoting bilingual rap, the obstacles are of course compound-
ed, all the talk of “pan-Latin unity” notwithstanding. “Not that long ago,”
Charlie mentions, “Latin Empire was having trouble with a Hispanic pro-
moter at Atlantic Records who wouldn’t promote their records. You know
what he told them? (And he’s a Latino.) He told them, ‘Stick to one lan-
guage.’ And that’s negative, man. You’re up there, man, pull the brother
up.” And of course it’s not only the limits on possible expressive idioms
that signal a distortion but the media’s ignorance of rap’s origins. Elle mag-
azine, for example, announced that Mellow Man Ace “has been crowned
the initiator of Latin rap,” their only evident source being Mellow Man
himself: “I never thought it could be done. Then in 1985 I heard Mean Ma-
chine do a 20-second Spanish bit on their ‘Disco Dream.’ I bugged out.”
And the Spanish-language Más magazine then perpetuated the myth by
proclaiming that it was Mellow Man Ace “quien concibió la idea de hacer
rap en español” (“whose idea it was to do rap in Spanish”).6
The problem is that in moving “from the barrio to Billboard,” as Kid Frost
puts it, Latino rappers have faced an abrupt redefinition of function and prac-
tice. The ten-year delay in the acceptance of Spanish rhymes was due in no
small part to the marketing of rap, through the eighties, as a strictly African
American musical style with a characteristically Afrocentric message. Char-
lie Chase confronted this even among some of his fellow rappers at the New
Music Seminar in 1990 and appealed to his own historical authority to help
set the record straight. “I broke on a big panel. Red Alert, Serch from Third
Base, Chuck D, the guys from the West Coast, these are all my boys, mind
you, these are all of my friends. So I went off on these guys because they were
like ‘Black this, and Black music’, and I said ‘Hold it!’ I jumped up and I said,
‘Hold up, man. What are you talking about, a Black thing, man? I was part of
the Cold Crush Brothers, man. We opened doors for all you guys.’ And the
crowd went berserk, man. And I grabbed the mike and I just started going
off. I’m like, ‘Not for nothing, man, but don’t knock it. It’s a street thing. I
liked it because it came from the street and I’m from the street. I’m a prod-
uct of the environment.’ I said that to Serch, I pointed to Serch, ’cause that’s
his record from his album. And I said, ‘Yo, man, rap is us. You’re from the
street, that’s you man, that’s rap. It ain’t no Black, White or nothing thing,
man. To me, rap is colorblind, that’s that!’ The niggahs were applauding me
and stuff. I got a lot of respect for that.”
Latin Empire has had to put forth the same argument in explaining
their own project. As Rick Rodríguez aka “Puerto Rock” puts it, “When it
comes to hip-hop I never pictured it with a color.” They too are a “product
of the environment” and see no need to relinquish any of their Puerto
Rican background. “Our influence,” Puerto Rock says, “is the stuff you see
around you. Things you always keep seeing in the ghetto. But they don’t
put it in art. It’s streetwise. The styles, the fashions, the music is not just
for one group. Everybody can do it. But too many Puerto Ricans don’t un-
derstand. There’s a big group of Latinos that’s into hip-hop, but most of
them imitate Black style or fall into a trance. They stop hanging out with
Latin people and talking Spanish. I’m proving you can rap in Spanish and
still be dope.” Puerto Rock’s cousin and partner in Latin Empire, Anthony
Boston aka MC KT, has had to deal even more directly with this stereotype
of rap, as he is often mistaken for a young African American and was
raised speaking more English than Spanish. KT’s rhymes in “We’re Puer-
to Rican and Proud!” serve to clarify the issue:
I rarely talk Spanish and a little trigueño

People be swearin’ I’m a moreno
Pero guess what? I’m Puertorriqueño.
Word ’em up.
All jokes aside, I ain’t tryin’ to dis any race
and
Puerto Rock
He’ll announce everyplace . . .
M.C. KT
That I’ll perform at, so chill, don’t panic
It is just me, Antonio, another deso Hispanic.
To drive the point home, the initials KT stand for “Krazy Taino”: “It’s fly,”
Puerto Rock comments. “With a ‘K,’ and the ‘r’ backwards like in Toys-R-
Us. In our next video he’s going to wear all the chief feathers and that. Nice
image. With all the medallions and all that we’ve got. Like in Kid Frost in
his video, he wears the Mexican things. That’s dope, I like that. Tainos have
a lot to do with Puerto Ricans and all that, so we’re going to boost it up too.
Throw it in the lyrics.”
But KT didn’t always signal the Puerto Rican cultural heritage, and in
fact the derivation of their names shows that their struggle for identity has
been a response against the stereotyped symbolism of rap culture. “MC KT
is his name because before Latin Empire we were called the Solid Gold
MCs. KT stood for karat, like in gold.” The group gave up the faddish cliché
Solid Gold because they had no jewelry and didn’t like what it stood for any-
way. When they started, in the early eighties, “We worked with a few dif-
ferent trend names. We started off with our name, our real names, our
nicknames. Like Tony Tone, Ricky D, Ricky Rock, all of that. Everything
that came out, Rick-ski, every fashion. Double T, Silver T, all of these wild
Ts.” After trying on all the conformist labels, Rick finally assumed the iden-
tity that was given him, as a Puerto Rican, in the African American hip-hop
nomenclature itself; he came to affirm what marked him off. “And then I
wound up coming up with Puerto Rock,” he explains, “and I like that one.
That’s the one that clicked the most. The Puerto Ricans that are into the
trend of hip-hop and all that, they call them Puerto Rocks. They used to see
the Hispanics dressing up with the hat to the side and all hip-hop down
and some assumed that we’re supposed to just stick to our own style of
music and friends. They thought rap music was only a Black thing, and it
wasn’t. Puerto Ricans used to be all crazy with their hats to the side and
everything. So that’s why they used to call the Puerto Ricans when they
would see them with the hats to the side, ‘Yo, look at that Puerto Rock, like
he’s trying to be down.’ They used to call us Puerto Rocks, so that was a
nickname, and I said, ‘I’m going to stick with that. Shut everybody up.’”
The name the group’s members chose to replace Solid Gold was arrived
at somewhat more fortuitously, but equally reflects their effort to situate
themselves in an increasingly multicultural hip-hop landscape. “Riding
around in the car with our manager, DJ Corchado, we were trying to think
of a Latin name. We was like, the Three Amigos, the Latin Employees, for
real, we came up with some crazy names. We kept on, ’cause we didn’t
want to limit ourselves, with Puerto Rican something, yeah, the Puerto
Rican MCs. We wanted Latin something, to represent all Latinos. So we
was the Two Amigos, the Three Amigos, then we came up with many other
names, Latin Imperials, Latin Alliance. And then when we were driving
along the Grand Concourse my manager’s car happened to hit a bump
when I came out with the Latin Employees. Joking around, we were just
making fun and when the car hit the bump my manager thought I said
‘Empire.’ I was like, what? Latin Empire! I was like, yo, that’s it! As soon as
they said it, it clicked. It’s like a strong title, like the Zulu Nation.”
Groping for names that click, of course, is part of the larger process of
positioning themselves in the changing cultural setting of the later eighties.
The decision to start rhyming in Spanish was crucial and came more as an
accommodation to their families and neighbors than from hearing Mean
Machine or any other trends emerging in hip-hop. “In the beginning it was
all in English and our families, all they do is play salsa and merengue, they
thought you were American. They considered it noise. “Ay, deja ese alboro-
to,’ ‘cut out that racket,’ you know. We said, ‘Let’s try to do it in Spanish, so
that they can understand it, instead of complaining to us so much.’ They
liked it. They was like, ‘Oh, mi hijo.’ ” And when they tried out their Span-
ish with the mostly Black hip-hop audiences, they were encouraged further.
“We used to walk around with the tapes and the big radios and the Black
people behind us, ‘Yo, man, that sounds dope, that’s fly!’ They be like, ‘yo, I
don’t understand it, man, but I know it’s rhyming and I hear the last word,
man, that’s bad’ they be telling us. We was like, oh, snap! Then I used to try
to do it in the street jams and the crowd went crazy.”
Acceptance and encouragement from the record industry was a differ-
ent story, especially in those times before Mellow Man Ace broke the com-
mercial ice. Atlantic did wind up issuing “We’re Puerto Rican and Proud,”
but not until after “Mentirosa” went gold, and then they dragged their feet
in promoting it. Since then, aside from their tours and the video “Así Es la
Vida” which made the charts on MTV Internacional, Latin Empire has
been back in the parks and community events. They believe strongly in the
strong positive messages of some rap and have participated actively in both
the Stop the Violence and Back to School campaigns. They pride them-
selves on practicing what they preach in their antidrug and antialcohol
rhymes. They continue to be greeted with enthusiastic approval by audi-
ences of all nationalities throughout New York City, and on their tours to
Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic, and, most recently, Cuba.
Their main shortcoming, in the parlance of the business, is that they
don’t have an “act,” a packaged product. As the author of “The Packaging
of a Recording Artist” in the July 1992 issue of Hispanic Business suggests,
“To ‘make it’ as a professional recording act, you must have all the right
things in place. Every element of what a recording act is must be consid-
ered and exploited to that act’s benefit. The sound, the image, the look—all
these factors must be integrated into a single package and then properly
marketed to the public.” In the packaging and marketing process, the art-
ists and the quality of their work are of course secondary; it’s the managers,
and the other gatekeepers, who make the act. The article ends, “So while
quality singing and a good song are the product in this business, they don’t
count for much without strong management.”7
The pages of Hispanic Business make no mention of Latin Empire, con-
centrating as they do on the major Hispanic “products” like Gerardo, Ex-
posé, and Angelica. What they say about Kid Frost is most interesting be-
cause here they are dealing with a Latino rapper who is “on his way to
stardom in the West Coast Hispanic community” and cannot be expected
to “lighten up on who he is just to get that cross-over audience.” Clearly the
main danger of the artist crossing over is not, from this perspective, that
he might thereby sacrifice his focus and cultural context, but that he could
lose out on his segment of the market. “It’s so tempting for an artist to do
that once they’ve gained acceptance. But you risk losing your base when
you do that and you never want to be without your core audience. That’s
why we work as a team and always include our artists and their managers
in the packaging and marketing process.”8
Latin Empire’s members can’t seem to get their “act” together because
they remain too tied to their base to endure “strong management.” Their
mission, especially since rap “went Latin,” is to reinstate the history and ge-
ography of the New York Puerto Rican contribution to hip-hop and coun-
teract the sensationalist version perpetrated by the media. In some of their
best-known numbers like “El Barrio,” “Mi Viejo South Bronx” and “The
Big Manzana,” they take us deep into the Puerto Rican neighborhoods and
back, “way back, to the days of West Side Story,” when the New York style
originated. Tracing the transition from the gang era to the emergence of
the “style wars” of hip-hop, they tell their own stories and dramatize their
constant juggling act between Black and Latino and between Island and
New York cultures. In another rhyme, “Not Listed,” they “take hip-hop to
another tamaño [level]” by emphasizing the particular Puerto Rican role in
rap history and countering the false currency given new arrivals. They end
by affirming these ignored roots and rescuing the many early Puerto Rican
rappers from oblivion:
Y’all need to see a médico

but we don’t accept Medicaid
we don’t give no crédito
we only give credit where credit is due
we got to give it to the Mean Machine
and the other brothers who were out there
lookin’ out for Latinos
some kept it up, some chose other caminos
but we can’t pretend that they never existed
cause yo, they were out there, just not listed.
In another of their rhymes Latin Empire’s members address the music

business itself, lashing out at the counterfeits and subterfuges facing them
in their “hungry” battle for a fair record deal. Some of “Kinda Hungry”
sounds like this:
Yeah that’s right I’m hungry,

in other words, yo tengo hambre.
Those who overslept caught a calambre.
Fake mc’s hogging up the posiciones,
but all we keep hearing is bullshit canciones.
Don’t be feeding mis sueños.
You might be the head of A&R but I want to meet the dueños.
So I can let ’em know como yo me siento
and update ’em on the Latino movimiento
’cause I’m getting tired of imitadores
that shit is muerto, that’s why I’m sending you flores,
En diferentes colores.
I’m like an undertaker . . .
I still don’t understand how they allowed you to make a
rap record que no sirve para nada.
I’ll eat ’em up like an ensalada.
Speakin’ about food you want comida?
Na, that’s not what I meant,
what I want is a record deal en seguida
so we can get this on a 24 track
put it out on the market and bug out on the feedback.
Huh, tú no te dabas cuenta,
a nigga like me is in effect en los noventas.

Straight outta Vega Baja
the other candidates?
I knock ’em out the caja, knock ’em out the box
because I’m not relajando I truly feel it’s time
I started eliminando mc’s givin’ us a bad nombre.
I can’t see TNT nor my righthand hombre
the Krazy Taino sellin’ out,
there’s no way, there’s no how,
that’s not what we’re about.
We’re all about looking out for my gente,
here’s some food for thought, comida para la mente.
With all their “hunger” for recognition, members of Latin Empire also
feel the burden of responsibility for being the only Nuyorican rap group
given any public play at all. They realize that, being synonymous with Puer-
to Rican rap, they are forced to stand in for a whole historical experience
and for the rich variety of street rappers condemned to omission by the
very filtering process that they are confronting. A prime example for them
of the “not listed” is the “right hand hombre” mentioned here, MC TNT.
Virtually unknown outside the immediate hip-hop community in the
South Bronx, TNT is living proof that hard-core, streetwise rhyming con-
tinues and develops in spite of the diluting effects and choices of the man-
agers and A&R departments. Frequently, Puerto Rock and KT have incor-
porated TNT into many of their routines, and his rhymes and delivery have
added a strong sense of history and poetic language to their presentations.
Like Puerto Rock, TNT (Tomás Robles) was born in Puerto Rico and
came to New York at an early age. But in his case, childhood in the rough
neighborhoods on the Island figures prominently in his raps, as in this au-
tobiographical section interlaced with samples from Rubén Blades’s salsa
hit “La Vida Te Da Sorpresas”:
Este ritmo es un invento

Cuando empiezo a rimar le doy el 100 por ciento
No me llamo Chico, o Federico
Dónde naciste? Santurce, Puerto Rico
Cuando era niño no salía ’fuera
porque mataban diario en la cantera
Esto es verdad, realidad, no un engaño

mi pae murió cuando yo tenía seis años
La muerte me afectó con mucho dolor
pues mi mae empaquetó y nos mudamos pa’ Nueva York
cuando llegué era un ambiente diferente
pero no me arrepentí, seguí para frente
y por las noches recé a Dios y a la santa
porque en mi corazón el coquí siempre canta.
[This rhyme is an invention / When I start to rhyme I give it 100 per-

cent / My name isn’t Chico or Federico / Where were you born? /
Santurce, Puerto Rico / When I was a boy I didn’t go out / ’cause
there were killings / in the quarry every day / This is true, reality, not
a hoax / my father died when I was six / his death caused me a lot of
pain / well my mother packed up and we moved to New York / when I
arrived it was a very different atmosphere / but I didn’t regret it, I moved
ahead / and at night I prayed to God and the holy mother / because in
my heart the coquí frog always sings.”]
By the late 1970s, as an adolescent, TNT was already involved in the gang
scene in the South Bronx and took part in the formation of Tough Bronx Ac-
tion and the Puerto Rican chapters of Zulu Nation. By that time he was al-
ready playing congas in the streets and schoolyards and improvising rhymes.
When he first heard Mean Machine in 1981, he recalls, he already had note-
books of raps in Spanish, though mostly he preserved them in his memory.
TNT also goes by the epithet “un rap siquiatra” (“a rap psychiatrist”): in
his lively, storytelling rhymes he prides himself on his biting analysis of
events and attitudes in the community. He responds to the charges of gang-
sterism by pointing to the ghetto conditions that force survival remedies
on his people. “Livin’ in a ghetto can turn you ’to a gangster” is one of his
powerful social raps, and in “Get Some Money” he addresses the rich and
powerful directly: “he threw us in the ghetto to see how long we lasted / then
he calls us a little ghetto bastard.” His “Ven acá tiguerito tiguerito,” which
compares with anything by Kid Frost and Latin Alliance in sheer verbal in-
genuity, captures the intensity of a combative street scene in El Barrio and is
laced with phrases from Dominican slang. His programmatic braggadocio is
playful and ragamuffin in its effect, yet with a defiance that extends in the
last line to the very accentuation of the language:
Soy un rap siquiatra un rap mecánico

óyeme la radio y causo un pánico
te rompo el sistema y te dejo inválido
con un shock nervioso te ves bien pálido
no puedes con mi rap
aléjate aléjate
tómate una Contact y acuéstate
o llame a los bomberos que te rescaten.
[I’m a rap psychiatrist, a rap mechanic hear me on the radio and I cause
a panic / I break your system and I leave you an invalid / with a nervous
shock you look pretty pale / you can’t deal with my rap / go away, go
away / take a Contac and go to bed / or call the firefighters to come
rescue you.]
By the mid-1990s, at twenty-five, MC TNT was already a veteran of

Spanish rap battles, still “unlisted” and awaiting his break, yet constantly
working on his rhymes and beats every moment he can shake off some of
the pressure. He is the closest I have run across to a rapper in the tradition
of Puerto Rican plena music, since like that of the master pleneros his work
is taking shape as a newspaper of the barrios, a running, ironic commen-
tary on the untold events of everyday Puerto Rican life. When all the talk
was of referendums and plebiscites to determine the political status of
Puerto Rico, TNT had some advice for his people to contemplate:
Puerto Rico, una isla hermosa,

donde nacen bonitas rosas,
plátanos, guineos y yautía,
Sasón Goya le da sabor a la comida.
Y ¿quién cocina más que la tía mía?
Pero el gobierno es bien armado,
tratando de convertirla en un estado.
Es mejor la dejen libre (asociado?).
Cristóbal Colón no fue nadie,
cruzó el mar con un bonche de salvajes.
Entraron a Puerto Rico rompiendo palmas,
asustando a los caciques con armas.
Chequéate los libros, esto es cierto,
pregúntale a un cacique pero ya está muerto.

¿Cómo él descubrió algo que ya está descubierto?
Boricua, ¡no te vendas!
[Puerto Rico, a beautiful island / where there are pretty roses, /

plantains, bananas, and root vegetables,/Goya seasoning gives the food
flavor / And who cooks better than my own aunt? / But the government
is well armed, / trying to convert it into a state / It’s better to leave it free
(associated?) / Christopher Columbus was nobody, / he crossed the sea
with a bunch of savages, / they entered Puerto Rico destroying the palm
trees, / terrifying the Indian chiefs with their weapons. / Check out the
books, this is true, / ask one of the Indian chiefs but they’re already
dead. / How could he discover something already discovered? /
Puerto Rico, don’t sell yourself!]
Like other Latino groups, Puerto Ricans are using rap as a vehicle for af-
firming their history, language, and culture under conditions of rampant
discrimination and exclusion. The explosion of Spanish-language and bi-
lingual rap onto the pop music scene in recent years bears special signifi-
cance in the face of the stubbornly monolingual tenor in today’s public dis-
course, most evident in the crippling of bilingual programs and services
and in the ominous gains of the “English Only” crusade. And of course
along with the Spanish and Spanglish rhymes, Latino rap carries an en-
semble of alternative perspectives and an often divergent cultural ethos
into the mainstream of U.S. social life. The mass diffusion, even if only for
commercial purposes, of cultural expression in the “other” language, and
above all its broad and warm reception by fans of all nationalities, may help
to muffle the shrieks of alarm emanating from the official culture when-
ever mention is made of “America’s fastest-growing minority.” Latin rap
lends volatile fuel to the cause of “multiculturalism” in our society, at least
in the challenging, inclusionary sense of that embattled term.
For Puerto Ricans, though, rap is more than a newly opened window on
their history; rap is their history, and Puerto Ricans are an integral part in
the history of hip-hop. As the “Puerto rocks” themselves testify in conver-
sation and rhyme, rapping is one of many domains within a larger field of
social and creative practices expressive of their collective historical position
in the prevailing relations of power and privilege. Puerto Rican participa-
tion in the emergence of hip-hop music needs to be understood in direct,
interactive relation to their experience in gangs and other forms of associ-

ation among inner-city youth through the devastating blight of the seven-
ties. “Puerto rocks” are the children of impoverished colonial immigrants
facing even tougher times than in earlier decades. They helped make rap
what it was to become, as they played a constitutive role in the stylistic def-
inition of graffiti writing and breakdancing.
In addition to these more obvious associations, the formative years of
rap follow closely the development of both salsa and Nuyorican poetry, ex-
pressive modes which, especially for the young Puerto Ricans themselves,
occupy the same creative constellation as the musical and lyrical project of
bilingual and bicultural rap. Musically, rap practice among Puerto Ricans
is also informed by the strong antecedent tradition of street drumming
and, at only a slight remove, their parallel earlier role in styles like doo-wop,
boogaloo, and Latin jazz. In terms of poetic language, Spanglish rap is em-
bedded in the everyday speech practices of the larger community over the
course of several generations, and even echoes in more than faint ways the
tones and cadences of lyrics typical of plena, bomba, and other forms of
popular Puerto Rican song.
Like these other contemporaneous and prefiguring cultural practices,
the active presence of Puerto Ricans in the creation of rap bears further
emphatic testimony to their long history of cultural interaction with Afri-
can Americans. Hip-hop emerged as a cultural space shared by Puerto Ri-
cans and Blacks, a sharing that once again articulates their congruent and
intermingling placement in the impinging political and economic geogra-
phy. It is also a sharing in which, as the story of rap reveals, the disso-
nances are as telling as the harmonies, and the distances as heartfelt as the
intimacy. The Puerto Ricans’ nagging intimation that they are treading on
Black turf and working in a tradition of performative expression most di-
rectly traceable to James Brown and Jimmy Castor, the dozens and the
blues, makes rap into a terrain that is as much contested as it is coinhab-
ited on equal terms. Jamaican dubbing, with its strong Caribbean reso-
nance, serves as a bridge in this respect, just as reggae in more recent
years is helping to link rap to otherwise disparate musical trends, espe-
cially in its reggaespañol dancehall versions. In the historical perspective
of Black and Puerto Rican interaction, rap is thus a lesson in cultural ne-
gotiation and transaction as much as in fusions and crossovers, especially
as those terms are bandied about in mainstream parlance. If multicultu-
ralism is to amount to anything more than a wishful fancy of a pluralist
mosaic, the stories of the “Puerto rocks” show that adequate account must
be taken of the intricate jostling and juggling involved along the seams of
contemporary cultural life.
What is to become of Latino rap, and how we appreciate and understand
its particular messages, will depend significantly on the continuities it
forges to its roots among the “Puerto rocks.” Recuperating this history, ex-
plicitly or by example, and “inventing” a tradition divergent from the work-
ings of the commercial culture, makes for the only hope of reversing the
instant amnesia that engulfs rap and all forms of emergent cultural dis-
course as they migrate into the world of pop hegemony. Charlie Chase,
TNT, and the other “Puerto rocks” were not only pioneers in some nostal-
gic sense but helped set the social meaning of rap practice prior to and rel-
atively independent of its mediated commercial meaning. That formative
participation of Latinos in rap in its infancy is a healthy reminder that the
“rap attack,” as Peter Toop argued some years ago now, is but the latest out-
burst of “African jive,” and that the age-old journey of jive has always been
a motley and inclusive procession. And as in Cuban-based salsa, the Puer-
to Rican conspiracy in the present volley shows how creatively a people can
adopt and adapt what would seem a “foreign” tradition and make it, at least
in part, its own. To return to the first “Puerto rock” I talked with in the early
1980s, I close with a little rhyme by MC Rubie Dee (Rubén García) from
the South Bronx:
Now all you Puerto Ricans you’re in for a treat,

’cause this Puerto Rican can rock a funky beat.
If you fall on your butt and you start to bleed,
Rubie Dee is what all the Puerto Ricans need.
I’m a homeboy to them ’cause I know what to do,
’cause Rubie Dee is down with the black people too.9
7

Pan-Latino/Trans-Latino
Puerto Ricans in the “New Nueva York”
One of the most dramatic and visible changes in the face of New York City
since the mid-1970s has been the growing diversity of its Latino presence.
Of course, Puerto Ricans have never been the lone Spanish-speaking
group here; earlier chapters of that history, as told by chroniclers like
Bernardo Vega and Jesús Colón, abound with accounts of Cubans, Do-
minicans, Spaniards, Mexicans, and many other “Hispanos” making
common cause with Puerto Ricans in everyday life and in social struggles
on many fronts. But over the decades, and especially with the mass mi-
gration of the 1950s, Puerto Ricans have so outnumbered all other La-
tinos as to have served as the prototype (or archetype, but certainly the
stereotype) of Latino/Hispanic/“Spanish” New York. Increasingly since
the 1920s, and indelibly with influential milestones like Leonard Bern-
stein’s West Side Story and Oscar Lewis’s La Vida, the overlap has been
nearly complete, the terms “Latin New York” and “Puerto Rican” ringing
virtually synonymous in the public mind.
By the 1990s that image—based of course on unambiguous demograph-
ic realities—has waned significantly, especially as the media and many re-
search efforts tend to find greater delight in the novelties and anomalies of
“other,” more exotic newcomers than in the quotidian familiarity of Puerto
Ricans. And yet, all sensationalism aside, the growth—quantitative and
qualitative—of the Dominican community, especially in New York City and
in urban Puerto Rico, has indeed been nothing short of sensational; the po-
litical and cultural consequences of this, for New York, the Dominican Re-
public, Puerto Rico, and perhaps most of all for the Puerto Rican commu-
nity in New York, are already highly visible and promise to increase over
141
142 Pan-Latino/Trans-Latino
time. The “Mexicanization” of New York has also proceeded apace, espe-
cially in the 1990s; in fact, for some years the proportional arrival rates
from the Mexican state of Puebla may even exceed those from the Domini-
can Republic. Add to these the huge numbers of Colombians, Salvadorans,
Ecuadorians, Panamanians, Hondurans, Haitians, Brazilians, and the
“new” New Yorkers from nearly every country of Latin America and the
Caribbean, and it is clear why “Latinos in New York” no longer rhymes with
Puerto Rican.
This momentous pan-Latinization over the course of a single generation
makes it necessary to rethink the whole issue of Puerto Rican culture and
identity in the United States. How does Puerto Rican/Nuyorican (self-)
identification and cultural history interface with and elude the pan-ethnic
“Latino” or “Hispanic” label, which has by now become stock-in-trade of
most media, government, commercial, social science, and literary-cultural
“coverage,” and to which Puerto Ricans themselves have constant recourse
in extending their political, cultural, and intellectual reach in accord with
changing social realities? For while we may be appropriately critical and
even suspicious in the face of the catchall categories, a contemporary analy-
sis of Puerto Rican culture and politics in New York necessarily invokes a
more embracing term and idea like Latino to refer to what is clearly some
ensemble of congruent and intertwining historical experiences. Most of
the deliberation over the Latino/Hispanic concept thus far has been na-
tionwide (that is, all of the United States) in reference, or with a mind to
areas (mostly cities) witnessing ample interaction among more or less
equally sizable Latino groups (Chicago being the first example to come to
mind, though Los Angeles and Miami have also seemed pertinent). But in
many ways it is New York that has become the pan-Latin city par excel-
lence. And it is perhaps here, in the “new,” post-Nuyorican Nueva York,
that the Latino concept of group association stands its strongest test.
The New Mix

The first signs of imminent change can be traced to the early 1960s. The
aftermath of the 1959 Cuban Revolution brought a huge new influx of
Cuban exiles, many of them settling in the New York area. The death of
Trujillo in 1961 marked an easing of the restrictive emigration policies
which had prevailed in the Dominican Republic throughout the Trujillo
era (1930–1960). Pressing economic conditions and ongoing political
Pan-Latino/Trans-Latino 143
contention (especially the civil war and U.S. military invasion in 1965)
have propelled growing numbers of Dominicans to the United States ever
since, the overwhelming majority of them (by 1990 a full two-thirds) to
New York City.
But what is considered the single most important factor to usher in the
“new immigration” was the change in the U.S. immigration law in 1965,
which put an end to the national origins quota system, in effect since the
1920s, favoring northern and western Europeans. This policy shift, which
placed a 120,000 ceiling each for Asia and the Western Hemisphere, liter-
ally opened the floodgates to a massive immigration from many parts of
Asia and most countries of Latin America and the Caribbean. True to its
long-standing historical role, New York City has continued to be a favored
destination for these new arrivals, and the figures for the post-1965 period
are indeed telling. “In the past two decades,” it was reported in 1987, “more
than a million immigrants have settled in New York City, most from the
West Indies, Latin America, and Asia. . . . According to the 1980 census,
80 percent of the Asian-born, 82 percent of the Jamaican-born, and 88 per-
cent of the Trinidadian-born residents in the New York metropolitan area
had arrived since 1965.” 1 That was how things stood a decade before the
1990 count, which recorded an even greater multiplication of new arrivals.
New New Yorkers from Spanish-speaking countries, increasingly re-
ferred to in official parlance as “Hispanics,” figure prominently in this de-
mographic explosion, and their numbers are true to the pattern. With the
exception of Puerto Ricans and Cubans, representation from nearly all
countries of Latin America and the Spanish Caribbean has increased geo-
metrically over the decades since 1960. Already numbering nearly a mil-
lion according to official count by 1960, the size of the composite New York
Latino population has more than doubled by 1990 to make up a full fourth
of all New Yorkers, equal in proportion to African Americans. National
groups with only a minor presence of one or two thousand in 1960 (such
as Salvadorans, Guatemalans, Hondurans, and Peruvians) have grown to
around 20,000 by 1990, while the ranks of Colombians, Ecuadorians, and
Mexicans have swelled to well over 50,000 each within the thirty-year pe-
riod. The most dramatic increase, of course, is among the Dominicans,
who at 13,293 represented 1.7 percent of the city’s Latino population in
1960; by 1990, Dominican New Yorkers totaled 332,713 or 18.7 percent of
Latinos in New York, making them by far the largest Latino community
after the Puerto Rican.2
But while the legislative change of 1965, and for the sake of statistical
contrast the 1960 census, may serve as convenient signposts for marking
off the “old” from the “new” immigration period, the most dramatic de-
mographic leaps among New York Latino groups actually occur a decade
later and thereafter. The “New Nueva York,” as New York Newsday titled a
lengthy supplement on the city’s Latinos in 1991, is really a phenomenon
of the 1980s and 1990s, though trends did point clearly in that direction
by the later 1970s. Referring to the overall Latino population, it is true that
growth has been roughly the same per decade since 1960. But when it
comes to the diversification of New York’s Latinos, and the emergence of
the “pan-Latino” face by which the city is now recognized, the last quarter
of the twentieth century makes for a more accurate time frame. For, to
begin with, it was in the 1970s that the Puerto Rican migration, having
reached a benchmark around 1970, leveled off significantly. Puerto Ricans
continued to arrive by the thousands, but their numbers were more than
offset by a continually growing return migration and diasporic dispersion
in the United States itself. Relative to many other Latino groups, and to the
composite Latino population, the proportion of Puerto Ricans has been on
a steady decline: over 80 percent in 1960, Latin New York is now only half
Puerto Rican, with a full 10 percent drop in the 1980s. Cuban New York-
ers, after doubling in size in the post-Revolution 1960s, has been declining
substantially ever since; long, and still in 1970, the city’s second largest
Hispanic group, they were far surpassed by Dominicans during the 1970s;
by 1980 there were twice as many Dominicans as Cubans, and by 1990
over six times as many. By 1990, in fact, Cubans no longer even counted
among the five largest Latino groups in the city: while in 1980 they were
still a comfortable third, by the latest official tabulation they have come to
be outnumbered by Colombians, Ecuadorians, and Mexicans, with Salva-
dorans, Panamanians, and Peruvians ranging not too far behind.
This radical reconfiguration of the Latino mix in New York is of course
a highly complex, conjunctural process, with layers and levels of explana-
tion as diverse as the range of Latin American nationalities to have come
to reside in the city in the present generation. Rather than one “Latino”
story of arrival and settlement in New York, there are clearly Cuban, Puer-
to Rican, Dominican, Salvadoran, and Colombian stories, each of them
bearing varied and sometimes jarring internal narratives of their own. But
the stories all converge in “Nueva York,” achieving full hemispheric repre-
sentation (including even that crucial Mexican component) by 1990. The
common locus of new social experience and identity formation is New York
City, just at a time when it is being christened a “global city” in the con-
temporary sense.3
It is in the story of present-day New York City, the restructurings of the
Big Apple (some would say its rotting, squashing, or slicing) in accord with
its global geoeconomic role, that it is possible to find a common thread in
the intricate “Latino” weave, or at least a framework in which to interpret
the huge and diverse Latino presence in some more encompassing way.
From this perspective, the history of the “new” immigration, and particu-
larly the story of Latinos settling in New York, takes on a different range
and contour. Rather than stretching from 1965 to the present, the change-
over from “old” to “new” immigration has comprised two periods, corre-
sponding to two phases in the restructuring of the city’s economy since
midcentury, with the turning point being marked by the fiscal crisis of the
mid-1970s. The first phase (1950–1975, but especially since the early
1960s) amounted to the “dashed hopes” of Puerto Ricans; the second
(since 1975) is characterized by their “re-placement” in both senses of the
word: to other places, and by other groups.
When Puerto Ricans began flocking to New York by the tens and hun-
dreds of thousands in the late 1940s and early 1950s, hopes were high, and
expectations only reasonable, that over time they would find their place in
the local economy. There would be gaps to fill in the city’s postwar labor
market, the thinking went, and adequate employment opportunities for
newcomers, which in those years meant predominantly Puerto Ricans and
African Americans. “Assuming continued regional vitality and an effective
educational system, there was no a priori reason to doubt the likelihood of
successful incorporation of these groups into the economic mainstream.”4
The shared historical experience between “Latinos” and African Americans
warrants particular emphasis: New York’s “Negroes and Puerto Ricans”
were, after all, the “newcomers” in Oscar Handlin’s influential 1959 book
of that title.5
But “continued regional vitality,” presupposing as it does for the “global
city” continued national and international economic vitality, was decidedly
not in the offing. The stagnation that set in by the late 1950s, combined
with the disastrous aftermath of the Operation Bootstrap experiment,
dashed whatever hopes Puerto Ricans might have held to strike a more sta-
ble and favorable foothold in New York life. “For Puerto Ricans the princi-
pal outcome of this period was labor force displacement, manifested in a
sharp decline in labor force participation and a rise in unemployment from

1960 to 1970.”6 In 1976, in what amounts to a stocktaking of this phase,
the United States Commission on Civil Rights released its alarming report,
Puerto Ricans in the Continental United States: An Uncertain Future, which
put Puerto Ricans on record as the exception to the rule of immigrant in-
corporation and advancement.7
The second phase, beginning in the mid-1970s, brought a continuation
of these developments but at more intense levels and in different ways. Un-
employment levels among Puerto Ricans magnified, as stable jobs in both
the corporate and public sectors became ever scarcer. Public employment
opportunities, which had expanded consistently since midcentury and ab-
sorbed increasing numbers of Puerto Rican and African American work-
ers, were curtailed sharply as a result of the fiscal crisis of 1975–76, with
Puerto Ricans being the heaviest casualties in this cutback. The replace-
ment of relocated corporations by service industries and light manufactur-
ing harbored little hope, as both “established a new profile of occupations
and labor process” largely inaccessible to African Americans and Puerto
Ricans. The reorganization of light manufacturing since the mid-1970s in
particular spelled the large-scale “re-placement” of Puerto Ricans by more
recent immigrants, mostly other Latinos: “The labor force attached to the
earlier manufacturing complex, which had been displaced to a significant
extent, was not redeployed into the newly evolving sector. The growth of
the new sector was dependent on a lower cost of labor, a condition met by
the use of new sources of immigrant labor.” And further: “It is a consider-
ably revamped manufacturing sector [in which Puerto Ricans have had a
historically high representation], dependent on lower labor costs, that has
largely absorbed Dominican labor,” though it is added that “since the mid-
1980s, the garment industry has suffered a new period of decline.”8
“Decline within decline”—the title of the article cited—seems an apt de-
scription of what New York City’s ethnic queue has held out for much of its
huge Latino population in recent decades, at least when it comes to its fit
into a sharply fluctuating labor market. For the critical socioeconomic hard-
ships confronting New York’s “new” Latinos in the 1990s are an extension,
a further stage, in a local, regional, and global restructuring process ex-
tending back to the 1950s, and experienced at its onset by an overwhelm-
ingly Puerto Rican population. In important ways, it was adjustments in the
city as postindustrial command center that propelled the demographic
movements leading to its most recent repeopling. The emergence of a
“pan-Latino” New York comes in the wake of a prior, and precedent, move
to import and incorporate Puerto Ricans.
Whatever the parallels and differences, though, the pan-ethnic diversity
of the current Latino population is in large measure a reflex of major struc-
tural shifts as manifest in the regional political economy of the “global
city.” The history of this adjustment extends back to the immediate post-
war years and has entailed a paradigmatic change in the immigrant expe-
rience, from the “old,” mainly European, to the “new.” Viewed in its full tra-
jectory, the Latinization of New York centers on the congruences and
contrasts between Puerto Ricans and the other Latino groups, individually
and as a composite. For Puerto Ricans are not only “still the largest and old-
est” of the New York Latino populations, a frequent and fitting rejoinder to
the usual relativistic fanfare about the city’s pan-Latino “melting pot.” With
a century of experience here, New York Puerto Ricans actually straddle the
“old” and the “new,” while their emigration en masse in the 1950s and
1960s was clearly the first wave of the “new,” non-European flow. Rather
than just one more among the many Latino groups, receding in relative
prominence as the others expand and dig in, the Puerto Rican community
remains at the crux of any consideration of Latinos in New York, the his-
torical touchstone against which much else that follows must be tested.
Within present-day public discourse it is the embattled concept of “Lati-
no” or “Hispanic” that is once again at issue, and by extension the policy
and practices of “pan-ethnic” categorization. Over the same generation in
which New York came to join Chicago, Miami, Houston, and Los Angeles
as “pan-Latino” cities on a contemporary scale, the terms Latino and His-
panic have established themselves firmly in everyday U.S. parlance, and the
debate over their relative validity and limitations—linking as it does the
volatile questions of race and immigration—rages close to the combat zone
in the culture wars of our time. Before returning to the “New Nueva York,”
then, and assessing the new issues of Puerto Rican cultural identity raised
by its recent reconfiguration, a critical engagement of that discourse may
suggest an appropriate theoretical framework.
Ethnic–Pan-ethnic
The terms Hispanic and Latino have come into such wide currency since the
1970s, and especially since the official use of “Hispanic” in the 1980 cen-
sus, that they have the ring of neologisms, fresh coinages for a new, as yet
unnamed, presence on the social scene. Historical memory seems to stop

short at the 1960s, the heyday of the Chicano and Puerto Rican movements,
when it comes to a genealogy of these new-fangled labels. Yet the people
thus labeled have been using these and similar terms, in English and Span-
ish, to identify themselves at least since the 1920s and probably much ear-
lier. Even in New York, compared to the Southwest the younger and small-
er of the two major concentrations, there were through those early decades
countless organizations, periodicals, movements, and events with “Latino,”
“Hispano,” “Latin,” “Spanish,” “Spanish-speaking” in their titles, probably
as many as there were “Puertorriqueño,” “Puerto Rican” or “Boricua.”9 In-
deed, what could be more “Latino” in the sense of pan-ethnic solidarity than
the Partido Revolucionario Cubano with its “Sección de Puerto Rico,” which
united the two Caribbean nationalities in joint struggle against Spanish
colonialism? The Partido, and its affiliated Club Dos Antillas, which includ-
ed Dominicans and sundry “others,” were active in New York City more
than one hundred years ago.
The sense and practice of a “Latino/Hispanic” unity across national
lines thus go way back, as does the recognized need for names to designate
such tactical or enduring common ground. Even the government bureau-
cracy was not without its earlier pan-group usage: before “Hispanic,” the
traditional entry had been “Spanish Origin,” with “Spanish/Hispanic ori-
gin or descent” cropping up frequently in explanatory memorandums
prior to the 1980 Census.10 And there are continuities between the older
and the more recent (self)-identifications, not the least of which is their
consistently Eurocentric connotation. Though surely outnumbered by the
casualties of time and renaming, there are pan-Latino organizations, news-
papers, neighborhoods, and of course people that harken back to the earli-
er decades and attest to the longevity of the cross-ethnic newborn whose
baptism we are now asked to celebrate, or at least acknowledge. As has
been well argued, the “racialization” of Latin American and Caribbean peo-
ples in the United States, the “othering” process for which the “Hispanic”
label provides an official seal, spans the full twentieth century and, if we ex-
tend the frame to include hemispheric relations, much of the nineteenth
as well.11
What is new, if not the object or act of signification, is the discursive
context, the sociohistorical climate in which the (self-)naming is enacted.
The quantum growth, diversification, and dispersal of the Latino popula-
tions over a single generation are surely at the base of this change, though
the many Latino social and cultural movements since the late 1960s also
resonate strongly in the new semantic reality. More than the census count
itself, it is the echoing cries of Brown Power and the alarm signals about
“America’s fastest-growing minority” that have set the temper for the pres-
ent discourse, a collective mood ranging from radical defiance to a nation-
al anguish bordering on hysteria. By the 1990s, “Hispanic” and “Latino”
are everywhere, the terms like the people themselves having proliferated in
numbers and locations, and having assumed an emotional charge and con-
notative complexity unknown in their previous historical usages.
And the “coverage,” in the form of media specials and academic studies,
also abounds. In the 1980s and 1990s most major newspapers and maga-
zines dedicated investigative surveys and extensive portraits of the “new
Americans” from south of the border, while in the same period dozens of
books and hundreds of journal articles have focused on the “sleeping
giant” of U.S. cultural and political life. The subject now is the experience
not so much of single national or regional groups—Caribbeans, say, or
Mexicans and Central Americans—but of the whole composite, the “His-
panic” or “Latino” experience, with an emphasis on commonalities and in-
teractions. The first half of the 1990s alone saw the publication of the fol-
lowing book titles: Latinos: A Biography of the People; Latinos in a Changing
U.S. Economy: Comparative Perspectives on Growing Inequality; Hispanic
Presence in the United States: Historical Beginnings; Out of the Barrio: Toward
a New Politics of Hispanic Assimilation; Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives: Identity
and the Politics of (Re)Presentation in the United States; The Hispanic Condi-
tion: Reflections on Culture and Identity in America; and even Everything You
Need to Know about Latino History.
These varied works—and their variety along political, methodological,
and stylistic lines could hardly be more thorough—all tend to take the va-
lidity of the “pan-” category for granted, and proceed to make their analy-
ses, spin their reflections, and set forth their policy proposals on that basis.
Disclaimers and qualifiers abound, of course, and a book like Earl Shorris’s
Latinos, subtitled “a biography of the people,” actually harps more on dif-
ferences among the groups than on their similarities, and the promised
story line ends up splintering into what are really “biographies of people.”
Little critical energy goes to scrutiny of the category itself, and what there
is of theoretical options often amounts to a stereotyped counterposition of
“Hispanic” vs. “Latino,” with no evidence of a consensus as to the preferred
term.12 But there is in all these writings an assumption that the term(s)
refer to something real or in the making, whether a demographic aggre-

gate, a voting bloc, a market, a language or cultural group, a “community,”
or, in Ilan Stavans’s grandiloquent phrase, a “condition.” Given the xeno-
phobic tenor of mainstream politics in the 1990s, of course, which per-
ceives “Hispanic” and “Latino” most of all as a “problem” (“HisPANIC
Causing Panic”), such conceptions are all necessary and contribute to the
social construction of a major group identity.
A consensus of these writings would probably settle on “ethnicity” as the
concept that most closely approximates the bond among Latinos, and the
boundary that marks them off from “others” in U.S. settings. Though the
phrase “Hispanic ethnic group” does not always appear as such, the under-
lying premise throughout is that insofar as they comprise a definable
group, Latinos are an ethnicity. But even in work that seems least troubled
by lumping Hispanics together—and demographers are no less inclined in
this direction than culturalists—there is also an abiding awareness that, if
anything, this is an ethnicity of ethnicities, an “ethnic group” that does not
exist but for the existence of its constituent “subgroups.”
A more circumspect line of thinking therefore refers to Latinos as a “pan-
ethnicity,” a group formation that emerges out of the interaction or close
historical congruence of two or more culturally related ethnicities. The “pan-
ethnic” approach, for which writers like David López, Yen Espiritu, and oth-
ers have done much to establish a place in contemporary social theory,13 has
the distinct advantage for the study of Latinos of centering analysis on the
dialectic between the parts and the whole, the discrete national groups and
the “Latino” construct. The focus is necessarily on interaction, while the hy-
postasized social group itself, along with its “discourse,” is understood as
process rather than as a fixed entity or meaning.
An early instance of such an approach, though predating concepts like
pan-ethnicity by over a decade, is Félix M. Padilla’s Latino Ethnic Conscious-
ness: The Case of Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans in Chicago. Published
in 1985, the book is actually based on case studies from the early 1970s,
when Chicago was still the city with the most substantial multi-Latino pop-
ulation, and the two largest groups, Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans,
at that. Padilla’s aim was to analyze “the process of Latino/Hispanic ethnic
group formation in the city of Chicago.”14 He is interested in the “conditions
that have enabled Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans to transcend the
boundaries of the respective nationally and culturally based communities
and adopt a new and different collective ‘Latino’ or ‘Hispanic’ identity dur-
ing the early years of the 1970s.” By studying the “interaction process in-
volving Puerto Ricans and Mexican Americans,” he seeks to understand the
emergence of a “Latino or Hispanic ethnic-conscious identity and behavior,
distinct and separate from the groups’ individual ethnic identities.”
The strength and the weakness of Padilla’s book, looked at now with the
advantage of hindsight, is its pragmatism. On the positive side, it takes se-
riously what should be an imperative of “pan-ethnic” analysis, the study of
the actual social interaction between and among Latino groups. Focusing
on the lived experience of distinct but kindred communities coming to-
gether to act, and feel, as one, Padilla avoids cultural essentialism before
that pitfall was being talked about, at least in present-day terms. To this
end, he argues well for an understanding of Latino unity as “situational,”
and “political” in the sense of being grounded in the recognition of shared
social interests.
The problem with this on-the-ground, pragmatic concept of “Latinis-
mo,” however, is that it reduces the object of study, “ethnic consciousness,”
to “behavior” (the words are coupled throughout, often as synonyms). And
because the emergent Latino identity is taken in such explicit and deliber-
ate separation from Mexican American or Puerto Rican identity, the
process of pan-ethnic formation is disengaged from the historical trajecto-
ries of each group. The book is notably sparse, in fact, on such background,
and on any sustained attempt to explain how so many Mexicans and Puer-
to Ricans got to Chicago in the first place. Contrary to his own expressed
political sentiments, and to views about “Latinismo” to appear in his own
subsequent writings,15 Padilla effectively divorces the formation of pan-
Latino unity from its larger international context, Latin America.
Many of these limitations are averted, and the terms of analysis sig-
nificantly updated, in Suzanne Oboler’s Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives: Iden-
tity and the Politics of (Re)Presentation in the United States (1995). Here the
hemispheric sensibility is more alive, as would befit a Peruvian Ameri-
can writing in the years when “Latino ethnic consciousness” is being in-
fused with perspectives and experiences from all over “nuestra Amé-
rica.” Oboler treats the conceptualization of Latino identity in much
broader theoretical and historical terms than Padilla, and indeed than
other writings on the subject to date. And while expansive, her account
of “the Hispanic condition” wisely avoids the presumptuousness and the
glaring inaccuracies of Ilan Stavans in his book of that unhappy title.16
Most important, Oboler is writing after the officialization of “Hispanic”
as a census category and in the midst of its commercial circulation as an

item of semantic consumption.
Oboler’s major contribution, as her title indicates, is the critical scrutiny
of that clash between “labels” and “lives,” between imposed and assumed
identities. She traces the genesis of and motives behind the newfound “pol-
icy” toward Hispanics and relates it to a larger process of “racialization,”
though her account of these matters is best supplemented by some of the
articles in a special issue of the journal Latin American Perspectives (1992)
on “The Politics of Ethnic Construction,” to which Oboler also contrib-
uted.17 In any case, its sharp dramatization of the crisis of Latino “(re)pres-
entation,” its inclusive yet critical sense of a fully “pan-Latino” identity, and
its sustained attention to gender and class differentiations, make Ethnic La-
bels, Latino Lives an important and welcome advance beyond the methodo-
logical and theoretical confines of Padilla’s earlier study.
Nevertheless, when it comes to the Latino concept itself, Oboler remains
within Padilla’s universe of discourse, or at least in close proximity to it.
“Ethnicity,” as a reliable category of social differentiation, still reigns su-
preme, as does the inevitable equivocation, when referring to Latinos,
about the two “levels” or kinds of ethnic affiliation, the single group and
the pan-ethnic. Oboler cautions repeatedly against the lazy relativism and
arbitrariness of the ethnic concept and calls for a historical and structural
differentiation among the “Latino” groups. At points she even sides with
the skeptics, like Martha Giménez and David Hayes-Bautista, and would
seem to do away with the “Hispanic” category altogether.18 But she pulls
back from the implications of Giménez’s distinction between “ethnics” and
“minorities” and, especially in the second, ethnographic half of Ethnic La-
bels, Latinos Lives, lapses into a “Latino” ethnic relativism of her own.
Oboler conducted her fieldwork—her testing ground for the utility of
the Hispanic/Latino label—in New York City in 1988–1990, the “New
Nueva York.” While teaching ESL (English as a second language) classes
for a union education program, she interviewed thirteen women and nine
men who worked in the garment industry. Her informants, most of them
between thirty and sixty, come from nine different Latin American coun-
tries. Significant in the sample, aside from the circumscription of age and
other important variables, is that only one male informant, “Juan,” was
Puerto Rican born in New York, and only three of the twenty-two inform-
ants were Puerto Rican. There were four Colombians, three Dominicans,
three Nicaraguans, and two each from Peru, Honduras, and El Salvador.
Throughout the book, and when introducing her findings, she emphasizes
the main crack in the “Hispanic” front, the difference between the Latin
American “immigrant populations” and the “more historically established
communities of Chicanos and Puerto Ricans” (102). And in concluding her
report she reminds us, “Again, the study is not representative of the im-
migrant populations from Latin America nor of the Puerto Ricans in New
York City” (157), though she fails to mention that when doing her fieldwork
over 50 percent of New York Latinos were Puerto Rican. Nevertheless, de-
spite her theoretical intentions, the ethnographic part of Ethnic Labels, Lati-
no Lives underplays one of the serious perils in using the Hispanic catego-
ry, a danger that Martha Giménez for one has identified as potentially
“racist”; “these labels are racist,” Giménez says, “in that . . . they reduce
people to interchangeable entities, negating the qualitative differences be-
tween, for example, persons of Puerto Rican descent who have lived for
generations in New York City and newly arrived immigrants from Chile or
some other South or Central American country.”19
Now Oboler does not exactly “negate” these differences, as is clear
from her theoretical caveats and because they are obvious to all but the
most casual observer of Latino life in New York. In fact, it is so significant
that she even describes her sample as “a small group of twenty-one Latin
American immigrants and one U.S.-born Puerto Rican,” and when first
defining it she seems to have been uncertain about including any Puerto
Ricans at all, especially those from the United States (102, 110). And her
report itself has repeated recourse to conditionals like, “many Hispanics,
regardless of country of origin (and again, with the exception of Puerto Ri-
cans)” or, “leaving aside the U.S.-born Puerto Rican” (111, 122). The irony
is that Oboler does not even need these warning signals; her interviews
speak for themselves. “Juan,” and to some extent “Teresa,” two of her
Puerto Rican informants, make statements and express views about “His-
panic” identity and U.S. society which stand out markedly among all the
testimony. Examples abound, as when Juan says, “I’m American only by
accident, because Puerto Rico’s a territory of the United States. I don’t
think it’s by choice, because they’ve got American bases there” (152). Even
“Jorge,” a Puerto Rican from the Island, responds to the “Latino” catego-
ry in a way unmatched by the other foreign-born informants: “At the be-
ginning, when I arrived, my boss wanted me to speak English, even
though I didn’t know the language. I think he thought that I was a Latino”
(152, 154).
But most revealing of the divide between New York Puerto Ricans and
the other Latino views cited is the lengthy statement by Juan about the con-
temporary labeling of groups. “White people,” he says, “have a name for
everybody else. From Whites you came up with the word Hispanics, and
spic. I mean, Puerto Ricans never call each other Hispanic. They never
called each other spics. . . . They just count all Latin people in one bunch.
They do it to the Blacks, too. I mean, come on, they’re more than just
Blacks. You got your American Blacks, you got your African, your Ja-
maican; then you got your Puerto Rican blacks; some guys are darker than
me. Then you got your Dominican blacks, you got White people that are
dark skinned. . . . So you got your Hispanics over here which includes
whatever race you want to put in it south of the border. Then you got your
Blacks, anything from the Congo down. Then you got your Whites which
is Americans” (155). Oboler notes that Juan is voicing his recognition that
the ethnic labeling process in the U.S. context involves the conflation of
race and nationality, but she does not acknowledge that he is the only one
of her informants to pose the issue in those terms, nor does she make any-
thing of this “exceptional” perspective. Rather, she is so intent on drawing
out contrasting class and, to a lesser extent, gender positions across na-
tional lines that she leaves unanalyzed the blatant singularity of the “Nu-
yorican” among the many Latino voices in New York.
Pan-Latino/ Trans-Latino
Yet this is precisely the most serious challenge facing an analysis of Latino
identity in the “New Nueva York”: how are we to conceptualize the converg-
ing cultural geography of so many “Latino lives,” and assess the relative va-
lidity of a common identificatory term for all, while still giving adequate an-
alytical weight to the special position and standpoint of the largest, oldest,
and structurally different group, the Puerto Ricans? And further, can that
qualitative demarcation be drawn without the analysis appearing divisive, or
“exceptionalist” to the point of ignoring important commonalities and new
lines of solidarity suggested by changing historical circumstances?
In the reigning public and social science view, of course, New York Puer-
to Ricans have long been viewed or construed as the “exception,” the ex-
traneous ingredient in the melting pot or ethnic pluralist stew, salad bowl,
or mosaic. The assimilationist thrust involved in ethnic and immigrant
analogies has gone accompanied by the social pathologies of the “Puerto
Rican problem”: one thinks of Nathan Glaser and Daniel Patrick Moynihan
and Oscar Lewis, or in more benign terms, of C. Wright Mills and Father
Joseph Fitzpatrick. And again in the 1990s, as the Hispanic giant rouses
from its slumber, the Puerto Ricans are still the “exception” to the pan-eth-
nic rule, the “problem” even among their own kind. Derailed from the path
“toward a new politics of Hispanic assimilation,” U.S. Puerto Ricans are
granted a special chapter all their own (“The Puerto Rican Exception”) in
Linda Chavez’s controversial Out of the Barrio (1991). Again the New York
Puerto Ricans are stuck in the “barrio,” mired in their “culture of poverty,”
while even the other Latinos are headed for the mainstream. After fifty
years of massive presence in New York and other parts of the United
States, Puerto Ricans have gone from being left out of the sauce to being
left out of the salsa.
Yet even Linda Chavez, from her officialist, neoconservative stance,
seems at least dimly aware that a dismissive, blame-the-victim account gets
her only so far when it comes to explaining her “exception.” Speaking of
their nonassimilation into American ways as evident in their apparent po-
litical apathy, she notes, “Puerto Rico’s status, however, cannot help having
some effect on the attitudes of Puerto Ricans toward the political process,
particularly since they retain a strong identification as Puerto Ricans first
and Americans second, according to public opinion surveys.”20 Despite
their much longer presence here than other New York Latinos and, as for-
mal citizens, their closer historical relationship to U.S. society, Puerto Ri-
cans have most stubbornly rejected the hyphen, and Chavez, for many of
the wrong reasons of course, stumbles onto the key line of explanation.
“Puerto Rico,” she remarks, “is neither fish nor fowl politically, neither a
state nor an independent nation.”21 By even relating the Puerto Ricans’ “ex-
ceptional,” unassimilable position to the issue of the political status of
Puerto Rico, Chavez is acknowledging that the pan-ethnic concept needs to
be aligned with a knowledge of transnational relations if it is to include its
most notable “exception.” As expected, she sidesteps the deeper implica-
tions of this wider conceptual field of reference, concluding her cursory re-
marks on status options with the comforting thought that, “in any event, it
is unlikely that a change in Puerto Rico’s status will do much to solve the
problems that face Puerto Ricans in the United States.”22
But the association is made, even when the ideological objective is to deny
or minimize its pertinence to generalizations about Latinos as a composite
group. The bracketing of Puerto Ricans among the Latino aggregate is
necessitated by the abiding colonial relationship between the United States

and Puerto Rico, which even the most internally focused, U.S. ethnicity-
framed discussion of that particular Latino group cannot altogether ignore.
Interestingly, Oboler’s South American informants voice an awareness of
this difference at some points in their conversation. “Soledad” from Colom-
bia, for instance, hearing some of her fellow workers saying they don’t know
why Puerto Ricans are “separated” from the other groups, volunteers an ex-
planation: “Oh, I do. It’s because they’re undecided about Puerto Ricans.
They don’t really know if they’re American or if they’re Puerto Rican. See,
they have a problem with Puerto Ricans because they can’t believe that they
can be Americans and still speak Spanish. So they catalogue them as Amer-
icans for some things, but for others they’re Puerto Ricans. When they count
for something they’re Americans, but when they don’t need them to count
for anything they’re boricuas” (140). Soledad does not explicitly attribute the
ambiguity she notes in the identification of Puerto Ricans in New York to the
machinations of colonial control, but she is clear that the orchestrated am-
bivalence particular to them results from a political opportunism at levels far
transcending the confines of the New York barrios and factory floors. Here
again, the full range of the pan-ethnic category implies transnational rela-
tions and perspectives.
Soledad also recognizes that such treatment is not so particular to Puerto
Ricans after all, but is perhaps only more evident and intense in their case.
The “exception” may also be the paradigm. “But in different ways,” she con-
cludes her remarks, “they do that with all of us who speak Spanish. You
know, if an American is running, he’s just doing exercise; but if one of us is
running, we’ve just committed a robbery” (140). With this common experi-
ence in view, what would seem to mark off the situation of Puerto Ricans—
the direct structured link between their “ethnic” placement and the political
reality of their homeland—is actually a more graphic and prominent version
of the Latino experience in general. The reason for differentiating, and per-
haps privileging, a Puerto Rican perspective when analyzing the pan-Latino
concept does not rest, therefore, on an appeal to the size and longevity of the
New York community, though a much longer historical view than that pro-
vided by Oboler is clearly called for. There is, after all, some solid and heart-
felt truth to an angry response like that of salsero Willie Colón to the descrip-
tion of Puerto Ricans in Out of the Barrio, which he suggests calling “out of
left field.”23 “Perhaps Chavez thinks Puerto Ricans have a genetic problem,”
he notes, and draws a parallel to the pitiful situation of Native Hawaiians.
“Just change Hawaii to Puerto Rico. This is what happens to people who be-
come guests in their own home.” Stressing the price Puerto Ricans have paid
for their groundbreaking role in the history of Latin New York, Colón goes
on: “The fact that, in the east, people tolerate Spanish speakers, the reason
there are Spanish newspapers, TV and radio shows, bilingual driver’s license
tests, and salsa music is because Puerto Ricans gave their hearts and souls to
earn their place here. Puerto Ricans created an environment that makes it
easy for other Latinos to succeed. I hear many new Latino immigrants say,
‘In this country any little job is a profession.’ That’s because they weren’t here
when they would beat you with a baseball bat for trying to sell piraguas or put
you in jail for playing dominoes.”
Again, this “we-were-here-first” and “there’s-more-of-us” reaction, how-
ever valid in responding to the demeaning insinuations of ahistorical
pathology, is not enough to account for the “Puerto Rican exception”
among Latino groups. A more adequate explanation, which addresses the
seeming paradox of Puerto Ricans having more, as citizens, yet accom-
plishing less than other Latinos, is suggested in the response to Chavez’s
book by another public figure, Bronx congressman José Serrano: “She . . .
blames us for not capitalizing on our citizenship,” Serrano remarked.
“How do you capitalize on a second-class citizenship? What she doesn’t un-
derstand is that in the same way slavery’s legacy remains with African
Americans, colonialism has affected Puerto Ricans.”24 Serrano insists on
the long historical view, and on the enduring impact of international power
relations on the life and domestic status of Puerto Ricans in U.S. society.
Pan-ethnicity only stands up as a reliable group category if it is recognized
that each group making up the aggregate is at the same time participating
in a transnational community, the example of the Puerto Ricans, as colo-
nial Latino immigrants, being the most salient case in point.
Losing sight of this exception-as-paradigm location of the Puerto Ricans
within the pan-Latino geography can lead to serious misconceptions and
omissions, as Oboler’s “situational” ethnography illustrates. Such blurring
abounds, of course, in the more cosmic, essentialist accounts, usually of a
journalistic kind, where “lo Latino” appears as a glorious new “race,” unit-
ed by a primordial bond forged of the Spanish language and Catholicism,
a glorious spirit on the verge of a cultural takeover of Nueva York. Enrique
Fernández, for example, the Cuban American journalist for the Village
Voice, Más magazine, and the Daily News, moans that “ ‘Hispanization’ was
a figure of speech at the beginning of the decade. Today, it’s an astonishing
reality. We’re already a majority in San Antonio and Miami. Ay, Nueva
York! How soon before we need a ‘Festival Americano’ to meet minority
needs?”25 Differentiations of a socioeconomic or political kind are a matter
of indifference for such triumphalist rhetoric, with the “nuestros her-
manos boricuas” being but one more condiment in the festive sancocho.
(That’s “boricuas,” for Ilan Stavans’s information, or “borincanos,” but
never “Borinquéns.”)26
But such imprecision in posing the notion of Latino “ethnicity,” with its
characteristic inattention to particularities and exclusions, is rampant in the
abundant empirical work on New York’s Latinos as well. Demographic and
socioeconomic profiles generally take the “Hispanic” aggregate and other
census designations for granted and proceed to amass evidence and gener-
ate analysis and policy proposals accordingly. The 1995 report by Fordham’s
Hispanic Research Center, for example, promisingly titled Nuestra America
en Nueva York: The New Immigrant Hispanic Populations in New York City,
1980–1990, does disaggregate data findings according to national group;
but nowhere does it reflect on the differential placement and historical ex-
perience of Puerto Ricans, and it consistently takes “non-Hispanic whites”
(NHW) as the only operational control variable.27 This conflation of “ra-
cial,” national, and ethnic categories does not seem to concern the research-
ers, nor does the potential value of comparisons and contrasts with other
groups, particularly African Americans and Asian Americans. And as for
any resonances of the José Martí vision echoed in their title, Nuestra Amer-
ica en Nueva York is without an inkling of a hemispheric, transnational
frame of analytical reference.
The same criticism goes to the earlier report by Department of City
Planning demographers Evelyn S. Mann and Joseph J. Salvo, “Characteris-
tics of New Hispanic Immigrants to New York City: A Comparison of Puer-
to Rican and Non-Puerto Rican Hispanics.” Though the title of this 1984
paper would suggest a closely focused look at the differences between dis-
crete aggregates (Puerto Ricans and “other Hispanics),” their results prove
to be of limited value for their lack of comparison between Puerto Ricans
and each of the “other” groups taken separately, and between Puerto Ri-
cans and the entire “Hispanic” aggregate including Puerto Ricans. Further,
the explanatory power of their conclusion is minimal, as is evident in their
attribution of the reported differences, which they recognize are “wide,” to
“basic disparities in fertility, labor force participation and most of all fam-
ily structure and composition.”28 Once again, ideological assumptions and
ahistorical treatment of the “Puerto Rican exception” land us right back at

the culture of poverty.
Even analysis undertaken from an explicitly Puerto Rican perspective,
where one might expect a more historical cast to the Puerto Rican–“other
Hispanic” comparison, can fall short of the mark. The 1995 essay, “Under-
standing Socioeconomic Differences: A Comparative Analysis of Puerto Ri-
cans and Recent Latino Immigrants in New York City,” for instance, disap-
points not because it fails to foreground the particularities of Puerto Rican
experience, but because it slides too easily from a contrastive to a pan-Latino
project, the weight of the argument and policy orientation ultimately resting
more on a Latino-mainstream contrast than one between Puerto Ricans and
“recent Latino immigrants.”29 Admittedly a first stab at that particular topic,
the essay does draw the pertinent data into play and is helpful in defining a
research and policy agenda on some of the most visible issues raised in as-
sessing Puerto Rican–“other Latinos” relations. But the most pressing of
these issues, having to do with questions of race, class, gender, and political
positioning, are either muddled or sidestepped in the name of an undefined
“unity,” “progress,” and “integration.” Many of these shortcomings, and just
how far we are from such an “understanding” of the noted socioeconomic
differences, are evident in the essay’s final paragraph:
The severity of most of the socioeconomic indicators presented above

challenges researchers, policymakers, and city officials with a sense
of urgency; this is not only a problem for the Puerto Rican or Latino
communities. Expected growth in the Latino population coupled with a
simultaneous stagnation or decline of socioeconomic position has poten-
tially explosive effects for the entire city—as well as for other areas where
Puerto Ricans live. While comparisons between Puerto Ricans and other
groups are important to understanding how each group is faring, pitting
one against the other does nothing to further the progress of any group—
and may actually aggravate intergroup conflicts. It is critical for Puerto
Ricans to gain entry into different sectors of the city’s economy and regain
socioeconomic stability. At the same time, however, lessons learned from
the Puerto Rican experience in New York City can be useful to successfully
integrating other Latino immigrants into the city’s mainstream—and
charting the progress of future Latino generations. The problems that
affect Puerto Ricans have been identified; understanding their origins
is the next step toward devising effective solutions.30
Perhaps the central question raised in a comparative inter-Latino analy-

sis of present-day New York is the relation between Puerto Ricans and Do-
minicans, a question that is generally elided because of the frequent offi-
cial grouping of Dominicans in the “Central and South American” or
“Other Hispanic” categories. This absence of Dominicans as a discrete
point of comparison is the case in “Understanding Socioeconomic Differ-
ences” and the sources provided in that study. Yet it is clearly the Domini-
cans, already by far the second largest group and rapidly approaching the
number of Puerto Ricans by unofficial count, that bear closest resemblance
to the Puerto Ricans in terms of both cultural history and socioeconomic
placement. The two groups together, sometimes even conjoined within the
Latino aggregate because of their common Caribbean background, account
for well over 80 percent of the whole and command the public image of the
“New York Latino.” And in addition to magnitude and cultural affinities, it
is in its comparison with the situation of Dominicans that the exceptional
yet exemplary Puerto Rican experience finds its most direct counterpoint.
Unfortunately, sociologically grounded treatment of the Dominican com-
munity has thus far left this kind of contrastive analysis largely unad-
dressed. Whether the pitch is for the community’s bustling “vitality” and
rapid progress or its unequalled “poverty”—and accounts tend to oscillate
between those two extremes—the reference point is the Latino population
as a whole, or non-Dominican society in general. One study, Dominican New
Yorkers: A Socioeconomic Profile (1995), for example, marshals ample tabula-
tions comparing Dominicans with “New York City Overall,” “Non-Hispanic
White,” “Non-Hispanic Black,” and “Hispanic, Overall,” but includes only
one parenthetical mention of the Puerto Ricans (“only Puerto Ricans have a
greater presence”).31 Among other things, the omission of such group-to-
group comparison places in question the authors’ repeated claim to “worst-
off status” among all New York Hispanics, and on many counts among all
New Yorkers.
Of course, the point of these comparative analyses cannot be to estab-
lish a socioeconomic pecking-order of the “most oppressed,” or “fastest
achievers.” The main problem, which goes to explain some of the gravest
omissions, has more to do with methodology and theoretical perspective
than with the unexplored terrain itself. Another essay by some of the same
authors, in fact, arrives at a more balanced account of the complex socioe-
conomic reality of the New York Dominican community.32 But it is anoth-
er publication of the CUNY Dominican Studies Institute, Jorge Duany’s
Quisqueya on the Hudson: The Transnational Identity of Dominicans in Wash-

ington Heights (1994), that suggests an analytical framework appropriate to
a useful comparative study between the two groups, and to a differentiated
consideration of the New York Latino experience overall. Not that Duany
makes much mention of Puerto Rican identity—though he has written
widely on the subject from many angles—much less draws out any paral-
lels or contrasts; his strictly local, neighborhood sample focus is, in fact,
even narrower than that of many other studies. But by placing the issue of
“Dominican York” experience in the context of globalization and the for-
mation of “transnational identities,” he speaks in terms that, from a his-
torical standpoint, resonate with parallels to social processes lived through
by Puerto Ricans. In addition to the usual “socioeconomic characteristics,”
Duany offers observations and cites attitudes on political and cultural ori-
entation toward the homeland, assimilation and its resistance, bilingual-
ism and race, and a range of other identity issues long of central interest in
the study of Puerto Rican life in New York. And he frames his discussion
with reference to concepts of “transnational communities,” diaspora, circu-
lar and global migration processes, and other constituents of contemporary
social theory. When he describes Dominicans, for example, as a “trans-
national community,” “characterized by a constant flow of people in both
directions, a dual sense of identity, ambivalent attachments to two nations,
and a far-flung network of kinship and friendship ties across state fron-
tiers,”33 he could just as well be speaking of Nuyoricans, the prototype of
that kind of community among Latinos in New York. “Quisqueya on the
Hudson,” seen in these terms, bears more than a casual resemblance to El
Barrio on the East River in the 1950s and 1960s, a parallel also noted by
other seasoned observers.34
The Colonial “Exception”

“Mex-Yorkers,” the latest group to appear en masse on the city’s Latino
landscape, are also very much a “transnational community,” as creative
ethnographic research has established in convincing detail35 and a visit to
the old Puerto Rican neighborhoods of El Barrio or Williamsburgh, Brook-
lyn, makes palpably evident. Colombians, Ecuadorians, Salvadorans, all of
New York’s major Latino groups partake of a “transnational sociocultural
system” in their everyday lives, “here” or “there,” and in their increasingly
hybrid forms of self-identification.36 Individually and as a composite they
are more a “diasporic transnation” than anything resembling an ethnic

immigrant group. As much as the familiar immigrant narrative may ac-
company them as they settle into their niches and enclaves, the prospects
for their ready or eventual incorporation into New York life remain dim at
best under conditions of global economic restructuring. The formation of
systemic transnational linkages with economic, political, and cultural di-
mensions is thus a matter of historical necessity in both locations; they are
structured into the very relations between country or region of origin and
the United States, and into the very conditions of migration in the first
place. In this respect, the transnational quality of the Latino presence in
New York follows the pattern set over the course of decades, and in its most
intricate way, by the Puerto Rican emigrant experience.
But even as “Latino transnationals,” Puerto Ricans remain the “excep-
tion” among the New York groups, distinct even from their closest cousins,
the Dominican Yorks. This difference is marked off, in a formal sense, by
U.S. citizenship, and in the practical social arena, as Congressman Serra-
no is quick to add, by the second-class nature of that supposedly privileged
status. Direct colonial relations, as an uninterrupted legacy and ever-pres-
ent reality, govern the motives and outcomes of the whole migratory and
settlement process, and fix a consistently low ceiling on the group’s expec-
tations and opportunities. For Puerto Ricans, the “blessings” of American
citizenship have been even worse than mixed. Under the constant sway of
colonial machinations, it has been a setup for stigmatization and patho-
logical treatment, more than outweighing, over the long haul, their advan-
tageous exemption from the most pressing of immigrant woes. As Willie
Colón has it in the title of a 1989 album, Puerto Ricans are “legal aliens.”
And other Latinos, most of whom have indeed endured the deathly humil-
iations of undocumented status, recognize this difference themselves; as a
correspondent for the Christian Science Monitor reported in a survey of
Hispanic communities, “whenever Puerto Ricans came up for discussion,
Chicanos and Cubans repeatedly said that Puerto Ricans had an extra bur-
den to bear, in addition to their language, their color, and their poverty. It
was, they said, the psychological uncertainty resulting from the limbo
which Puerto Rico’s commonwealth status had turned out to be. To the av-
erage Puerto Rican, the argument goes, commonwealth status means his
or her being made a kept man or woman of the U.S.”37
Puerto Ricans are perhaps most precisely to be considered “colonial em-
igrants” (or “[im]migrants” as Clara Rodríguez would have it) in the global
metropolis, bearing closer congruences, on an international scale, with

counterparts like Jamaicans in London, Martinicans in Paris, and Surinam-
ese in Amsterdam.38 In rebuffing Linda Chavez, Serrano equates the psy-
chological legacy of colonialism for Puerto Ricans with that of slavery for
American Blacks, or at least relates them in the same breath as the un-
mentioned grounding for her shallow diagnosis of the “Puerto Rican ex-
ception.” And indeed, it is in many ways their long, profound, and complex
relation to African Americans, even more than the outward marker of citi-
zenship, that most clearly distinguishes the social position and interactions
of Puerto Ricans from those of the other transnational Latino groups in
New York. Throughout their century-long sojourn in the Big Apple, and es-
pecially since the late 1940s, New York Puerto Ricans have been at close liv-
ing and working quarters with Blacks, perhaps closer than any other na-
tional group in the history of this country. In addition to unprecedented
cultural fusions, most social indicators point consistently to Puerto Ricans
bearing greater similarities to Blacks than to the other Latino groups, and
to the Latino aggregate.39 Needless to say, because of the gulf between so-
ciodemographic and qualitative-theoretical analysis, little has been made
thus far of those potent and demonstrable realities. And the foisting of a
“Latino” construct onto the field of identity options has only further cloud-
ed the issue.
As different from transnational diasporic communities in general, the
colonial emigrant is organically inserted into the racial divide and the cul-
tural and class dynamic of the metropolitan society. Especially since the
1960s, the issue of Puerto Rican identity has been entwined with the social
and cultural experience of African Americans, and with the problematics
of Blackness and “double consciousness,” more so than is likely even for
that of the “blacker” Dominican community for some time to come. Simi-
larly, as part of a U.S. national agenda, Puerto Ricans in the United States
bear closer historical ties to the Chicano population than do their ancestral
cultural kin from Central America, and even their Mixteco neighbors in El
Barrio. It is the directness of the colonial tie that thus places U.S. Puerto
Ricans both inside and outside of U.S. domestic politics, with interests
rooted equally in the struggles for justice and equality in the United States
and in the struggles for sovereignty in the Caribbean and Latin America.
The sense of ambivalence generally attributed to the “limbo” of common-
wealth status has to do with this duality of political focus, this simultane-
ous grounding on two social fronts. But it is not just a “burden,” as their
sympathetic fellow Latinos call it, nor does it necessarily spell dysfunction
or identity crisis. Strategically, with an unprecedented half of the national-
ity living on either side, and with the “sides” constantly intermingling be-
cause of an unparalleled circular migration, there is no alternative to a mul-
tiple identity position.
The adequacy of the embattled “Latino” or “Hispanic” concept hinges
on its inclusiveness toward the full range of social experiences and identi-
ties, and particularly its bridging of the divergence within the contempo-
rary configuration between recent “Latino immigrant” populations and, for
want of a better term, the “resident minority” Chicano and Puerto Rican
communities. In the context of the “New Nueva York,” the toughest test of
“Latinismo” is its negotiation of the varied lines of solidarity and histori-
cally structured relations informing Puerto Rican social identity: with
other, Francophone or Anglophone Caribbean communities, for example,
or with African Americans and Chicanos, or with other colonial migrants
in “global cities,” or of course with other Puerto Ricans, “over there” on the
Island, or “out there” in the diaspora. All of these crucial dimensions of
New York Puerto Rican self-identification stretch the “pan-Hispanic” idea
in different ways, but must be accounted for if Puerto Ricans are not once
again, as was reported back in 1958, to “substitute [the terms Hispano and
Latino] for that of ‘Puerto Rican,’ because the latter, in more ways than one,
has become a ‘bad public relations’ identification for New York Puerto Ri-
cans.”40 That is, unless the “pan-ethnic” net is cast wide enough across and
along language, “racial,” class, and geographic lines, the Puerto Rican com-
ponent too readily equates with the stigmatized, abject implications of the
label, the stain of which the “new politics of Hispanic assimilation” must
be cleansed.
On the other hand, the influence is of course reciprocal and general, and
the perspectives introduced by the new Latino groups are also helping shape
the terms of a multigroup identity and social movement. These terms are al-
ways provisional and subject to reexamination, as is clear in the ironic rever-
sal of inter-Latino conditions in present-day Chicago, where “Latino ethnic
consciousness” was first committed to sociological study by Félix Padilla. By
the end of 1995, there were Latino groups calling for a dismantling of the
congressional district they had once fought so hard to create. The reason
given: that Mexicans and Puerto Ricans are, in their words, “racially different
and have little in common beyond their language.”41 (To which, by the way,
the president of Chicago’s Latino Firefighters Association Charles Vazquez
pointedly responded, “To those who say we are ‘racially different,’ what’s the
difference between a poor Mexican making minimum wage and a poor Puer-
to Rican making minimum wage?”)42 Tales of such contention among Lati-
no groups abound, of course, in Los Angeles, Miami, and New York and put
the lie to any too facile, wishful, or ominous image of Latinos as a seamless-
ly knitted tribe or horde. But practical disjunctures do not necessarily invali-
date the strategic prospects and formative process of Latino unity. Rather,
they point up the need for an eminently flexible, inclusive concept based on
a clear understanding of historical differences and particularities.
With such a concept in view, one can only agree with Suzanne Oboler
when she argues that “differences in the ways that race and class are un-
derstood by more recently arrived Latin American immigrants are impor-
tant to consider in assessing the issues that contribute toward or hinder the
fostering of . . . a ‘Latino Culture’ in the U.S. context” (16). The lessons and
experiences from Latin America and the Caribbean stand to enrich and
broaden the cultural and political horizons of those Latinos, notably Mexi-
can Americans and Puerto Ricans, with a longer standing in U.S. barrios
and workplaces. They offer grounds for hope that the idea and study of
“Latino” might transcend—and transgress—the domestic confines of U.S.
public discourse on politics and cultural identity, and engage (or reengage)
it to the global processes of which it is a part. This hope is very much alive
in the “New Nueva York,” as Puerto Ricans—U.S. citizens and increasing-
ly English-speaking—are impelled in the name of Latino solidarity to re-
assert their commitment to immigrant and language rights, and to em-
brace the trans-Latino vision of “nuestra América.”43
8

Life Off the Hyphen

Latino Literature and Nuyorican Traditions
The View from the Hyphen

In 1990 literary history was made when for the first time a book by a His-
panic writer won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction, generally considered the
most prestigious honor in American literature. The Mambo Kings Play
Songs of Love, the second novel by Cuban-American author Oscar Hijuelos,
tells the story of two musician brothers, Cesar and Nestor Castillo, who ar-
rive from Cuba in 1949 to try their luck on the New York music scene.
Though not an untroubled immigrant success story, the Castillo brothers
do get their piece of the American Dream when in 1955 they appear in a
scene of the I Love Lucy show. The book’s success, however, was boundless,
having been helped along by what has been called “the most highly pro-
moted Hispanic book in history by a major press.”1 Before culminating in
the Pulitzer, recognition gathered in approving reviews, extensive expo-
sure, advance sales of foreign rights, and a movie deal. By 1990 the time
was right for a Hispanic Pulitzer, and when Mambo Kings rose to the top
the door was thrown open for the entry of “Latino literature” onto the land-
scape of mainstream American letters.
The accolades were not at all unanimous, however, even among Latinos,
many of whom believe that the book (and its insidious movie version) only
repeat and reinforce some of the most nagging stereotypes of Latinos. Be-
sides, the touted Pulitzer has never been regarded as a sure stamp of liter-
ary quality, many past awards having gone to books that were quickly for-
gotten and subject to more qualified reviews once they were read more
closely. The Pulitzer board and juries, responsible for finalizing decisions
since the first fiction award in 1948, have been composed almost entirely
167
168 Life Off the Hyphen
of white males, predominantly professional journalists, with the first wo-

man, non-white, nonjournalist board member admitted as late as 1980.
Their perspective on literature is reflected in the principles which have
guided the novel prize since its inception in 1917, where it is stated that the
honor will go to the works that best present “the whole atmosphere of
American life and the highest standard of American manners and man-
hood.”2 When the president of Columbia University Nicholas Butler Mur-
ray assumed his lengthy and influential role in the history of the prizes, the
word “whole” was changed to “wholesome.” The primacy of patriotic and
moralistic criteria have led some to the view that “the Pulitzer Prize novels
make a significant if negative contribution to the history of American fic-
tion,”3 while as early as 1935 Malcolm Cowley already was voicing his ob-
jection to the conventionalism and amateurishness of some of the prize-
winners, and to the conservative biases of the prize itself. For Cowley, the
prize implies “a guarantee to the American public that the chosen books
have nothing in them to shatter conventions or shake the state, nothing to
drive the stock market down or interrupt the sleep of virgins.”4
In the case of The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love, the board and the jury
(composed that year of the president of the Guggenheim Foundation,
writer and critic Diane Johnson, and an English professor from Bowling
Green State University) were divided, some preferring the other finalist, E.
L. Doctorow’s Billy Bathgate, others not liking either book. Once the prize
had been announced and the movie hit the theaters, the songs of praise for
Hijuelos’s work became more muted, and the response of Latino readers
ambivalent at best. While major Latino literature publisher and promoter
Nicolás Kanellos, for example, refers to it as “the best Hispanic book ever
published by a large commercial press,” his judgment is qualified when he
notes that “the novel drags in the middle and towards the end, without the
benefit of a hard-driving plot. Its insistence on detailing the culture and
spirit of the times and its repetitive reminiscence are somewhat tiring.”5
The Latino commentator for the Village Voice, Cuban-American Enrique
Fernández, finds many objections to the claim that the book is “well-re-
searched” in its historical references, pointing out some of the many anach-
ronisms and other inaccuracies with regard to Latin music history. He con-
cludes that “something tastes flat,” and mentions that “the night Hijuelos’s
Pulitzer was announced, [some critical Latino] friends threatened to start a
ruckus outside his house.”6 Perhaps the sharpest critical note is sounded by
the young New York Puerto Rican writer Abraham Rodriguez, who points
Life Off the Hyphen 169
to the rampant sexism of the book as one of its most glaring retrogressions:
“It took Hispanic women like thirty years to get over that macho bullshit,”
he says, “and he brings it all back, and they reward him with the Pulitzer. I
think he’s full of shit.”7
Though hardly a breakthrough in literary terms, The Mambo Kings will
likely retain its landmark status if only for its timeliness, the big prize es-
tablishing it as the book that inaugurated “Latino literature” as an accept-
ed, English-language component of the multicultural canon, and as an at-
tractive marketing rubric, in the 1990s. Several commentators speak in
terms of “before and after” the event, noting the sudden plethora of works
by Latinos published by major presses, the new space for Latino listings in
catalogues and bookstores, and the promotionals featuring Latino writ-
ers—all in the decade since the award.8 Beyond the expected celebrations,
Hijuelos has become the author of choice to write prefaces to the many an-
thologies of Latino literature, where the inclusion of selections from his
own work is all but obligatory.9 After all, while some of the scenes in his
laureled novel may well “interrupt the sleep of virgins,” the overall effect is
to bolster that “wholesome atmosphere of American life”; like Desi Arnaz,
who has a preponderant symbolic role in the novel, it signals a modus
vivendi between “Latino” culture and the coziness of the American living
room, all the more welcome by our times when the Latino population has
grown so alarmingly immense in size and diversity. As “full of shit” as he
may be, Hijuelos helped provide the needed handle by winning the
Pulitzer, the proof that a Latino book could make it into the long-elusive
American mainstream, and the foundational fiction, as it were, of a legiti-
mate, subcanonical concept of “Latino literature.”
Not that a literature by U.S. Latinos is new, of course, its history ex-
tending back to the beginnings of American letters and encompassing a
succession of discernible stages and periods.10 The decades preceding the
first “Premio Pulitzer” saw the publication of many works of Latino fiction
and poetry, some of greater significance than The Mambo Kings, and even
the idea of an embracing, pan-Latino heritage had been promoted by many
critics and publishers, notably the Arte Público Press at the University of
Houston. What is new about the post-Pulitzer period, in fact, is not so
much the writing itself, which has tended to carry forward with the the-
matic and stylistic concerns of the previous years, but the prevalent notion
of a Pulitzer-eligible Latino literature—that is, a literature by U.S Latinos
that is compatible with the prescribed “wholesomeness” of American life,
a literature that, with all its play on cultural differences, matches up con-
vincingly to the “standards of American manners and manhood.” The
coronation of The Mambo Kings heralded the ascendancy of a Latino litera-
ture which, however nostalgic for the old culture and resentful of the new,
is markedly assimilationist toward American society and its culture, thus
departing from the contestatory and oppositional stance characteristic of
much writing by Latino authors in the past. Two prominent Latino critics,
speaking specifically of Hijuelos, have referred to it as a Latino literature,
and life, “on the hyphen,” where the hyphen is embraced as an equal sign.11
Gustavo Pérez Firmat, the Cuban-American writer and professor of Latin
American literature, entitles his intriguing book Life on the Hyphen: The
Cuban-American Way (1994). His goal is very specific: to characterize the
idiosyncrasy of Cuban culture in the U.S. setting, and to mark off what he
refers to as the “one-and-a-half generation,” that is, the generation of Cu-
bans like himself, whose formative experience lies midway between those
who grew up in Cuba before migrating (“too Cuban to be American”) and
the second generation, like the author’s children, who grew up here and are
“too American to be Cuban.” Pérez Firmat traces this sequence of adapta-
tions and negotiations between the Cuban and the American as links in
what he calls “the-Desi-chain,” refractions of Desi Arnaz’s TV character
Ricky Ricardo, “the single most visible Hispanic presence in the United
States over the last forty years.”12 With Desi as the paradigm, and the elabo-
rate discussion of the I Love Lucy show comprising the strongest section of
the book, Life on the Hyphen ranges widely through Cuban-American litera-
ture and popular culture, with ample reference to Gloria Estefan and the
Miami Sound Machine and to the historical placement of the mambo craze
of the 1940s and 1950s. But it is Oscar Hijuelos and The Mambo Kings,
where the “Desi chain” has the same fictional role as it has for Pérez Fir-
mat’s cultural discourse, that is clearly the most direct catalyst and exem-
plum for the enactment of the distinctively Cuban-American “life on the hy-
phen.” While making due note of the criticisms of the book, and himself
noting its many errors and dogged “anglocentrism,” Pérez Firmat speaks of
the “beguiling richness of the novel” and is obviously taken by this emble-
matic evidence of his theories of immigrant adaptation over the genera-
tions. He even ventures explanations for the book’s blatant phallocentrism,
and for the multitude of historical and linguistic errors, chalking them up
to the task of cultural “translation.” In the process, he offers the most ex-
tended and insightful interpretation of The Mambo Kings to date.13
With his subtitle and repeated insistence throughout the book, Pérez
Firmat aims to limit himself to the “Cuban-American” way, the particular-
ity of that hyphen, and that instance of Latino immigrant adaptation. But
as his reference to Desi as “the single most visible Hispanic presence” be-
lies, the agenda of Life on the Hyphen is more ambitious than that: his lens
may be “one-and-a-half generation” Cuban-American, but the cultural
landscape is that of the contemporary United States as a whole. Inspired by
a People magazine cover story devoted to Gloria Estefan, the book opens by
taking this sign of celebrity as “a fair indication of the prominent role that
Cuban Americans [no hyphen here] are playing in the increasing—and in-
exorable—latinization of the United States; by now, few Americans will
deny that, sooner or later, for better or for worse, the rhythm is going to get
them.”14 Interest is not focused here on the hyphen in “Cuban-American,”
or the establishment of the neologism “cubanglo” as the most precise des-
ignation of Cuban one-and-a-halfers. As an extension of this group-specif-
ic discourse, Pérez Firmat is talking about “hyphenation” itself as a bicul-
tural process, a pattern of cultural hybridization. At one point, his musings
on Cubano-Americanism issue directly into a broad, three-stage theory of
immigrant group experience; though Cuban-American examples prevail,
his whole point is to explicate the paradigmatic passage of immigrant cul-
tures and communities from the stages of “substitution” to “destitution” to
“institution” in adjusting to the new “home country” and settling in. And
among the immigrants, Cuban-Americans of course share their hyphen-
ation with other Latinos, of whose generalized experience it is taken to be
a “prominent” example.
It is important to bear these broader fields of validation in mind when
addressing what Pérez Firmat regards as the distinctive quality of Cuban-
American cultural placement in the U.S. setting. “I realize,” he writes,
“that mine is not a fashionable view of relations between ‘majority’ and
‘minority’ cultures. Contemporary models of culture contact tend to be op-
positional: one culture, say white American, vanquishes another, say Na-
tive American. But the oppositional model, accurate as it may be in other
situations, does not do justice to the balance of power in Cuban America”
(6). To “oppositional” he prefers “appositional,” for the “balance of power”
in this case is defined by “contiguity” rather than “conflict,” by “collusion”
rather than “collision.” This particular case, he contends, puts the lie to
other, more “fashionable” views of ethnic relations and culture contact in
that the hyphen, the ultimate mark of hybridity, signals equilibrium and
not tension. Unlike other “minority” cultures, and at odds with the experi-
ence of many other Latino groups, “over the last several decades, in the
United States, Cuba and America have been on a collusion course, . . . dis-
play[ing] an intricate equilibrium between the claims of each culture” (6).
At no point venturing a historical or sociological explanation of this unique
and exceptional circumstance, the author nevertheless upholds the repre-
sentative stature of his case in point. Like his cherished hyphen, Pérez Fir-
mat’s analysis “is a seesaw, . . . tilt[ing] first one way, then the other” (6) be-
tween exceptionalism and generalization, between the “Cuban-American
way” and the “Hispanic condition.”
While Pérez Firmat’s Life on the Hyphen retains a Cuban-American fo-
cus despite its forays into broader cultural and theoretical terrains, Ilan
Stavans in The Hispanic Condition (1995) will do with no such narrow
boundaries; he subtitles his book expansively “Reflections on Culture and
Identity in America.” Here the hyphen—he calls his introductory chapter
“Life in the Hyphen”—marks not just the “cubanglo” dilemma, but takes
on hemispheric proportions, “the encounter between George Washington
and Simón Bolívar,”15 or even, at a civilizational level, between Shake-
speare and Cervantes. Stavans, who arrived in the United States from his
native Mexico as late as 1985, has been quick to insert himself into the cul-
ture wars, bringing with him an essayistic style comprised of warmed-over
Octavio Paz and a postmodernist metaphysics of the border. Despite the
constant appeal to the relational aspects and indeterminacy of cultural
identities, the “Hispanic condition” as portrayed here rests on decidedly
essentialist, and existentialist, assumptions. The sense of “displacement”
experienced by Cuban-American exiles, for example, “as a struggle, as a
way of life, as a condition, . . . is, and will remain, a Latino signature. . . .
To be expelled from home, to wander through geographic and linguistic
diasporas, is essential to our nature” (59).
With all his cosmic claims, though, Stavans is mainly interested in the
new “Latino literature.” In The Hispanic Condition and other books, nu-
merous anthologies and countless articles, he has become the most fre-
quent commentator on the subject, and the critic who has been most in-
tent on configuring a Latino literary canon in the 1990s. Though perhaps
most familiar with the Mexican American tradition, he nevertheless has
ample reference to Cuban-American, Puerto Rican, Dominican, and other
Latino writers, and his professional training in Spanish and Latin Ameri-
can literatures allows him to range widely—though often diffusely—over
the “Hispanic” literary landscape in the widest sense. Unfortunately, what

is gained with this potentially welcome framework of cultural kinship and
solidarity is lost in the need for specificity and more rigorous differentia-
tion among the varied group perspectives.
For Stavans, The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love is a “dazzling novel,” a
“moving account of brotherly love in the New York of the 1950s, which
traced the impact and influence of Latin rhythms north of the border” (14,
56). References to the book and the Pulitzer abound in The Hispanic Con-
dition (though they are unaccompanied by any extended critical analysis),
and along with Sandra Cisneros and Julia Alvarez, Hijuelos clearly takes on
canonical status here and in Stavans’s other writings.16 Thinking of Hijue-
los he asks the question that centrally concerns him: “What does he as a
Cuban-American share with Chicana Sandra Cisneros and Dominican-
American novelist Julia Alvarez, author of How the García Girls Lost Their
Accents, other than an amorphous and evasive ethnic background?”17 At no
point do the intervening issues of class position and accessibility to the
newly forming literary market figure in his calculations, which despite his
many historical digressions continually revert to an internally cultural unit
of discourse. Indeed, though he is groping for inclusive, pan-Latino affini-
ties and associations, Stavans is notably selective in his conception of the
Latino canon and the conditions of its formation. He favors, among other
variables, the “literary” works, those most reminiscent of and compatible
with Latin American literary models, especially those of the “boom.”
As for group perspective, though his knowledge of Chicano literature is
strongest, he is inclined toward that of the Cuban-American; the present-
day “Hispanic condition” is most closely tracked as another link in the “Desi
chain.” “Arnaz’s ordeal,” he comments, “as Hijuelos knows . . . , is every
Latino’s dream of making it big in America. Among Latinos, Cuban-Amer-
icans symbolize success and progress, assimilation but self-awareness” (58).
What would here seem to be a marking off of Cubans among the other
groups—the sense of success and progress, assimilation and upward mo-
bility—is repeatedly treated as the “new” element in all of Latino life; “some-
thing essential is changing in the texture of the Latino community,” he
claims, for “behind the much-publicized images of poverty, drugs and vio-
lence, upward mobility is indeed taking place” (189). Like Pérez Firmat, Sta-
vans maintains that what is new, “a different approach to the Latino metab-
olism,” is the demise of the idea of Latino culture as resistance, the
replacement, in his words, of “the concept of negative assimilation” (14–15).
Though he shies away from a sense of the Latino hyphen as signaling “col-
lusion,” his notion of “collision” is far from the politically grounded resis-
tance historically associated with Latino cultural expression. In league with
Latin American magical realism (which he calls “eminently marketable”),
Latinos are here presented as “soldiers in the battle to change America from
within, to reinvent its inner core” (14–15).
What is “new” about the recent Latino writing, and goes to inform it as a
marketing category, is that it seeks to be apolitical, and here the foundational
Cuban-American is again joined by Julia Alvarez as the trendsetter: “Hijue-
los signals a trend by the new generation of Cuban-American and shies
away from politics, as does Julia Alvarez in her fictional study of well-off Do-
minican girls in the United States” (56). With all his disclaimers and fanci-
ful notions of “implosion,” Stavans is talking about crossing over, making it
into the mainstream, assimilation. The “explosion of Latino arts” which is
“overwhelming the country,” and which involves a strange gallery of exam-
ples, from William Carlos Williams and Joan Baez to Anthony Quinn and
Oscar Lewis (!), means above all a move into the heart of American mass
culture. Toward the end of The Hispanic Condition, Stavans pauses to won-
der what it is all about, whether there is any substantive change involved in
all the novelty and hype. “Is the pilgrimage from the periphery to main-
stream culture,” he asks, “one in which the entire Latino community is em-
barked? Aren’t many being left behind?” (187). It is interesting that Stavans
allows himself such second thoughts amidst his flurry of enthusiasm. Un-
fortunately, these questions find no substantive answers within the concep-
tual framework in which he conducts his “reflections on culture and iden-
tity in America.”
Latino Literature and Cultural Capital

There are few Puerto Ricans in The Mambo Kings, and when they do appear
it is usually as underworld mobsters, typically garbed in “tan suits.” Toward
the end of the book, as a kind of afterthought in the endless love life of the
protagonist Cesar Castillo, there is Lydia, a working-class Puerto Rican wo-
man whose caring relation to the aging but ever libidinous musician is
marred by an undertone of personal opportunism. Otherwise, though, the
Latin New York of the first Hispanic Pulitzer is entirely Cuban, even though
it is set at a time when Puerto Ricans far outnumbered other Latino groups
and was written when the Cuban population in New York had declined to
relative insignificance. Even the Latin music scene in New York, which in
the 1950s was already largely populated by Puerto Rican musicians, is basi-
cally a Cuban affair in Hijuelos’s novel, renowned Puerto Ricans like Rafael
Hernández, Noro Morales, Tito Puente, and Tito Rodríguez getting frequent
mention and an occasional cameo appearance but no formative role in ei-
ther the music or the narrative. It is worth recalling in this regard that Ma-
chito’s “Afro-Cubans,” the supreme orchestral achievement of the whole
“mambo kings” era, were almost all New York Puerto Ricans.
The invisibility of New York Puerto Ricans in their own social habitat,
while presumably not the intention of the author, is not casual either, for
the cultural world of The Mambo Kings is “Latino” in a certain selective
sense. Aside from its obvious masculinist and heterosexual emphasis, it is
the white, middle-class Latino whose experience and perspectives prevail
throughout the book. Though they run into some harder times in New
York, the Castillo brothers are from a landowning family in Oriente, not of
the status of the Arnaz’s of the Santiago elite, but they had their means and
prospects, and their domestic help; they can even pass as Ricky Ricardo’s
cousins. They speak proudly of their Spanish background, their father hav-
ing migrated from Galicia and stubbornly upheld the noble bloodline.
They are cubanos, yes, but above all “gallegos”; they are from the moun-
tains, but fashion themselves more as caballeros than “guajiros.” They are
“mambo kings,” masters of Afro-Cuban music, yet the protagonists’ deep-
est love is not the mambo but “songs of love,” the bolero.18 Unable to ig-
nore the reality of racism that plagued the Latin bands, the white “mambo
kings” recall it as indignities suffered by the “black musicians,” as though
they were a rare and marginal presence on the scene.19 In general, “black-
ness,” pressing poverty, and other markers of social oppression are “oth-
ered” in this evocation of New York Latino life, with the African American,
even more thoroughly than the Puerto Rican, being a total nonpresence in
the book.
Fully in line with the theoretical orientations of Pérez Firmat and Sta-
vans, the concept of “Latino” in The Mambo Kings involves the privileging
of privilege. Claiming to represent cultural traits shared by all Latinos, they
typically have recourse to language, religion, and a Spanish-inflected mes-
tizaje (mixing) while evading differential relations of power among the
groups involved. The result is an idea of Latino life based on what might
be termed the “highest common denominator,” one that highlights mo-
tives of success and opportunity and underplays issues of poverty and in-
equality as extraneous to the dynamics of Latino culture. The “condition”

and concerns of middle-class exiles, bearing with them and reproducing
the cultural capital inherent in their family lines, becomes the paradigm of
the Latino experience. The communities forged of working-class migra-
tions from colonized countries and regions recede into the background of
this “Latino” landscape, and often find representation as fearful, hostile,
inner-city jungles. The hyphenated Latino—the hyphen standing for equi-
librium, “collusion,” or even Stavans’s wishful “implosion”—is fully com-
patible with white social identity in the U.S. racial formation, while black-
ness, especially as embodied by the African American, is typically distanced
from the terrain of representative Latino experience.
Latino literature, as that category has emerged in contemporary canon-
formation, is circumscribed from this perspective. To begin with, most of
the prominent writers, those who appear in the anthologies, publish with
major houses, and win literary prizes, are from this background of class
and racial privilege. Beyond that, even those whose origins are more hum-
ble and disadvantaged, such as Puerto Rican authors Esmeralda Santiago
and Judith Ortíz Kofer, tend to thematize their own upward mobility and
distance themselves from the crasser aspects of inner-city barrio life, as is
evident from their aloof treatment of African Americans. But writers like
Dominican American Julia Alvarez, Cuban American Cristina Garcia, and
Colombian American Jaime Manrique are more representative in this
sense; writing in English though fluent in Spanish, broaching controver-
sial themes of gender and sexuality, they offer up glimpses of middle-class
Latino life in the metropolis, with all the travails and fits of nostalgia, but
consistently from the vantage point of those who need not worry about
being taken for Blacks or ghetto-dwellers.
But the bifurcation of Latino writing and canon-making goes beyond the
more explicit matter of the social provenance of the favored authors, or
even the thematic and stylistic features of the works themselves. The dif-
ference, I would suggest, which goes to explain such privileges and critical
predilections, lies in the differential positioning of the varied Latino groups
in the prevailing structures of power and domination within the United
States and internationally. Those whose collective identities in the United
States were constituted by a long-standing history of conquest and colo-
nization generate a literary expression which contrasts with that of com-
paratively recent arrivals from countries with less direct ties to U.S. impe-
rial power. In particular, Chicano and Nuyorican writing stand out among
the emerging “Latino” literary configuration, sharing many of the bicul-

tural themes with other works in that category but usually presenting a
markedly divergent angle on society. As in the case of other aspects of so-
cial experience, the variations within the literature now classified as “Lati-
no” need to be dissected critically with these structural contrasts clearly in
view. Interestingly, the different placement of Puerto Ricans as compared
with other Hispanic groups in New York was recognized early on in the
community’s history; already in 1928 an editorial in the weekly Gráfico
spoke of Puerto Ricans as “the most vulnerable group of those which com-
prise the large family of Ibero-Americans. Truly it seems a paradox,” the ar-
ticle continues, “that being American citizens these should be the most de-
fenseless. The reality is sad, but true. People of Puerto Rican background
find themselves completely unprotected [desamparados] in this American
metropolis. While the citizens of other countries have their consulates and
diplomats to represent them, the children of Borinquen have no one.”20
In terms of literature and culture, this sociologically grounded variation
within the pan-Latino concept refers to a differential relation to cultural cap-
ital, that is, to differing institutional infrastructures of production and con-
sumption.21 The newly arrived “Latino” writers, immigrating from coun-
tries relatively free of direct colonial subordination, find some degree of
accommodation within the support structures provided by their nation-
states of origin. Unlike their Nuyorican and Chicano counterparts, they are
viewed, however opportunistically, as “overseas” representatives of their
countries, and are thus eligible to turn to their varied embassies and cul-
tural attachés for support, recognition, and exposure. Many of the readings
and gatherings, book publication parties, and other commemorative events
for New York writers of Dominican, Colombian, Mexican, and Honduran
extraction are routinely convened under the auspices of their respective
consulates or government-formed literary societies, which in cooperation
with publishing houses also facilitate publication and promotion of their di-
asporic writers and artists.22 Of course, many of these writers write in Span-
ish and have literary training, and are thus easily considered integral to
their national literatures. But even English-language authors like the Do-
minicans Julia Alvarez and Junot Díaz, in addition to their access to major
U.S. publishing opportunities, gained rapid recognition in the Dominican
Republic and among Dominican writers, which included the translation
and publication of their work.23 It is this cultural capital as an institutional
infrastructure that has meant for the makings of a “Latino” literary com-
munity in New York and, nationally, an umbrella of legitimation for the di-
verse but structurally akin writers of Latin American and Spanish back-
ground. For obvious political reasons, the situation is of course different for
Cuban American writers, who have not had the same kind of governmen-
tal support by way of the mission and interest sections. But in the Cuban
case too the cultural and literary projection of the diaspora has remained an
intense diplomatic issue, and the privileges accorded the exile community
have meant for an influential infrastructure to the benefit of the artistic and
literary community in the United States.24
Cultural capital of this kind has been virtually absent for the Puerto Ri-
can writers, especially those also lacking in educational and linguistic advan-
tages. Selectively, some of them find a place among their fellow “Latinos” in
the anthologies and literary assemblies, but as a group, movement, or tra-
dition, Nuyorican writing and authors run askew of the prevailing model.
Dismissed or ignored by the Puerto Rican government and literary estab-
lishment, what they have had by way of an infrastructure was built from the
ground up, with no auspice or recognition coming from any official entities.
Cultural institutions on the Island, such as the Instituto de Cultura Puer-
torriqueña and the Ateneo Puertorriqueño, have virtually never found occa-
sion to include Nuyorican writers in their ambitious literary programs and
publications. Indeed, it is this lack of mediation which is in part responsible
for the seemingly unbridgeable divide between the two settings of Puerto
Rican culture, a gulf that has led Nicholasa Mohr among other New York
writers to speak of a “separation beyond language.”25 On the New York side,
the Puerto Rican government’s Office of the Migration has indeed served
the interests of the migrant population in its nearly fifty years of activity
since the late 1940s; but that entity was always considered part of the De-
partment of Labor and devoted its energy entirely to issues of employment
and social services. The closest it came to cultural policies was its facilitation
with basic literacy and English-language skills, and the simplistic promotion
of Puerto Rican cultural traditions. Its function became particularly anach-
ronistic with the emergence of a new generation of New York Puerto Rican
politics and culture in the 1960s, when community-based and nongovern-
mental organizations were formed to fill the representational void.26
This lack of a diplomatic sphere and cultural politics oriented toward the
needs and concerns of the diaspora is directly attributable to the ongoing
colonial status of the Puerto Rican government. Along with the overwhelm-
ingly working-class composition of the postwar migration, with its atten-
dant low level of cultural literacy, it is this absence of a public infrastructure

of literary institutions that accounts for the sharp differentiation in the so-
cial position and prospects characteristic of today’s Latino writing. New York
Puerto Rican cultural workers have been made painfully aware of this vacu-
um and have responded by establishing makeshift, neighborhood spaces
like the Nuyorican Poet’s Café and the New Rican Village to accommodate
the rising generation of bilingual and English-language writers. As a way to
dramatize the quasi-diplomatic aspirations of such grassroots efforts at offi-
cial institution-building, the example set by the New Rican Village has in re-
cent years been directed toward the founding of the “Puerto Rican Em-
bassy”; with his usual ironic irreverence, Nuyorican poet Pedro Pietri has
teamed up with photographer Adal Maldonado in the issuing of Puerto
Rican passports, complete with photos and to the accompaniment of Puer-
to Rican music and literary recitals. More explicitly, Lourdes Vázquez, a poet
and fiction writer who has lived stretches of time in both Puerto Rico and
New York, has written about the agonies of the colonial writer in the absence
of a diplomatic apparatus to address the nation’s literary life. Speaking with
envious admiration of the successful consular promotion of writers from
Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Nicaragua, and the English Caribbean,
she comments repeatedly, “No es el caso nuestro” (“such is not our situa-
tion”).27 She recognizes that in the field of popular music New York’s Puer-
to Rican culture has been able to transcend geographic and political divides
(“Salsa has been our most complete ambassador”), but concludes by refer-
ring again to the frustrations of writers and other artists with no established
structures to turn to, or contend with. We are “trying to understand,” as she
puts it, “how to lay claim to a citizenship in a nonindependent country. Here
we are asking, where is the structure of government that nourishes us?
Here we are wondering, where is the governmental agency to which we can
pass the bill for such unrecognized individual effort, so many hours of cre-
ativity, discussion, and study.”28
As the dramatis personae of The Mambo Kings illustrate, it is the Puer-
to Ricans who are “left behind” in the prevalent category of Latino litera-
ture. Not that they are totally or systematically excluded from the emerg-
ing canon, or that their literature is without parallels and commonalities
with other writing under that heading. It is the particular social situation
of that literary community when contrasted with that of other Latino na-
tionalities, their differential access to literary and cultural capital as a re-
sult of direct colonial relations, that eludes the conceptualization of Latino
writing as set forth by critics like Pérez Firmat and Stavans. For if the Lati-
no hyphen as a sign of equilibrium stands for this interplay of cultural pol-
itics at an international level, Puerto Ricans in the United States live a life
“off the hyphen.” As is frequently noted, of all the ethnic groups it is the
Puerto Ricans who pointedly refuse the hyphenation of their identity de-
spite generations of life here and a rich history of interaction with U.S. cul-
ture at all levels. The term “Puerto Rican American” is rarely used by Puer-
to Ricans themselves, and when it is, as in the prestigious anthology of
recent Latino literature Iguana Dreams, it stands as an immediate sign of
unfamiliarity.29 Rather than embracing the hyphen, or playing with it lov-
ingly in the manner of Julia Alvarez, Puerto Ricans typically challenge that
marker of collusion or compatibility and erase it as inappropriate to their
social position and identity. In the case of colonial Latinos, another kind of
punctuation and nomenclature is in order.
“lowercase people”
“Puerto Rican American,” scowls Miguel, the protagonist of Abraham Ro-
driguez’s novel Spidertown. “What a loada shit.”30 “It’s not shit, Miguel,” re-
sponds his girlfriend Cristalena. “It’s people trying to find their own iden-
tities.” But Miguel sticks to his point, distrusting any term that will make
it appear either that he is American or that he comes from Puerto Rico. “I
know my identity,” he says. “I’m a spick. I like spick, okay? It tells me right
away what I am. It don’t confuse me into thinkin’ I’m American. I’m a
spick, okay? Thass how whites see you anyway” (267). Spidertown is set in
the South Bronx of our own time, a return in the 1990s to the “mean
streets” of inner-city Puerto Rican life first fictionalized by Piri Thomas in
his 1967 autobiographical novel Down These Mean Streets. It is the story of
young people, teenagers caught up in the engulfing, seemingly inescapable
world of crack-dealing, gang warfare, and everyday violence; not once does
the scene shift from the run-down streets and abandoned buildings, from
the desperate, hopeless life of the ghetto. Time and again we are reminded
that it is a world modeled after the American Dream, that it follows the
rules of capitalist society. But at the same time, it is a bitter abortion of that
dream, a “business” lacking in any real social power or recognition. And
the people who inhabit it, the impoverished, uneducated children of the
Puerto Rican migration, are condemned to an outcast status, invisible and
finding no representation of any kind in the alien culture that surrounds
them. “Born to rule the streets and make alliances and break them,” it is
said toward the end of the book. “Just like world powers and big corpora-
tions and successful businesses. It was all bigger than all of them. Miguel
and Spider and all those shadows, they were tiny pins on a map, they hard-
ly registered at all. Their kind came and went. They didn’t write about them
or direct plays or paint murals about their lives. They were all walking shit.
Whether they lived in the South Bronx or Bed-Stuy or Harlem or Los Sures.
It didn’t matter. They didn’t exist. They were all lowercase people” (288).
Standing at opposing extremes, Spidertown and The Mambo Kings illus-
trate the range of what is labeled as “Latino literature.” Though written in the
same years, in English, and by second-generation male authors, they portray
diametrically contrasting realities and exemplify incompatible views of liter-
ature and its relation to society. While Hijuelos’s prizewinner is built of nos-
talgia and the abiding power of cultural representation, Spidertown has no
I Love Lucy show to harken back to, much less the dreamy reminiscences of
a long-lost Cuban countryside. Abraham Rodriguez is mercilessly, program-
matically, antinostalgic, the unabating presentness of the action contributing
directly to the sense of entrapment and alienation of the social experience. In
spite of the historical backdrop suggested by Hijuelos, though, both in The
Mambo Kings and in his first novel Our House in the Last World (1985), it is
the nonretrospective young Bronx author who seeks to offer a sense of social
context and an explanation for the Latino lives captured in his book. The class
and racial gulf between the two books could not be more obvious, Hijuelos
maintaining a middle-class and “white” perspective and Rodriguez never
leaving the world of the Latino bordering on destitution and intricately asso-
ciated with blackness and the African American experience.
As for gender, the difference is equally striking. While both books cen-
ter on male experience, The Mambo Kings leaves the relation of subordina-
tion unquestioned and intact, wallowing in a naturalized phallocentrism
and relegating the many women characters to passive, dramatically inef-
fectual roles. In Spidertown, on the other hand, while examples of misog-
yny and homophobia abound, it is the young women who serve as catalysts
of challenge and change and stand up to that stubbornly sexist environ-
ment by word and example. Miguel’s girlfriend Cristalena, “a girl with a
name like a poem,” would seem a direct parallel to the “beautiful Maria of
my soul” immortalized for her idealized purity in the Castillo brothers’ hit
ballad; but thankfully Cristalena is no goody-two-shoes, and wages a battle
for independence of her own. Loving her, rather than reinforcing the Latin
lover stereotype and leaving him his only domain of emotional power,
leads Miguel to a bold and decisive rejection of that value system. In a love-
making scene toward the end of Spidertown this serious life-change is
made explicit: “In the world Miguel’d grown up in you start with backyards
and rubble lots and then you conquer girls. You get your way with them
and you learn that’s the way, in life you are supposed to get your way. The
woman is supposed to know where she’s at, where she BELONGS. It was
all in his blood. To be THE MAN. The woman just did what the man said.
That was respect. Tradition. Yet Miguel was throwing it all away, the ghosts
of a hundred million Latin machistas all hanging their heads and cursing
him” (308).
As mentioned, it is its conservative, traditionalist treatment of women
that Rodriguez finds most directly objectionable about the first Hispanic
Pulitzer, and why he considers its author “full of shit.” “It took Hispanic
women like thirty years to get over that macho bullshit, and he brings it all
back,” he says of Hijuelos and his prizewinning book. His point is not that
machismo is a thing of the past in Latino culture, but that it has been chal-
lenged by women, including women writers. Despite his iconoclasm and
the sharply antihistoricist, here-and-now quality of his fictional settings,
Rodriguez voices a sense of tradition here, an awareness that others have
come before him in his literary project. Though he uses the term sparing-
ly, he knows that he is a “Nuyorican” writer, recognizing that he is on a so-
cial turf staked out by Piri Thomas and relying in the lyrical sequences of
his prose on a style reminiscent of the familiar cadences of poets like Pedro
Pietri and Victor Hernández Cruz. He is also aware that since that outburst
of literary expression by U.S. Puerto Ricans in the late 1960s, several
women writers have emerged to present a different picture of the experi-
ence, such that the world of the Puerto Rican barrios can no longer be con-
ceived of in literary terms without taking into account the contributions of
Nicholasa Mohr, Judith Ortíz Kofer, Esmeralda Santiago, and others. This
sense of a heritage, of belonging to a trajectory of literary representations
of a historically forged community, differentiates the writing of long-resi-
dent Latino groups from that of more recent arrivals.
Even the Cuban experience in the United States, which does extend
back to the past century and has given rise to a protracted literary repre-
sentation, is different from the “Nuyorican” in this regard. For though
Cuban American literature, with that of Mexican Americans and Puerto Ri-
cans, counts as one of the three oldest among the Hispanic traditions, the
tradition in this case is decidedly different from those two others because
of the radical break occurring after the Cuban Revolution of 1959. For with
the sharply altered social composition and ideological orientation of the
exile population, Cuban Americans did not partake of the major political
and cultural movements of the 1960s and 1970s which have been so form-
ative of both Chicano and Nuyorican literary history. As a result, whereas a
young contemporary writer like Abraham Rodriguez can harken back to
the work of Piri Thomas and the Nuyorican poets, and even Island writers
like Pedro Juan Soto, Julia de Burgos, and José Luis González, Cuban
Americans like Hijuelos and Cristina Garcia have little by way of prece-
dence in the literature produced by Cubans in the U.S. setting, the great,
pathbreaking José Martí notwithstanding. The new “Latino” literature as it
has been constructed in the 1990s, with all its assimilationist proclivities,
now takes this relative newcomer experience, that of the “foreigner,” as its
prevalent model, while the longer-standing, resident Latino presence and
literary background is more liable to be what is “left behind.”
For it is not just differences in thematic concerns and stylistic features
that distinguish these two variants of Latino literary expression. There is
also, perhaps underlying the contrasts, the hyphen, that is, the differential
sociological placement and grounding of the writing and social identity of
its subjects. In Spidertown the main character Miguel is supposed to be
writing a book about his mentor in the drug business, Spider; in fact, at
several points his boss even commissions him to document his “amazin’
life.” But from early on Miguel dismisses the idea of becoming a writer as
a “dead dream.” “Miguel shouldn’t have even blurted it out, because it was
dumb. There weren’t any Puerto Rican writers. Puerto Ricans didn’t write
books. Miguel had never even seen one” (62). But Spider doesn’t relent,
posing his question “how’s the book coming?” throughout the heated ac-
tion of the novel. By the end, Miguel does hand over his tapes of interviews
with Spider, and perhaps the reader is to understand Spidertown itself as
the fruit of Miguel’s literary labors. Nevertheless, the incompatibility of lit-
erature as a profession and the social setting of the novel remain a con-
stant, and echo something the author himself witnessed during his school-
days in the South Bronx. Rodriguez recalls frequently that when he
mentioned he wanted to be a writer, his teacher told him that it was im-
possible because there was no such thing; Puerto Ricans don’t know how
to write. Forever the rebel, Rodriguez would not be dissuaded by these ad-
monitions and went on to disprove them with a prolific career. But he has
continued to recognize the improbability of literature coming from neigh-

borhoods like his own, and from a people bereft of literary infrastructures
and cultural capital like the Puerto Rican community in the United States.
The literature of “lowercase people” is a “lowercase” literature, a litera-
ture deriving from sources other than those identified with formal educa-
tion and cultural literacy. Asked if he chose to write because he liked read-
ing, Rodriguez answered, “No, it wasn’t about books. It was about writing.
My father, it’s all his fault, really. He used to write poems, these beautiful,
long, longing, yearning poems about Puerto Rico. . . . My first memory is
hearing the typewriter. He used to rent these really big typewriters and type
on them, and I remember that clack, clack, clack. When I was little, I used
to sit on his lap and bang on it. Really, the whole writing thing is about
typewriters; it’s got nothing to do with literature at all.”31 Rather than philo-
sophical ideas or artistic creativity, writing in this sense is a preeminently
tactile, physical, oral experience; the sound of the typewriter, the touch of
the keys, the perception of letters, words, sounds, images—such is the ba-
sis of the writer’s craft among the formally uneducated. What the budding
author inherited from his father was obviously not the flowery versifying
in the Latin American modernist tradition (“he was into Neruda”) but the
artisan practice. The typewriter was for him what drums or a guitar might
be for the aspiring musician: the physical tool of the trade, the object re-
quired to express himself. As a “lowercase literature,” Nuyorican writing is
illustrative of oral tradition and not an institutionalized, canon-forming lit-
erature conceived of as a profession.
Not that Abraham Rodriguez, the “lowercase,” “amazin’ spick” writer,
didn’t read books, of course; on the contrary. He has clearly become well-
versed in the writings of other U.S. Puerto Rican authors, as well as those
from the Island and by other Latinos. He has also read widely among other
U.S. writers, especially African American literature. Black literature, in
fact, and Black culture and opposition politics, hold a special place for him,
standing in his view as a model and inspiration for Puerto Rican aspira-
tions; at the end of Spidertown, it is his reading of Richard Wright’s Native
Son that helps push Miguel to his final resolve to quit the crack business
and move on with his life. Sanchez, the almost unbelievably enlightened
Puerto Rican cop who gave him a copy of Native Son, is clearly the raison-
neur when he says to Miguel, “Sometimes I feel more Puerto Ricans
should read it. We could learn so much from the black man” (322). But Ro-
driguez’s literary education goes beyond these more directly accessible
sources and extends to the canon of European fiction. Through Spidertown

the philosophical problematics of Sartre are brought into play by Miguel’s
friend Amelia, a college student and crack addict, and there is continual
reference to Miguel’s own reading matter, notably Dickens and Tolstoy.
Dostoevsky is an even more obvious influence on Rodriguez’s portrayal of
the eerie ghetto underground and the psychological desperation of his
adolescent characters.
But his all-time favorite, beyond even Gorki and Kafka, is Balzac, and Ro-
driguez has been called “the Balzac of the Bronx.”32 He refers to Balzac as the
“cool guy” when talking to school children on his local speaking engage-
ments, and calls him “my most favoritist writer in the whole —— planet.”33
Surely it is the sheer ambition of the “Comédie Humaine” that captures Ro-
driguez’s fantasy, who aims for a similarly totalistic portrait of contemporary
inner-city life; as he sees it, his first book, The Boy Without a Flag: Tales of the
South Bronx (1992), is but the first installment in a long-term project of
“Scenes from Ghetto Life” meant to emulate Balzac’s “Scenes from Provin-
cial Life.” What most impresses the young Puerto Rican writer, however, is
not so much the details of nineteenth-century French society as such, but the
rigorous realist method of which Balzac is the undisputed master. For what
Rodriguez means by a “non-literary” kind of writing is one, like that of Balzac
and the great realists, which confronts social reality directly, as everyday lived
experience and institutions, rather than as a mediation of what is conveyed
in books and other means of representation. The Mambo Kings, for instance,
while not particularly bookish, relies for its social framing and narrative co-
herence on the refraction of Cuban-American life and Latin music by means
of television and Desi Arnaz; without that representational device, any sus-
tained interest in the book’s character and plot would all but vanish. Nuyori-
can literature, on the other hand, and the writing of “lowercase people” in
general, stands face-to-face with social experience, however harsh and how-
ever saturated with mass culture, with its characters, voices, and story lines
all recognizable denizens of the “mean” but real streets.
Though he is part of a Nuyorican tradition in writing, and knows himself
to be, Rodriguez’s relation to that tradition is anything but smooth, and his
disposition anything but happy. Indeed, the appeal of Balzac and his own
appeal to classical realist fiction may be in part directed at what he sees as
the evasiveness of the previous generation of Nuyorican writers and their ir-
relevance to contemporary Puerto Rican conditions. He delights in “pissing
on” his out-of-touch elders, ranting that they are “stuck in another era”:
“You’d think that I’m coming from a different place than these people. And
while I respect literature, I don’t see any use in stories about the blessed Di-
aspora forty years ago or of the first time I saw a snowflake. I think we
should go beyond that now.”34 Piri Thomas, Pedro Pietri, Miguel Piñero,
Nicholasa Mohr, Ed Vega, Judith Ortíz Kofer—the “older writers” had been
formative for him, helping him belie the words of his teachers that there
were no Puerto Rican writers. But when putting these writings to the test of
present-day realities, and in view of the formidable political dilemma that
underlies them, Rodriguez voices a dissatisfaction that he believes he shares
with many of his contemporaries. “We’ve got young 14-year-old kids blast-
ing each other to hell with automatic weapons, and the island has the same
problem. I think these are bigger things, and we’ve got to find a way. . . . This
is not all about politics. These are the dynamics of writing, but of course pol-
itics has to do something to it” (140–41).
With his bouts of youthful fury, which lashes out in many directions and
not only toward his fellow “spick writers,” Rodriguez is announcing his
sense of belonging to a new literary generation. The 1980s and 1990s are
new times, marked off socially from the previous, properly “Nuyorican”
years by the ebbing of the political and cultural movement of the 1960s
and 1970s and the conclusive dashing of all hopes for Puerto Rican equal-
ity and independence. The intervening period saw the transition from “el
barrio” to “Spidertown,” the definitive placement of the U.S. Puerto Rican
population at the bottom of the socioeconomic and political hierarchy as a
result of regional and transnational restructurings. The “mean streets” had
gotten even meaner with the infusion of crack, and had found a distinctive
mode of cultural expression in hip-hop. And of course Puerto Rico, the
idyllic homeland and cultural womb for most of the earlier Nuyorican writ-
ers, appears now at a still greater remove; though the consequences of its
colonial politics still bear down on today’s U.S. Puerto Ricans, the evoca-
tion of the Island no longer carries the same symbolic weight or literary in-
terest. Speaking about books that wallow in the past, Rodriguez says that
“as a young person I was never interested in this kind of book. They had
nothing to offer me because I didn’t see anything I could really relate to in-
side of them. In terms of the voice, in terms of the language, in terms of
the subject matter, nothing. It’s like writing about the island. It’s a myth to
me. The island is a myth. I like reading about it, but it’s a myth” (141).
The demographic outcomes of these same social changes indicate that
even the term Nuyorican has become an anachronism. In the early 1970s,
when New York Puerto Rican writing was coming into its own, most U.S.
Puerto Ricans lived in New York City, and the city’s Latino population was
over 80 percent Puerto Rican.35 Both proportions have changed dramati-
cally since, such that by 1990 more than 50 percent of Puerto Ricans lived
in U.S. settings other than New York City, and the Puerto Rican proportion
of the city’s Latino population, while still the largest, had declined to lower
than 50 percent. Poet Tato Laviera was one of the first to acknowledge the
inappropriateness of the usage because of diasporic dispersion around the
country, and proposed, leaving room for poetic license, the alternative
AmeRícan, “with an accent on the i.”36 In any case, even “post-Nuyorican”
won’t do because of its lingering geographic specificity, though the over-
used prefix “post-” may well be pertinent to the generational relation in
this case.
Abraham Rodriguez is not alone in his generation, though he claimed
until recently that he does not “know any young Puerto Ricans who write.”
In a way, of course, it is the women prose writers who initiated the gener-
ational shift, moving away from the male-centered version of the migration
and growing up experience. But in Rodriguez’s own chronological genera-
tion, there is Willie Perdomo, who takes up themes of race and identity in
his poems like “Nigger-Rican Blues” and has published a book with Nor-
ton, When a Nickel Costs a Dime. Other young voices are also beginning to
be heard, often in the context of hip-hop or performance art, and some of
them are young women. María Fernández, for example, whose nickname
is “Mariposa,” is from the Bronx, a graduate of NYU, who has been recit-
ing her poetry at cultural and political gatherings in and around New York
City for several years. She agrees with Rodriguez about the need for some-
thing new in the writing, a feel more in tune with the times. One of her
poems, in fact, proposes still another possible designation for the present
literary generation. In “Ode to the DiaspoRican,” Mariposa presents the in-
tense bicultural dilemma, familiar from the poems of Sandra María Es-
teves, in a setting that is New York but could readily be in any other enclave
of the scattered “diaspoRico.” The poem reads in part: “Some people say
that I’m not the real thing / Boricua, that is / cuz I wasn’t born on the en-
chanted island / cuz I was born on the mainland /. . . what does it mean
to live in between / What does it take to realize / that being boricua / is a
state of mind / a state of heart / a state of soul . . . / No nací en Puerto
Rico / Puerto Rico nació en mi . . . [I wasn’t born in Puerto Rico / Puerto
Rico was born in me].”37
The other demographic shift marking off “diaspoRican” writing from its
Nuyorican antecedent is the Latinization of New York City, which brings us
back to “Latino literature.” The dramatic growth and diversification of “Latin
New York” over the past decades, corresponding to developments through-
out the country, has meant that Dominican, Colombian, Mexican, and many
other Latino voices have joined those of the Puerto Ricans in presenting the
migratory and diasporic experience. New and different versions of the story
proliferate, many of them at extreme variance with those more characteris-
tic of the Puerto Rican case in its contours and details. Predictably, the logic
of social categorization generates a literary rubric to correspond to the de-
mographic label, and “Latino literature” emerges as the new construct con-
ditioning all literary production by Latinos of all national backgrounds. Sud-
denly the Puerto Rican writers have an umbrella, a point of access to
mainstream multicultural literature that had so long eluded them. But
along with the opportunities, for both recognition and potential creative
sharing, there is for the Puerto Rican especially the pitfall of renewed mar-
ginalization and, on the other end, dilution of the collective experience.
And in 1990, as though to punctuate this precarious transition, The
Mambo Kings wins the Pulitzer. As expected, the “older” Puerto Rican writ-
ers were disgruntled, and as expected, Abraham Rodriguez did not share
their dejection. “They seem to be stuck in another era,” he says of them.
“The last time I was with those people, we were all sitting at this table, and
they were all criticizing Oscar Hijuelos because he had just gotten a Pulit-
zer. It’s just a waste of time. I don’t see why writers do that. They should
go home and write something. If they didn’t sit around a table drinking,
talking about other writers so much, arguing about Faulkner all day, maybe
they’d get some work done.”38 If their work is indeed about “life off the hy-
phen,” the need is strong in the present generation to dispel the anxieties
over canons, prizes, and other marketing conveniences, and to concentrate
more on bringing the “lowercase people” to literary life.
9

The Latino Imaginary

Meanings of Community and Identity
Is that Hispanic or Latino? What’s in a name? A bewildered public puz-

zles over alternative signifiers, and even over who is being so designated,
and how. “What do we call them? What do they want to be called? What
do they call themselves?” Or, as the title of a thoughtful article on just this
problem of megalabels has it, “What’s the Problem with ‘Hispanic’? Just
Ask a ‘Latino.’”1
The broadest identifying term, of course, long used as shorthand even
by many Latinos themselves, has been “Spanish,” as in Spanish restaurant
or Spanish television, where the idea of a unifying language culture con-
spires with the suggestion of Iberian origins and characteristics. The ideo-
logical undertones of that label, which are of course retained in slight vari-
ation in both “Hispanic” and “Latino,” go unquestioned, as does the reality
that many of those so designated do not even speak Spanish as a first lan-
guage, or at all. The need for elastic and flexible usages stretches the field
of reference so far that Spaniards, and even Italians and French, some-
times find their place under that hopelessly porous umbrella. The signify-
ing net is cast so wide that what would seem the defining experiences, mi-
gration and resettlement, become of secondary importance, and all of Latin
America is swept conveniently into the “Hispanic” bin. Or, to complicate
the picture beyond recognition, there is even the suggestion that “Latinos”
be used “to refer to those citizens from the Spanish-speaking world living
in the United States” and “Hispanics” to “those living elsewhere.”2
With all the slippages and evident arbitrariness, though, what would
seem a terminological free-for-all actually does mark off limits and con-
texts, and pressing issues of power. “Where I come from, in New Mexico,
191
192 The Latino Imaginary
nobody uses Latino, most people never even heard the term. We’re Mexi-
canos, Chicanos, Mexican-Americans, Raza, Hispanic, but never Latino.
Anyone who comes around talking about Latino this or Latino that is obvi-
ously an outsider.” Or, from a contrary perspective, it is “Hispanic” that
raises the red flag: “Hispanic? For me, a Hispanic is basically a sellout, un
vendido. Anyone who calls himself Hispanic, or refers to our community as
Hispanic, just wants to be an American and forget about our roots.”
Bits of conversation like these point up the range of contention over the
choice of words to name a people, a culture, a community.3 Behind the war
of words, of course, there lurks the real battle, which has to do with atti-
tudes, interpretations, and positions. In the dismissive indifference of
many Americans there is often that undertone of annoyance which, when
probed a little further, only turns out to be a cover for other, submerged
emotions like ignorance, fear, and of course disdain. The gaps among Lati-
nos or Hispanics themselves can be as polarized as they appear here, with
one usage thoroughly discrediting the other. But usually the options are
more flexible, operational, and mediated by a whole span of qualifying
terms, tones, and situations. And over against those who use the words at
all, there are many Mexican Americans, Puerto Ricans, Colombians, Cu-
bans, or Dominicans who have no use for any such catchall phrases and
would rather stick to distinct national designations.4
Yet this disparity over nomenclature, sharp as it is in the case of Latinos,
should not be mistaken for a total lack of consensus or collective identity,
nor as proof that any identification of the group or “community” is no
more than a label imposed from outside, and above. Regardless of what
anyone chooses to name it, the Latino or Hispanic community exists be-
cause for much of the history of the hemisphere, and multiplying expo-
nentially the closer we approach the present, people have moved from
Latin America to the United States, while portions of Latin America have
been incorporated into what has become the United States. Along with
their increase in numbers there has also been a deepening of their impact,
real and potential, on the doings, and the destiny, of this country.
It is becoming clear that any discussion of an “American community”
must be inclusive of Latinos and cognizant of the existence of a “Latino
community” intrinsic to historical discourses about U.S. culture. The real
challenge, though, is that the Latino presence makes it necessary to recog-
nize that the very meaning of the word, the concept of community itself, is
relative according to the perspective or position of the group in question:
The Latino Imaginary 193
there is both a “Latino community” and a “community” in the Latino sense

of the word.
Comunidad: the Spanish word, even more clearly than the English, calls
to mind two of the key terms—común and unidad—in the conceptualiza-
tion of this notoriously elusive idea. What do we have in “common,” and
what “unites” us, what are our commonalities and what makes for our
unity? It is important to note that though the two terms point in the same
semantic direction they are not synonymous, and their apparent coupling
in the same word, comunidad, is not a redundancy. For while común refers
to sharing—that is, those aspects in the cultures of the various constitutive
groups that overlap—the sense of unidad is that which bonds the groups
above and beyond the diverse particular commonalities. The point of this
admittedly rather willful deconstruction is, once again, that the Latino “ex-
perience,” the group’s demonstrable reality and existence, includes but is
not coterminous with its self-consciousness: común stands for the com-
munity in itself, while unidad refers to the community for itself, the way
that it thinks, conceives of, imagines itself.
The “Latino community” is an “imagined community”—to summon
Benedict Anderson’s well-worn though useful phrase—a compelling pres-
ent-day example of a social group being etched and composed out of a
larger, impinging geopolitical landscape.5 The role of the social imagina-
tion and the imaginary in the self-conception of nationally, ethnically, and
“racially” kindred groups is of course central, but must always be assessed
with a view toward how they are being imagined (i.e., from “within” or
“without”) and to what ends and outcomes. Distinguishing between inte-
rior and exterior perspectives is thus a necessary step, and given that in
the case of Latinos the outside representation is the dominant one, any in-
stance of cultural expression by Latinos themselves may serve as a healthy
corrective to the ceaseless barrage of stereotypes that go to define what is
“Latino” in the public mind.
But the marking off of “us” and “them,” though the foundational exer-
cise in “imagining” communities, has its own limits, as it becomes evident
that there is from both angles as much blurring involved as clear and
meaningful bounding. Vexing questions like who’s Latino and who isn’t,
and what kind of Latina(o)(s) we are talking about, quickly press in on any
too facile dichotomy. Beyond the issue of names and labels, and even who
is using them, there are differing levels or modes of meaning simultane-
ously at work in the very act of apprehending and conceptualizing the
“community” and “identity” in question. “Latino” or “Hispanic” not only

mean different things to different people; they also “mean” in different
ways and refer to different dimensions of collective social experience.
I would suggest that by distinguishing between a demographic, an ana-
lytic, and an imaginary approach to Latino unity and diversity it is possible
effectively to complicate and deepen our understanding of cultural expres-
sion, identity, and politics without becoming paralyzed by the sheer com-
plexity and contradictoriness of it all. Whether Latinos or Hispanics are
thought of as an enumerated aggregate of people, an analytically differen-
tiated set of constituent groups, or a historically imagined cultural “com-
munity” or “ethnoscape,” is at the core of ongoing debates and confu-
sions.6 Not that these diverse conceptualizations are mutually exclusive,
nor are they to be considered in any mechanically sequential or hierarchi-
cal way. On the contrary, as I seek to describe them it will be obvious that
all three are necessary, and that they are complementary. That is, they are
really different methodological and epistemological emphases rather than
discrete forms of explanation. But scrutinizing them in hypothetical dis-
creteness not only helps understand their interrelation but may also en-
hance our analysis and appreciation of the voices and images of Latino art.7
The demographic conception of Latinos, or of a “Latino community,” refers

to an aggregate of people whose existence is established on the basis of nu-
merical presence: count them, therefore they are. Here Latinos—or more
commonly at this level, Hispanics—comprise not so much a community as
a “population,” a quantified slice of the social whole. As limited as such a
means of identification may seem, it is nevertheless the dominant one, serv-
ing as it does both government bureaucracies and corporate researchers in
setting public taste and policy. This definition of the Hispanic community by
official measurement is thus inherently instrumental, since the immediate
goal is really to identify, not so much social groups or lines of cultural unity
and diversity, but voting blocs and consumer markets. From this angle, Lati-
nos appear as a homogeneous, passive mass, a “target” public, with any con-
cern for internal differentiation or possible social agency itself geared toward
those same pragmatic goals of electoral or commercial utility.8
But it is not only campaign managers and admen for whom Latinos are,
first of all, numbers. The labels and tallies they arrive at for their conven-
ience—be it Hispanic or Latino, at whatever percentile—are made visible,
credible, “real,” by means of a whole sensorium of images, sounds, and fla-
vors. The demographic label thus aims not only to buy the Hispanic pack-
age but to sell it; it targets not only potential customers but merchandise,
or even movers of merchandise. Whatever the particular purpose, though,
the means and result are usually the same—stereotyped images offering up
distorted, usually offensive, and in any case, superficial portrayals of Latino
people.9 And these are the only images of Latinos that many people in the
United States, and around the world, are ever exposed to, which makes it
difficult for the public to gauge their accuracy. It is important to recognize
these images as products not just of opportunist politicians or greedy mar-
keteers but also of the demographic mentality itself. Numbers call forth
labels, which in turn engender generic, homogenized representations—
stereotypes. According to the same logic, holding economic and political
power relies on the work of both the census-taker and the cameraman.
The most loudly proclaimed finding of this aggregative endeavor, by
now a demographic truism of our times, is that Hispanics are the nation’s
“fastest-growing minority,” on course to become the “largest” minority at
some (variously defined) point early in the coming century. Whether greet-
ed by alarmist jitters or triumphalist joy, this momentous news item rests
on an abiding confidence in the validity of the count, and an unquestioned
consensus that like social units are being summed and demarcated from
unlike, incompatible ones. The often unspoken allusion, of course, is to
African Americans, who are thus cast as the main rival in the numbers
race and the main instance, among “minorities,” of the non-Hispanic
other. Asian Americans, too, are in the running, with all lines of historical
interaction and congruency again erased from the calculation. In both
cases, it is clear how tools of advertent inclusion and conjunction may at
the same time serve as wedges between and among groups whose social
placement and experience in the United States could just as well, given a
different political agenda, point to commonalities as to differences. The
tactics of divide and conquer are still prominent in the arsenal of power,
and nowhere more so in the contemporary equation than in the talk of His-
panics as undifferentiated numeraries.
The process of adding up is accompanied by the need to break down, to
identify not the sum total but the constituent parts. The analytical ap-
proach—the business, above all, of positivist social science—is bent on de-
aggregation; it presumes to move closer to Latino “reality” by recognizing
and tabulating the evident diversity of Latino groups and experiences. Such
varying factors as country of origin, time in the United States (generation),
region or place of settlement, occupation and socioeconomic status, edu-

cational background, and the like, move into focus as the only meaningful
units or vantages of analysis, with any cohesion among Latinos referred to
only in the plural: typically, there are only Latino “populations,” groups, or
at best “communities.”
This analytical account of Latino multiplicity is indeed often helpful in
counteracting stereotypes and monolithic categories, and the elaborate dis-
cussion of “modes of incorporation” certainly allows for a sense of the dy-
namic relation among a too hastily posited aggregate of structurally differ-
entiated social experiences.10 But resting as it overwhelmingly does on
socially constructed statistical evidence and an objectification of collective
historical actors, it is still close kin to the demographic approach. Even the
census evidences an increasing official need to break the composite down,
with “Hispanics” now grouped into Mexican, Puerto Rican, Cuban-origin,
Central and South American origin, and “Other Hispanic,” subcategories
which then serve as the basis for much quantitative research. Commer-
cially geared demographics are also far along in their analytical enterprise,
having persuasively charted both a “pan-Hispanic” as well as regionally dif-
ferentiated Los Angeles, Miami, and New York centered markets, along
with countless other target-specific variables.
To this extent, and in many social scientific studies, the pluralizing “anal-
ysis” of Latino reality is still dealing with a community “in itself,” con-
structed in terms of relatively inert categories with their appropriate labels
and generic representations. The focus on “labor market experience” as the
“key factor in the structuring of [Hispanic] ethnicity,” for example, while an
invaluable starting point for differentiating social positions among the
groups and subgroups in question, leaves unaddressed what would seem
the crucial issue of “the complexities of the interaction between social and
ethnic identities,” that is, the “interdependency between socioeconomic
placement and cultural (self-) identification.”11
Ultimately, the limitation of analytical methodologies of this kind is not
the act of differentiation itself, but a failure to differentiate among differ-
ences, and among kinds and levels of difference. For example, the vast re-
search on Latinos as part of immigration studies, perhaps the most preva-
lent paradigm for treating Latino social experience, tends to stumble in the
face of the glaring fact that the majority of Latinos, comprising the largest
national groups within the composite, are not even “immigrants” in any
quantifiable or recognized sense: because of their citizenship status, Puerto
Ricans are not counted among the nation’s immigrant populations, and a
large share of the Mexican Americans are here not because they crossed the
border, but because “the border crossed them.” Characteristically, this most
severe and telling divide among the Latino pan-ethnicity, the difference be-
tween immigrant and “resident minority” Latinos having much to do with
issues of colonial status and class, tends to elude even the most thorough
and cautious scrutiny of Latino realities, which as a result arrive at mislead-
ing conclusions. Even historically informed and critically “balanced” ac-
counts of Latino immigration and communities, such as those of Roberto
Suro and Rubén G. Rumbaut among others, lose interpretive cogency be-
cause of this overly “objectivist” method and inattention to such structural-
ly larger but less readily quantifable dimensions of contrastive analysis, and
lead to continual equivocation and inconsistency—like that of Rumbaut—
as to the validity of any unifying concept at all, or, in the case of Suro’s
Strangers Among Us (1998), to an inadequately critical relation to “culture of
poverty” and “underclass” theory in speaking of “Puerto Rican-like poverty,”
a central message of his book being that “the entire nation will suffer if the
the Puerto Rican fate is repeated” by “today’s Latino newcomers.”12
Yet Latinos are also social agents and not just passive objects in this ana-
lyzing process, nor do they tend to sidestep the task of “telling Hispanics
apart.” Consciously and intuitively, personally and collectively, Puerto Ri-
cans, Mexicans, Cubans, Dominicans, and each of the other groups most
often project their own respective national backgrounds as a first and pri-
mary axis of identity and on that basis, fully mindful of differences and dis-
tances, negotiate their relation to some more embracing “Latino” or “His-
panic” composite. Here the force of analysis, rather than an extension of
demographic aggregation and labeling, stands in direct opposition to it, an
instinctive reaction against instrumental measuring and its pernicious
consequences. Of course, there are interests involved here too, but in this
case they are the interests of the “object” of analysis itself, the Latino peo-
ples and communities.
From a Latino perspective understood in this way, analysis is guided
above all by lived experience and historical memory, factors that tend to be
relegated by prevailing sociological approaches as either inaccessible or in-
consequential. Rather than as slices or cross-sections, the various groups
and their association may be seen in dynamic, relational terms, with tradi-
tions and continuities weighing off subtly against changes and reconfigu-
rations. At this level of conceptualization, differences are drawn among

and within the groups not so as to divide or categorize for the sake of more
efficient manipulation, but to assure that social identities, actions, and al-
liances are adequately grounded in the specific historical experiences and
cultural practices that people recognize as their own, with appropriate at-
tention to the sometimes sharp class and racial cleavages that always cross-
cut any too hasty presumption of equivalence. The logic is that solidarity
can only be posited when the lines of social differentiation are fully in view,
but the goal, nevertheless, is solidarity.
It is this critical, historically based approach to diverse and changing
Latino realities that underlies and sustains what I refer to as the “Latino
imaginary,” another sense or conceptual space of pan-group aggregation
that is too often and too easily confused with the official, demographic ver-
sion. Not that calculation is itself foreign to an “imagined” Latino commu-
nity; in fact it is at this epistemological level that the very act and authority
of counting and measuring become issues of vital social contestation. The
“imaginary” in this sense does not signify the “not real,” some make-be-
lieve realm oblivious to the facts, but a projection beyond the “real” as the
immediately present and rationally discernible. It is the “community” rep-
resented “for itself,” a unity fashioned creatively on the basis of shared
memory and desire, congruent histories of misery and struggle, and inter-
twining utopias.
The Latino historical imaginary refers, first of all, to home countries in
Latin America, the landscapes, life-ways, and social struggles familiar, if
not personally, at least to one’s family and people, and in any case indis-
pensable to Latinos in situating themselves in U.S. society. Mexico, Puer-
to Rico, and Cuba are very different points of imaginative reference, to be
sure, and again, it is always through their particular national optics that
Latinos tend to envision some generic Latin American or Latino “We.” But
the features of José Martí’s “nuestra América” do stand out in the Latino
historical unconscious in that long narrative of Spanish and North Amer-
ican colonial conquest, the enslavement and subjugation of indigenous
and African peoples, the troubled consolidation of nations under the
thumb of international power, and the constant migratory movement of
peoples, cultures, and things which has been attendant to all aspects of the
Latino saga. For Latinos in the United States, the passage to, and from, “el
Norte” assumes such prominence in the social imaginary that migration
is often confounded with life itself, and any fixity of the referential home-
land gives way to an image of departure and arrival, the abandoned and the
reencountered.
This nomadic, migratory dimension of the Latino imaginary is anchored
in the historical reasons for coming here, and in the placement assigned
most Latinos in U.S. society. Unlike earlier waves of European immigrants,
Latinos typically move to this country as a direct result of the economic and
political relationship of their homelands, and home region, to the United
States. However much Cuba, Mexico, and Puerto Rico may vary in status
and social arrangement—and if we add the Dominican Republic and Co-
lombia the range could hardly be wider in present-day geopolitics—huge
portions of their respective populations have come to live in the United
States because of the gravitational pull of metropolitan power and depend-
ency at work in each and all of their histories. Since World War II, its econ-
omy on a course of shrinkage and transition rather than unbridled expan-
sion, the United States has been tapping its colonial reserves to fill in its
lower ranks, and its Latin American and Caribbean neighbors have proven
to be the closest and most abundant sources at hand.
Colonial relations of hemispheric inequality underlie not only the his-
torical logic of Latino migration but also the position and conditions of
Latinos here in this society. Differential treatment is of course rampant, as
has been dramatically evident in recent years in the contrasting fates of
Cubans and Haitians arriving on the same rafts from their beleaguered
home islands. Yet today even many Cuban Americans, recent arrivals and
long-standing citizens alike, are finding the red carpets and gold-paved
streets illusory at best, and are coming to resent being cited as the excep-
tion to the rule of Latino disadvantage. For the Latino imaginary, even
when the relatively “privileged” Cuban Americans are reckoned in, rests on
the recognition of ongoing oppression and discrimination, racism and ex-
ploitation, closed doors and patrolled borders. Whether sanguine or en-
raged, this recognition structures the negotiated relations among Latinos,
between Latinos and the dominant culture, and with other groups such as
African Americans and Native Americans.
Memory fuels desire: the past as imagined from a Latino perspective
awakens an anticipatory sense of what is, or might be, in store. The
alarmist hysteria over the prospect of “America’s fastest-growing minority”
overrunning the society is directed not only at Latino people themselves
but at the ground shift in power relations implied in that new calculus. For
the desire that these demographic trends awaken in Latinos is directed first
of all toward recognition and justice in this society, but wider, hemispher-
ic changes always figure somewhere on the agenda. The Latino imaginary
infuses the clamor for civil rights with a claim to sovereignty on an inter-
national scale; retribution involves reversing the history of conquest and
subordination, including its inherent migratory imperative. A full century
after its initial pronouncement, Martí’s profile of “nuestra América” still
looms like a grid over the map of the entire continent, with the northern
co-optation of the name America demanding special scrutiny and revision.
But Latino memory and desire, though standing as a challenge to prevail-
ing structures of power, are not just reactive. The imaginary articulates more
than a reflexive response to negative conditions and unfavorably weighted re-
lations which, though oppositional, is as a response still ultimately mimetic
and confined to extrinsically set terms. It is important to recognize that the
Latino imaginary, like that of other oppressed groups, harbors the elements
of an alternative ethos, an ensemble of cultural values and practices created
in its own right and to its own ends. Latinos listen to their own kinds of
music, eat their own kinds of food, dream their dreams and snap their pho-
tos not just to express their difference from, or opposition to, the way the
“gringos” do it. These choices and preferences, though arrived at under cir-
cumstances of dependency and imposition, also attest to a deep sense of au-
tonomy and self-referentiality. Latino identity is imagined not as the negation
of the non-Latino, but as the affirmation of cultural and social realities, myths
and possibilities, as they are inscribed in their own human trajectory.
The conditions for the emergence of a Latino cultural ethos were set
around midcentury, as it began to become clear that these “new immi-
grants” filing in from the southern backyard make for a different kind of
social presence than that constituted by European arrivals of earlier years.
Of course, the histories of each of the major U.S. Latino groups extend
much further back than that: Cubans and Puerto Ricans to the mid- to later
nineteenth century, when colonies of artisans and political exiles formed in
New York and Florida, while today’s “Chicanos” were “here” all along, for
centuries before the fateful year 1848 when the northern third of their na-
tion was rudely moved in on and annexed by the bearers of Manifest Des-
tiny. In fact, in the long historical view, the literary and cultural presence of
Spanish-speaking people in the territory now called the United States ac-
tually precedes that of the English. And if we add to that the Indian Amer-
ican and Afro-American dimensions of “nuestra América,” a full-scale re-
vision, or inversion, of the national history results, with the supposed

“core,” Anglo-Saxon culture appearing as the real intruder, the original il-
legal alien.
It is a serious fallacy, therefore, to think of Latinos in the United States as
“recent arrivals,” as is often the tendency in their treatment in scholarly re-
search on immigration.13 But despite their long-standing, constitutive role
in North American history, sheer demographic growth and diversification
point to a markedly new structural positioning and cultural dynamic for
Latinos in the second half of the twentieth century. Now more than ever, in
the present, “postcolonial” era, many Latinos are here as colonial migrants,
whose very locations and movements are defined by the status of their
“home” countries within the system of transnational economic power.
Rather than an ethnic, minority, or immigrant group, those trusty old con-
cepts of cultural pluralism, Latinos may now be more accurately described
as a diasporic community or, more suggestively in view of the intensified
transnational linkages, as an “ethnoscape” or “world tribe.” But a still more
satisfactory neologism to characterize the social and cultural space occupied
by Latinos is that of the “delocalized transnation,” of whom it is also said
that they “become doubly loyal to their nations of origin and thus ambiva-
lent about their loyalties to America.”14 Precisely because of the persisting
hierarchies of transnational power, if convergences among today’s Latinos
involve the formation of a “Hispanic nation,” it promises to be decidedly
less an “American” nation, less a “step toward joining America,” than com-
mentators like Geoffrey Fox might propose.15
The social consciousness and cultural expression of this new geopoliti-
cal reality burst forth in the late 1960s and early 1970s, surely the water-
shed years in the construction of a new language of Latino identity. In-
spired by the Civil Rights movement, the opposition to the war against
Vietnam, and the Cuban Revolution, countless movements, causes, and or-
ganizations rallied thousands of Chicanos and Puerto Ricans to the cries of
“¡Viva la Raza!” and “¡Despierta Boricua!” The political horizon of the Lati-
no imaginary was set in those spirited movements and found vibrant artis-
tic expression in such diverse forms as wall murals, bilingual poetry and
street theater, and hybrid music and dance styles like boogaloo, Chicano
rock, Latin soul, and salsa. Talleres (workshops) and conjuntos (musical
groups), readings and actos (dramatic sketches) proliferated, lending voice
and vision to the fervent political struggles of Latino and Latin American
peoples and often attesting to close cultural affinities and political solidar-
ities with other, non-Latino groups, notably African Americans and Amer-
ican Indians.
By our time, in the 1990s, that heyday is long past, hardly even a living
memory for many young Latinos; all too frequently in the burgeoning
scholarly and journalistic literature on Latinos of recent years, the impor-
tance of that foundational period in the story of Latino identity-formation
is minimized or erased. But the Brown Berets and the Young Lords Party,
the Chicano Moratorium and the Lincoln Hospital takeover, the causes of
the farmworkers and Puerto Rican independence, along with many other
manifestations of cultural and political activism, are still an inspiration and
a model of militancy and righteous defiance for the present generation of
Latinos of all nationalities as they sharpen their social awareness. For al-
though the immediacy, intensity, and cultural effervescence has no doubt
waned in the intervening decades, Latinos in the United States have just as
assuredly continued to grow as a social movement to be reckoned with, na-
tionally and internationally, in the years ahead. This is true demographi-
cally in the striking (for some startling) multiplication in their numbers,
and analytically in the equally sharp diversification of their places of origin
and settlement. As contrasted with earlier stages, the Latino concept is
today a far more differentiated site of intersecting social identities, espe-
cially along sexual, racial, and class lines.
But the persistence and expansion of the Latino social movements are
most prominent as a cultural imaginary, a still emergent space or “com-
munity” of memory and desire. In the present generation, Latino youth
from many backgrounds have played a formative role in the creation of
hip-hop and its inflection toward Latino expression and experience;
though not always explicitly political in intention, the Latino contribution
to contemporary popular music, dance, performance, and visual imaging
has accompanied important signs of social organization and self-identifi-
cation among young Latinos in many parts of the country. The emergence
of “Latino literature,” though in important ways a marketing and canon-
izing category having the effect of concealing distinctions necessary for
purposes of literary history and criticism, has also involved expanded
horizons and greater intercultural exchange than had been true in the pre-
vious, Nuyorican and Chicano generation. In the case of the “casitas” in
the New York barrios—another richly suggestive and often-cited example
from recent Latino experience—entire neighborhoods across generational
and many other lines are drawn together by way of sharing in the enact-
ment of collective cultural memory.16 Present-day considerations and rep-

resentations of Latino life which would do justice to that complex reality
find it necessary to incorporate such instances of cultural innovation and
“invented traditions” by way of complementing their reliance on social
scientific insights.17
Hispanic? Latino? Settling on a name never comes easy, and when it

comes to an all-embracing term for Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Do-
minicans, Colombians, Salvadorans, Panamanians, and an array of other
Latin American and Caribbean peoples in the United States, consensus
does not seem to be near at hand. But the search for a name, more than
an act of classification, is actually a process of historical imagination and
a struggle over social meaning at diverse levels of interpretation. Rigorous
demographic and social science analysis is no doubt essential to the task
of circumscribing that process, and especially for identifying structural
variations in the placement of the different national groups relative to hi-
erarchies of power and attendant histories of racialization. But only a fully
interdisciplinary approach, guided by an attention to cultural expression
and identity claims and transcending the bounds set by positivist analysis,
allows for an integral understanding of Latino experience. In that sense
the search for Latino identity and community, the ongoing articulation of
a pan-ethnic and transnational imaginary, is also a search for a new map,
a new ethos, a new América.
10

Latino Studies
New Contexts, New Concepts
Latino Studies has been in the news of late. The most visible student
protests of the mid-1990s on university campuses throughout the country
have been directed at securing commitments from university administra-
tions to establish programs in Latino Studies as well as in Asian American
Studies. The office takeovers, hunger strikes, and angry teach-ins represent
a clamor for new programs, faculty, courses, and resources in these neg-
lected areas of social knowledge. And it’s making the news not because of
any alarming tactics or massive participation, but because the demands are
being lodged at the loftiest halls of postsecondary education in the country,
the Ivy League schools. After a twenty-five-year history of such programs at
public urban universities like the City University of New York (CUNY) and
San Francisco State, the call for Latino Studies and Asian American Studies
has been raised and can no longer be ignored—at Columbia, Princeton,
Cornell, Brown, the University of Pennsylvania, and most of the other Ivies.
There is of course always another face to such news, a more somber mo-
bilization generally obscured from public view. While Latino and Asian stu-
dents at the elite institutions were busy facing down deans and fasting in
their tents, the iron hand of fiscal constraints and shifting ideological prior-
ities was (and still is) at work slashing, reducing, and consolidating those
very programs and services at often nearby public colleges and universities.
For example, in the spring of 1996 the president of CUNY’s City College an-
nounced that the departments of Africana, Latin American and Hispanic
Caribbean, Asian American, and Jewish Studies were being downgraded
into programs, under the umbrella of Ethnic Studies. Though CCNY presi-
dent Yolanda Moses claimed that she only intended to “strengthen” instruc-
205
206 Latino Studies: New Contexts, New Concepts
tion in those fields, the signal is clear from City College—a mere twenty
Harlem blocks from the hunger tents at Columbia—that all such programs
focusing on the experience of oppressed and historically excluded groups
are under the gun as likely candidates for “consolidation.” After all, Presi-
dent Moses was herself acting under strong fiscal and political pressures
within CUNY, and her decisions were very much in tune with the tenor of
the times set by Republican state and city administrations.1
The real news, then, is that Latino Studies, and the nascent (or renas-
cent) movements to institutionalize the study of African American, Asian
American, and other group experiences, are caught in a crossfire. As in-
terest in Latino Studies grows at Harvard, Black and Puerto Rican Studies
are threatened at Hunter. The conjuncture is actually one of clashing pri-
orities, a collision between the expressed educational needs of an increas-
ingly non-white student population and the conservative inclinations of
many social and educational power brokers. What would appear a thresh-
old is at the same time a closing door; all attempts at curricular innovation
are met with equally avid moves at intellectual retrenchment and wagon-
circling. This eminently contradictory cultural climate sets the immediate
context for the struggle over Latino Studies.
New Contexts
An alert reading of prevailing and countervailing winds in the academy is a
necessary starting point for an assessment of Latino Studies and parallel
movements for educational change. The calls for inclusion, focus, and self-
determination, and the reluctance with which they are met by entrenched
faculty and wary administrators, reflect larger social contentions in which the
issues at stake are not courses and professors but food, shelter, and citizen-
ship. Like Asian American Studies, Latino Studies has its historical raison-
d’être in the unresolved historical struggles over immigration, racism, and
colonialism. The proliferation of students of color, and the contestatory na-
ture of their presence in higher education, attests to the salience of these is-
sues to the attendant curricular challenges. The attacks on minority admis-
sions, as manifested by Proposition 209 in California, are at the political crux
over any claim for educational inclusion. As such, Latino Studies needs to be
understood as a social movement, as an extension within the academy of the
movements against racism and on behalf of immigrant rights afoot in the
wider society. Demographic, economic, and political changes, and the reso-
Latino Studies: New Contexts, New Concepts 207
lute efforts to stem their tide, thus undergird the widespread appeals for
changes in educational institutions and their offerings. Only in such terms
does the emergence of Latino Studies harbor the legitimation enjoyed by the
empowered gatekeepers of academic discourse.
Equally important is the need for historical memory. Today’s Latino stu-
dents, and much of the faculty, were very young or not yet born when coali-
tions of Black, Chicano, Puerto Rican, Asian, and Native American students
first claimed their intellectual spaces at the university in the late 1960s and
early 1970s. There is an awareness, of course, that all this happened before,
and that many of the present demands closely echo those which inaugurat-
ed the varied ethnic studies programs still in place, however precariously, in
the 1990s. But that sense of continuity, and an understanding of the dis-
junctures, has been blurred with the passing of an entire generation and the
dramatic geopolitical changes of the intervening years.
One of the most obvious differences between previous and more recent
university movements is that the earlier initiatives did not go by the name
of “Latino” Studies. By and large they were called “Chicano Studies” or
“Puerto Rican Studies,” the university movements corresponding directly
to the vocal, spirited, and politically grounded struggles of the Chicano and
Puerto Rican communities for justice and liberation. There were excep-
tions, such as “Raza Studies” at San Francisco State, where the Latino stu-
dent constitutency was largely non-Chicano, or “Chicano-Boricua Studies”
at Wayne State, where comparable numbers of students from both groups
joined forces. However, for the most part, the forebears of the present-day
Latino Studies efforts tended to be focused on specific national groups, and
the “communities” to which they were invariably accountable were nearer
at hand, both geographically and culturally.
Much of this difference in nomenclature, and in relative distance from
the communities, may be attributed to the ebb and flow of historical move-
ments for change. The previous generation of Latino students and faculty
activism coincided with a time of radical challenges to persistent colonial
oppression on a global, national, and local scale. Militant opposition to the
Vietnam War, support for the Cuban Revolution, and the Black and Brown
Power movements informed the rhetoric and strategic vision of Chicano
and Puerto Rican Studies at their inception. That charged revolutionary
aura does not surround the Latino Studies agenda in our time, though fur-
ther ebbs and flows may eventually reconnect the unversity-based struggle
to such systemic types of social confrontation.
The point of this historical view of Latino Studies is neither to romanti-

cize nor to reject the past, but to help save us from reinventing the wheel.
Drawing lessons from the past must not blind us to the new insights and
approaches, or to the possibility that conditions today may in some ways be
even more propitious for the establishment of Latino Studies than they
were a generation ago.
The main shift marking off the present context of Latino Studies from its
previous manifestation twenty-five years ago is perhaps best summed up in
the words global and globalization, with all due caution of what has aptly
been called “globaloney.”2 The economic restructuring of world capitalism
that took off in the mid-1970s, along with the further revolutionizing of tele-
communications, have made for radically new levels of interaction and in-
terconnectedness among populations at a regional level. The growing mass
migrations generated by these changes are also affected by them, and in
their circular and transnational character differ markedly from the migra-
tory experiences of the early 1970s.
The diversification and geographic dispersal of the Latino population is
the most visible evidence of these changes in the present-day Latino Studies
context. In addition to the largest groups, Mexican Americans and Puerto
Ricans, there are now sizable immigrant communities in the United States
from most Latin American countries. As many of these diasporas, notably
the Mexican and the Puerto Rican, have fanned out across the country, the
demographic landscape, as well as the political and cultural setting, has
been further altered for U.S. Latinos.
This “globalizing” of the Latino presence is, of course, clearly evident at
U.S. colleges and universities. On most campuses the Latino student body
is diverse, often a mix between one large group—Mexican American, Puer-
to Rican, Cuban, or Dominican—and Latinos from a variety of other back-
grounds. In some areas where there is a preponderance of one national
group, it remains necessary, and feasible, to mount and sustain programs
focusing on that group—such as departments, programs, and research cen-
ters in Mexican American, Puerto Rican, or Cuban Studies. But at most
sites—including those in which students are calling for programs—Latino
Studies makes sense, not only bureaucratically but also because of the in-
creasingly transnational nature of the student population and of their com-
munities, as well as the geopolitical relations in which they find themselves.
For it is not only the pan-ethnic demography that explains—and per-
haps justifies—the shift from a Chicano or Puerto Rican to a Latino Stu-
dies framework. The global reach which so willfully moves people to and
from determined places does so by adjusting and altering the historical re-
lations among societies and their fragments relocated by impelled migra-
tory movement. The student constituency and subject matter of Latino
Studies has not only become more multigroup in the sense of numerical
diversity; rather, because of global and hemispheric restructuring, exem-
plified in the past decade by such moves as NAFTA (the North American
Free Trade Agreement) and the Caribbean Basin Initiative, the Latino com-
munities in the United States are far more intricately tied to economic and
political realities in their countries and regions of origin than ever before.
Pan-Latino necessarily implies “trans-Latino,” a more rigorously transna-
tional unit of Latino Studies analysis than even the staunch “Third World”
and anti-imperialist perspective of Latino Studies in its foundation.
New Concepts
This sociohistorical context thus generates new concepts and conceptual
approaches for what remains essentially the same object/subject of study:
the experience of Latin American and Caribbean peoples in the United
States. With all the caveats, and fully recognizing that the very terms Lati-
no and Hispanic are first of all imposed labels, ideological hoodwinks
aimed at tightening hegemony and capturing markets, the “Latino” con-
cept is still useful, if not indispensable, for charting out an area of con-
temporary intellectual inquiry and political advocacy.3 It builds on and
complements the perspectives, curricular orientations, and programmatic
structures of established Chicano and Puerto Rican Studies programs. The
concept of “Latino Studies” allows for some space to mediate issues of in-
clusion and solidarity sometimes strained in nationality-specific situations;
for example, what to do about Central Americans, Dominicans, Colom-
bians, and “other” Latinos who do not feel they fit into, say, a Chicano-
exclusive notion of “La Raza.” Such strains persist, of course, and it is still
often difficult in many settings to get Puerto Ricans, Chicanos, and Ecua-
dorians, for instance, to come to the same “Latino” meetings, or to the
same “Latino” dances.
In addition to the “global” economic and political shifts and their im-
pact, the period since the first wave of Latino Studies has also witnessed
significant new developments in social theory and methodology, or at least
new emphases in thinking about issues of race, ethnicity, colonial status,
nationality, gender, sexuality, and class. The altered historical field has
made for a changed discursive field, much of it occupied by questions of
cultural and group identity. If the early 1970s articulation of Latino Studies
was guided by a rallying cry of cultural nationalism—boisterous and con-
testatory but also often parochial and unreflexive—a current understand-
ing of Latino experience is necessarily informed by insights and approach-
es developed by feminist, postcolonial, and race theory, as well as lesbian
and gay studies. The presumed seamlessness and discreteness of group
identities characteristic of earlier Latino perspectives have given way to
more complex, interactive, and transgressive notions of hybrid and multi-
ple social points of view.
Theorizing about gender and sexuality has done the most to dissolve the
sexist and heterosexist conception of Latino group unity and inclusion, and
to complicate the meanings of Latino claims and affirmation. Latina, Chi-
cana, and Puertorriqueña areas of political activism and intellectual work
have involved changes in prevailing ideas of Latino history and culture, and
have helped bring into the foreground testimonial and ethnographic meth-
ods of social research. Revamping the canonical (i.e., straight male) notion
of “Latino identity” with a view toward contemporary theories of sexuality
leads not only to new political stances and possibilities but, beyond that, to
new kinds of knowledge about cultural history, and even a new, more var-
iegated relation to theoretical practice. A striking account of this interface
of Latino and sexual identities and its intellectual consequences was voiced
cogently by Oscar Montero, a Cuban American professor from CUNY, at
the 1994 conference of the East of California Network of the Association of
Asian American Studies, held in New York City. “It goes without saying,”
Montero states, “that ‘Latino’ and ‘homosexual’ signal different histories
and different stories, unevenly deployed. Bringing the two together creates
a lopsided image, but perhaps a useful one. The experiences of the body
justify the mask, and this mask wants to question the received metaphors
for defining identity: Latino by birth, queer by choice. Latino by choice,
queer by birth. What matters is that having taken a stance, linking with this
mask the two identities, a reader, a critic, a student, can turn to the salient
works of his or her tradition and read them anew, availing herself of what-
ever theories might do the job.”4
The contemporary Latino construct, and the intellectual project of Latino
Studies, is laced with this open, multidimensional disposition toward theo-
ry and must also incorporate critical understandings of processes of “racial-
ization” and “translocality.” In addition to differentiation along lines of gen-

der and sexuality, the specific identity positions of “black Latinos” and of
mixed Latino backgrounds—Puerto Rican and Dominican, Mexican and
Salvadoran—have drawn increasing attention and have done much to sun-
der the more or less monolithic and essentialist tenets of inherited concep-
tualizations. Angie Chabram, the noted Chicana feminist and cultural stud-
ies theorist, has staked out new grounds for a critique of traditional Chicano
(and even Chicana) perspectives by reading the newfound significance of
her other, “repressed” Puerto Rican half. In her essay “ ‘Chicana! Rican? No,
Chicana-Riqueña!’ Refashioning the Transnational Connection,” Chabram
writes forcefully of the residual identity traces left by her absent Puerto
Rican father, as filtered through her rooted Chicana mother, and their jar-
ring repercussions on her Chicanismo.
It does not cease to amaze me that it was she who nurtured a sense of
Puerto Ricanness in me—she who had all the right to be a nationalist
following the purist dictates associated with this politics, for she was a
Chicana, she was not mixed in my way with the Riqueña. In retrospect,
it occurs to me that what she presented me with throughout one of the
trajectories of our lives as mother and daughter was a pedagogy of
Chicanas/os, a mode of knowing Puerto Rico from inside of Chicana/o,
a way of speaking across fractured ethnicities, a way of initiating a
dialogue among and between different ethnic groups.5
Chabram draws from these lessons a way of “countering our presumed

singularity with our historically verifiable pluralities, the ones that are in-
tersected, and . . . engage positions from diverse fields of contestation”; she
builds on her personal experience to summon “a strategic location from
which to refashion a transnational connection to ourselves and one anoth-
er, and to contribute to a widening of imagined communities and spheres
of contestation.”6
Opinions will vary as to the utility and relevance of an explicitly “post-
modern” frame and vocabulary for these new lines of theoretical inquiry,
and particular reluctance is surely due any too hasty applications of “post-
colonial” models to situations, like those of Chicanos and Puerto Ricans,
which would still seem to be emphatically colonial in both historical tra-
jectory and present condition.7 The term multicultural itself is another
coinage of the last decades that Latino Studies should treat with caution,
since in its most prevalent usage it echoes clearly the grave inadequacies of
its ideological predecessor, cultural pluralism. Yet while Marxist and other
anti-imperialist intellectual and political traditions remain pertinent to a
liberatory analysis of Latino reality, these new insights from multicultural
and postcolonial theory are by now invaluable for purposes of spanning the
full range of Latino perspectives under the complex transnational condi-
tions of our time. Whatever we may think of the vocabulary, reflections on
questions of “hybridity,” “liminality,” “transgressivity,” and the like, and the
new intellectual horizons they signal, are clearly germane to any contem-
porary work in Latino Studies. They complement, and add philosophical
range to, what has been the guiding metaphor of Latino Studies: “la fron-
tera,” the border.
It is the idea of the nation, and of national culture and identity, that
has entailed the recent rethinking perhaps most pertinent to a new dis-
cursive field for Latino Studies. Both Chicano and Puerto Rican Studies
have relied, for their foundational narratives, on the national concept,
whether that term referred to historical home countries or newly formed
internal colonies in U.S. barrios. Latino social experience was condi-
tioned and defined by the hierarchized interaction of nations, and cul-
tural identities were first and above all national identities. The bounded-
ness and relative uniformity of their original territories went largely
unquestioned, particularly in demarcating each Latino group from an
“American” nationality, mainstream or otherwise. The guiding theoreti-
cal premises were adopted directly from thinkers like Frantz Fanon,
Amilcar Cabral, and of course Lenin, with Black nationalism, Pedro Al-
bizu Campos, and even José Vasconcelos and Octavio Paz being more
immediate intellectual sources.
Nationality is still no doubt the main binding principle and sensibili-
ty for each of the Latino groups, as evidenced at the annual Puerto Rican
Day Parade, Cinco de Mayo, and other celebrations. Indeed, it is impor-
tant to insist upon this persistence of specifically “national” affiliation in
countering the tendency of U.S. social science and public policy to re-
duce Latinos to an “ethnic” group experience, with its implicit analogy to
the prototypical story of immigrant incorporation. Yet despite the non-
assimilationist thrust of most Latino discourse, the idea of the nation as
the ontological locus of difference and opposition to the hegemonic
Anglo “Other” has been seriously revised from many theoretical angles
and Latina/o subject positions.
Here again, the varied feminist and queer critiques have been most in-
cisive in their exposure of the “brotherhoods” of nations and their founda-
tional narratives. For contemporary Latino Studies this undermining of the
nation as hetero-masculinist mask extends to the diasporic communities
spun off of the “home” nations in the course of global and regional recon-
figurations. The nation also continues to be dissected and deconstructed
along lines of race and class, dimensions that were already strongly etched
in the earlier stage of Latino Studies. Yet even the strident Third World,
anti-imperialist stance of the early 1970s did contain some serious gaps,
which subsequent theoretical work, especially on race, does much to fill.
Updating the class critique of the nation is less visible within Latino Stud-
ies since the Marxist analyses of around 1980 (such as the Center for Puer-
to Rican Studies’ Labor Migration Under Capitalism and Mario Barrera’s
Race and Class in the Southwest), though some fruitful lines of thinking
have emerged from an application of “subaltern studies.”8 It is as though,
with the abruptly changing economic geography of the past decade, his-
torical reality has lunged far ahead of the reach of social theory: no new so-
ciological terminology has surfaced that can account for the class relations
resulting from the radical changes in the socialist world and the intricate
transnational alignments and restructurings of present-day capitalism.
None of these critical assaults on the nation, nor even a broadside of all
combined, has spelled the final demise of the concept, which continues to
be central as a social category to the intellectual agenda of Latino Studies,
and to the struggle of Latino national groups in the United States. But
these critiques have generated a radical rethinking of the meaning of na-
tionality, and a recognition that the concept of nation is reliable as a politi-
cal principle and rallying point only in its interaction with these other
forms of social differentiation and liberatory movements.
The reinterpretation of the nation which informs today’s Latino Studies
hovers around the idea of “imagined communities” as formulated by Bene-
dict Anderson in his frequently cited book of that title. The nation as a fixed
and primordial territory of inclusion/exclusion becomes a malleable, fluid,
permeable construct, a group given form by shared imaginaries. The idea of
“imagined communities” lends itself well to the conceptual terminology of
Latino Studies today because it helps to describe the “national” experience of
Latino diasporas in all its ambiguity. The sense of belonging and not belong-
ing to the nation—driven home to Nuyoricans and Chicanos when they “re-
turn” to their “native” lands—confirms that nationality can not only be imag-
ined but actually created as a social reality by the force of the imagination.
The paradox of being “nationals” in a thoroughly “transnationalized” eco-
nomic geography—Latinos as “transnations” or translocal nationalities—is
captured well with a loose, dynamic, and relational concept like “imagined
communities.” Such a concept is certainly more adequate than the essential-
ist and mechanical categories of the “national question” that had informed
much of Latino Studies in its earlier stage.
Some theorists used to refer to this problematic of nationality and nation-
hood, true to Marxist-Leninist vocabulary, as the “national-colonial question.”
Indeed the renovation of the concept of nation and national culture begs the
question of colonialism itself and, for Latino Studies, the pertinence of “post-
colonial” theory. When Latino Studies programs were founded, nobody spoke
of a “postcolonial” condition or era; on the contrary, colonialism and anti-
colonial struggle were precisely the terms around which that and simultane-
ous movements were defined. In the United States, at least, the postcolonial
discourse is definitely a child of the intervening years, gaining ground in the-
oretical debates only in the past decade or so. Imperialism—which became a
buzzword during that same period—is surely one of the subtexts. But the
pressing question from the perspective of Latino Studies is whether Puerto
Rico and the Southwest at some point ceased occupying a colonial position,
and if so, when and how. More particularly, can the experience of diasporic
migrants from former colonial nations serve as a model, or analogue, for that
of transnational communities like those of U.S. Latinos? The insights of the-
orists like Homi Bhabha and Gayatri Spivak are no doubt of great explanato-
ry value, as is the critique of Anderson’s “imagined communities” by Partha
Chatterjee and others.9 However, for the purpose of identifying the condi-
tions faced by Puerto Rican, Mexican American, Dominican, and other Lati-
no peoples in the United States, and the economic and political domination
of their home countries, the term postcolonial seems to be jumping the gun
at best. Even those most bent on minimizing the collision and incompatibil-
ity between Latino and U.S. nationalities cannot fail to detect the signs of
some kind of systemic social subordination, call it colonial or otherwise, and
independent of any proposed remedy.
Prospects and Premises

While the activist relationship of Latino Studies programs to their social
contexts and communities is weaker than in its founding years, the theo-
retical field of Latino Studies is now wider and more complex. The imple-
mentation of this rich intellectual agenda is also more complex, and cer-
tainly as challenging as in the years when Latino and other ethnic studies
programs were first set in place. Current ideological and fiscal obstacles are
the most obvious challenges in this regard and must be faced without the
momentum of the Civil Rights movement to build on. But even more prag-
matic questions of institutional location and leverage present problems
that were not faced when building ethnic studies was still a matter of fill-
ing a vacuum.
By our time there are already ethnic and minority studies programs long
in place on many campuses, including of course Chicano, Puerto Rican,
and, more recently, Cuban, and Dominican Studies. There are profession-
al associations, academic research centers and networks, policy institutes,
journals scholarly and otherwise, and a proliferation of Websites all devot-
ed to ethnic and minority studies. Within the academy there are also emer-
gent disciplines and areas (such as ethnic, cultural, and multicultural stud-
ies) and groundswells of change in already established interdisciplines and
area studies (communications, comparative literature, and American,
Latin American, and Caribbean Studies), all of which run parallel with or
border closely on Latino Studies. It is also important to constantly rethink
the relation of a reemergent area like Latino Studies to the traditional dis-
ciplines, where some of the best work about Latinos is being produced, and
most of which are also in flux or in a state of crisis.
What the best “fit” for Latino Studies may be in the present and shift-
ing structure of the U.S. academy is clearly an enigma, especially as none
of these umbrellas or potential federations is guaranteed to feel like home
in a suspicious, reluctant, and sometimes dog-eat-dog institutional envi-
ronment. Like Latino Studies itself, all of these abstractions from the spe-
cific historical experiences of the composite groups tend to dilute and dis-
tort those experiences, and to set up new exclusions and reductions.
Furthermore, each of these transdisciplinary rubrics has its own trajectory
and baggage that is often at odds with guiding tenets of Latino Studies.
Think of Latin American Area Studies, for instance, or even American
Studies, which in their founding intentions were so consonant with the in-
terests of U.S. and Anglo hegemony.10 Special caution should be observed
in dealing with concoctions that sometimes go under the name of “His-
panic Studies,” but that are often no more than opportunistic creations of
Spanish Departments desperate to shore up their ever-waning student ap-
peal, while retaining their doggedly Hispanophile ideological conserva-

tism. It would seem that nothing short of an autonomous, freestanding
university Department of Latino Studies could promise a location condu-
cive to the confidence needed to carry forward an adequate instructional
and research project.
While departmental status may stand as a goal or desideratum for Lati-
no Studies, a pragmatic and flexible approach is probably advisable under
the present political conditions. Whether and how Latino Studies may be
folded or built into some larger configuration would seem to be a case-by-
case kind of decision, depending on the relative strength and compatibility
of existing programs and alliances. Ethnic Studies, for example, might be
right, provided there is a strong accent on questions of race and social op-
pression, and insofar as it is moving from a focus on strictly domestic is-
sues of group difference and rights into the international arena. Some af-
filiation within American Studies could also work, as scholars and students
in that area deepen their critical analysis of the field’s reactionary and chau-
vinist origins and expand its horizons toward something like “Americas
Studies” or “New American Studies.” With certain intellectual and political
provisos, Latino Studies could also find a hospitable and productive place
in relation to Latin American or Cultural Studies. An issue of central im-
portance, though (and one often obscured in this quest for a larger floor
plan), is the relation of Latino Studies to African American Studies, on the
one hand, and to Women’s Studies on the other. The circumscription of the
“Latino” concept in terms of ethnicity, geography, and language culture
tends to cordon off Latino Studies from full engagement of issues of gen-
der, sexuality, and “racial” identity.
If certain key theoretical principles of methodology and research prac-
tice are clear, the main immediate goal at some institutions may be getting
a foot in the door, in others standing firm in defense of the spaces that have
already been created, however flawed. For in the longer view, the objective
is not limited to securing those spaces and opportunities, but extends to
advancing new knowledge and new ways of understanding what knowl-
edge is for and about. Latino Studies will become ghettoized and easy prey
for closure or consolidation if it is divorced from this wider intellectual and
social project, both at the university and in the larger community.
In this respect, and with all the contextual and conceptual changes, con-
temporary Latino Studies has much to learn from, and reaffirm in, its own
history. In their founding meetings and declarations, Chicano Studies and
Puerto Rican Studies set forth certain principles of research and educa-
tional practice which continue to underlie the Latino Studies project
today.11 To extrapolate from the many goals and methods proclaimed, these
founding plans called for knowledge production which was to be interdis-
ciplinary in its methodological range, collective in its practice, and tied to
the community. The primary methodological aim of bridging the divide be-
tween the humanities and the social sciences remains the order of the day,
with areas like ethnic and cultural studies and communications moving
the discourse from “inter” in the direction of “trans-,” “post-,” and even
“anti-disciplinary.” Collective research practice is still an obvious necessity,
if only for the volume and scope of this supposedly narrow and particular-
ist object of study. We are now more aware that collective work means
more than coauthorship or tight-knit study groups; rather, coordinations
and collaborations at many levels, from anthology readers and conference
panels to on-line cothinking, are indispensable to cover the ground and live
up to the many challenges posed by recent theorizing. For one instance,
the close attention to multiple histories in the analysis of sociocultural ex-
perience reinforces the need for the coordination of diverse research and
teaching perspectives.
As for the ties of Latino Studies to “community,” that tenet would seem
to hold more strongly than ever, because of the relative distance of much
academic work—Latino and other—from the extramural “Other,” but also
because there is an immense ideological stake in keeping Latino higher ed-
ucation and Latino communities apart, and even at odds. The notion of
“community,” of course, has also been subjected to critical deconstruction
and demystification. Though the concept of “imagined communities” is
useful in displacing nation in its traditional sense, the very vagueness and
mantralike resonance of “community” can render it as meaningless as the
oft-stated sanctities of the “national family.”
Still, an affiliation, reference, and accountability to Latino people and so-
cial realities remains a sine qua non of Latino Studies, as it does for any
emergent area focusing on an oppressed group in our society. It is not a
matter of studying the community/communities as something outside of
and separate from ourselves. Socially, many of us are part of and from
these communities, and it is in this sense of intellectual work that the po-
litical is also personal. With all due caution with regard to fallacies of au-
thenticity and a politics of “experience,” Latino Studies does affirm the
need for (for lack of a better word) “indigenous” perspectives on the reali-
ty “under study,” perspectives that are generally ignored, or colonized, in

much academic and journalistic coverage of Latino life.
For all its sensitivity to differences within the “Latino community,” and
its critical rejection of imposed group labels, Latino Studies also needs to
reflect continually on the real or constitutive unities within and among the
Latino population as a whole. The history of Latinos is already in mid-nar-
rative, and even if we don’t propose to “imagine” the Hispanic community
as a “nation” in formation—a recent book on the subject is actually entitled
Hispanic Nation12—some form of pan-group amalgam is always at least po-
tentially on the horizon. Though it is important to view lo Latino (“Latino-
ness”) from the optic of the particular national groups, the social and cul-
tural perspective of each group also harbors and evokes some relation to a
“Latino” ethnoscape of transnational dimensions.13
But even to consider such prospects, to trace historical congruences and
study practical interactions, requires not only new curricula but also new
attitudes about mounting curricular strategies adequate to the task. It also
requires a space very different from that provided by many universities in
the present climate. Oscar Montero, cited earlier, summons this broader
discursive and institutional agenda in his closing remarks. “New curricula
cannot succeed,” he says, “by mere inclusion of emergent discourses, after
the fashion of eighteenth-century encyclopedists. It must incorporate a
point of view, or a series of points of view, a different dialectic, and in the
long haul, perhaps a different kind of university.”14

Postscript
“None of the Above”
A governmental crisis, a general strike, a devastating hurricane, a national

plebiscite—1998 was an eventful year for Puerto Ricans, one filled with the
kind of symbolic drama expected on the centenary of the fateful invasion
by U.S. military forces that makes “el ’98,” 1898, the turning point in the
country’s long colonial past. On July 25, the day of the landing, thousands
joined the pilgrimage to the southern coastal town of Guánica, where the
troops under General Miles first disembarked. They came to commemo-
rate the event, some in celebration and others in angry condemnation,
while still others gathered at the historical Morro Castle in San Juan to her-
ald forty years of commonwealth status. Age-old divisions and ambiva-
lences in Puerto Rican public life were thus reenacted in a show of the on-
going contestation over historical memory.1
But with all the debates and fanfare, the scholarly conferences, news
specials, and official proclamations, there were other events, largely unre-
lated to the commemorative calendar, that marked off the significance of
the anxiously awaited centennial year. First, the Island’s governor, Pedro
Rosello of the statehood party, drew the wrath of the country’s press and
news media by trying to stifle dissent and critical coverage through his con-
trol over advertising monies, which brought him under the denunciatory
scrutiny of international editors and journalists. The governor’s arrogant
faceoff with the widely respected news writers from many Latin American
countries exposed the tenuousness of Puerto Rico’s democratic facade and
the ominous implications of its path toward neoliberal privatization.
On the heels of that troubling confrontation, with the approach of sum-
mer, came the strike by the country’s telephone workers, a stoppage in
221
222 Postscript: “None of the Above”
protest against the imminent sale of the publicly owned telephone company
to private corporations. While beginning as an action by organized labor over
conditions and contract terms, the movement quickly expanded to involve all
of those, including many supporters of the governor and of statehood, who
objected to the betrayal of public trust in disposing of an enterprise which the
people felt was their own. “La Telefónica,” amiably referred as “Fortunata,”
the cash cow, was the source of ample public revenue and was considered by
many a symbol of the country itself. The protest, which made for a rare show
of unity across the otherwise fractious political spectrum and drew the atten-
tion of antiprivatization sentiment throughout Latin America, resounded to
the cry of “La patria no se vende” (“our country is not for sale”) as the annex-
ationist government suffered another blow to its shaky legitimacy.2
Then, as though to accentuate the turmoil, came Hurricane Georges,
the worst natural disaster to hit the Island in recent memory. Scores of
families were left homeless, thousands were without water and electrical
service for months to follow, and relief efforts were tragically bungled and
slow in coming. Favorable comparisons with the fate of the Dominican Re-
public and other Caribbean islands, and even with the catastrophe in Cen-
tral America, did little to persuade the public of the blessings of U.S. fed-
eral aid and served as a cruel reminder to many of the ongoing dependency
and subservience of their country in U.S. national affairs. Residents on the
southwest part of the Island, where the wrath of Georges took its greatest
toll, witnessed the landing of federal relief forces in the bay of Boquerón
and more than a few were made to think, resentfully, of the historic events
in the nearby town of Guánica one hundred years ago.
Finally, as the centennial year reached an end, there was the plebiscite.
What would “el ’98” be, after all, without a poll of the population as to the
preferred status and future of their country? As political leaders of all stripes
succeeded in assuring the exclusion of Puerto Rico’s huge diaspora from
any role in the vote, the governing party was intent on securing a decisive
consensus for statehood to present to the U.S. president and Congress. Uni-
laterally devising a ballot that would divide the commonwealth option and
further marginalize the independence vote, the statehooders included the
famous “fifth column”—after “Commonwealth As Is,” “Revised Common-
wealth,” “Statehood,” and “Independence”—under the heading “None of
the Above.” But the devious tactic of framing the country’s political alterna-
tives as a multiple-choice question backfired, as a 50.2 percent majority of
the voting population joined the fifth column and entered “None of the
Postscript: “None of the Above” 223
Above.” Unrelenting, the governing party immediately celebrated victory

with 46.5 percent of the vote, claiming that “none of the above” did not con-
stitute a status option. Leaders of the “Populares” (Popular Democratic
Party), representing the commonwealth options, launched a legal objection
to the officially declared outcome and held their own victory party based on
the interpretation that “none of the above” was a coordinated protest against
statehood and in their own favor. And the “independentistas,” noting the de-
fiance implicit in the favored option, took the outcome as demonstration of
the generalized public distaste among Puerto Ricans for the corrupt machi-
nations of colonialist politics as such.3
Whatever the specific intentions of “fifth column” voters, the phrase
“none of the above” (“ninguna de las anteriores”) may well stand as a tidy
summation of the prevailing temperament among Puerto Ricans in their
symbolic year of 1998. It punctuates that commemorative period with the
sense of indecision, but also signals the widespread dissatisfaction and frus-
tration, after one hundred years of U.S. control. It is testimony, as well, to the
irony and indirection with which the people confront the official public
sphere in their country: the practice of “diversion,” the tactic of playful
obliqueness, is capsulized in that resignified cliché, “none of the above.” That
slogan, along with the symbolical weight given the two most prominent
events of the year, the “Telefónica” strike and Hurricane Georges, illustrate
well the signs of what I term the “lite colonial” situation of contemporary
Puerto Rico, where hegemony is maintained, and challenged, largely in the
cultural field, as a struggle over meanings and images. The game is serious,
and precarious, what with the traces of political despotism, the nagging
poverty and unemployment, and the rampant social violence as stark re-
minders of what colonialism is all about. But there is something of the game
to it, after all, when the prospects of positive social change are nowhere on
the historical horizon at the threshold of a new “American century.”
For Puerto Ricans in the United States, meanwhile, the half of the total pop-
ulation making up the diaspora, “none of the above” is equally appropriate,
and perhaps even euphemistically so, to convey what life has been like in the
celebrated ’98. While attention is turned to the handful of entertainment and
sports celebrities, and official reports tell glowingly of the emerging middle
class, the overwhelming majority of Puerto Ricans remain at the bottom of
the socioeconomic ladder, even among their fellow “Latinos” with whom they
are increasingly grouped. They are also the victims of constant degradation
in the public eye, and 1998 was particularly harsh in that regard. Though the
Puerto Rican Day Parade in June was the largest ever, and remains the largest
national day parade in New York City, that boisterous show of pride was
smeared from the beginning of the year to the end.
First it was Capeman, the Broadway fiasco orchestrated by Paul Simon in
what was intended as a goodwill gesture toward Puerto Ricans. Of course it
did provide jobs for many Puerto Rican actors, musicians, and theater work-
ers, and it was indeed heralded by some as a positive, pro-Puerto Rican
event—one well-known political commentator went so far as to proclaim
“Puerto Rican Nationalism Hits Broadway.”4 But artistically Capeman was a
flop, lacking in all narrative energy and flawed as well in its allusions to Puer-
to Rican music; while politically, in its romanticized treatment of a legendary
gang leader and repentant murderer, it only goes down as a reminder of the
days of West Side Story and its supposed benevolent typecasting.
Then followed the infamous Seinfeld episode, which showed Kramer, de-
tained in traffic by the Puerto Rican Day parade, heedlessly stamping on
the Puerto Rican flag. When the public protested, Seinfeld claimed that he
had been misunderstood, explaining that the flag was burning and that
Kramer had only jumped out of the car to help put out the fire. But from
the response it was clear that he had touched a tender nerve, and that no
disclaimers, nor his gratuitous presenting of the Puerto Rican flag to ac-
tress Jennifer López at the 1999 Grammy award ceremonies, would dispel
the indignation felt by Puerto Ricans and much of the general public.5
As if that were not enough of a barrage, the year could not end without
still another offense against Puerto Ricans in the U.S media. On Novem-
ber 30, 1998, a few weeks before the plebiscite, an article appeared in the
Boston Herald entitled “No Statehood for Caribbean Dogpatch.”6 Signed by
columnist Don Feder, the article set forth many of the conservative argu-
ments against statehood for Puerto Rico, arguing for the “right” of Ameri-
cans “not to be saddled with an impoverished, crime-ridden island of non-
English speakers as our 51st state.” Feder cites the “English First” crusade
in warning that to incorporate Puerto Rico would put “America well on its
way to becoming a bilingual nation,” mentioning that support for state-
hood is not even evident among other Hispanics; as he puts it, “as if Mex-
icans in California and Cubans in Florida really give a hill of frijoles for
Puerto Rican statehood.”
Feder also makes it clear that his “Caribbean dogpatch” refers not only
to the Island but to Puerto Ricans in the United States when he says that
“with Puerto Rican statehood, to the problem of unassimilable immigrants

we would add an unassimilable state.” From such scurrilous language it
becomes evident that, like statehood, the “assimilation” of U.S. Puerto Ri-
cans is not for Puerto Ricans to decide, and that the inflammatory “Puerto
Rican problem” spans the divide between the national homeland and the
diaspora communities. The local “dogpatch,” of course, encompasses the
impoverished inner-city neighborhoods where most Puerto Ricans live, the
slums and ghettos of the South Bronx, Williamsburg, Hartford, Philadel-
phia, Chicago, and scores of other enclaves of abandonment and neglect.
It’s the “mean streets” of Piri Thomas, the “Spidertown” of young novelist
Abraham Rodriguez. But how different the settings of Puerto Rican dias-
poric life appear in these fictional works, where the crushing, dehumaniz-
ing conditions are presented in dynamic social and psychological context,
and not for the purpose of reinforcing stereotypes and pathologies. How
necessary it is to approach this situation from within, from the perspective
of the community in question, and in the new, youthful terms exemplified
by Rodriguez and others of the present generation. It becomes clear why in
1998 Spidertown, too, votes “none of the above.”
The centenary year was also a watershed period for the sites of popular
cultural expression explored here. The struggle to “save” the casita “Rincón
Criollo,” for example, reached a new level of intensity as city developers
proceeded with their plans to convert the neighboring Melrose area of the
South Bronx into a model redevelopment project, with the corner of Brook
Avenue and 158th Street earmarked for more of the townhouses which
now surround that historic spot as part of the ambitious Melrose Com-
mons development. In deference to the cultural significance of the casita,
planners agreed to set aside a lot one block to the south, with the idea of
moving “Rincón Criollo” and reassembling it behind a planned communi-
ty “museum.” Despite the promise of recognition and stability, however,
casita members reject this plan from above, out of fear that a great deal
more would be lost than gained in the transition. As the conflict came to a
head in late summer 1998, José Manuel Soto (“Chema”), José Rivera, and
other long-standing leaders sent out still another call for “Salvación Ca-
sita,” and another of the memorable rescue parties attracted hundreds of
neighbors and friends of the casita. Because of the growing public atten-
tion to this remarkable cultural institution, the activity this time drew two
TV crews as well as special guests Yomo Toro, the renowned Puerto Rican
cuatro player, and Tito Puente, both of whom played along with the famil-
iar pleneros who form part of the scene. The message: “We’re not moving
anywhere!” As Chema commented, “What are we supposed to do, take our
peach and apple trees out by the roots? Over there, the ground is full of
rocks. It took us more than 20 years to do this. Before we see trees like this
over there, we’ll be dead.”7
The music of the casita culture, bomba and plena, is also holding its
ground in the symbolic 1998 period. Two new groups, both spawned of the
long-standing Los Pleneros de la 21, have made their appearance in these
years, both of them combining traditional styles with contemporary musical
developments. The Rivera brothers, José and Ramón (“Papo Chín”), founded
a new ensemble, Amigos de la Plena, which uses the bomba and plena
rhythms as a base for blending with salsa, merengue, and rap as well as with
seis, aguinaldo, and other forms of peasant music from the Island. Television
appearances on Spanish-language stations along with ongoing performances
at the casita and other community settings have given them rapid visibility in
the New York and other Puerto Rican neighborhood contexts. Another new
group, which surfaced in 1998, calls itself Viento de Agua, and its skillful fu-
sions of sounds from jazz, salsa, rock, and nueva canción with the familiar
plena and bomba stylistic features has made their CD, De Puerto Rico al Mun-
do, a significant hit both in the United States and in Puerto Rico.
It was also a landmark year for Latin boogaloo, that throwback style of the
pre-salsa era sometimes referred to as the “first Nuyorican music.” Though
no “revival” of the style by its originators of the 1960s seems to be in store,
strong reminiscences among a broad public were registered with the im-
mense success of popular salsero Tito Nieves’s album I Like It Like That,
which topped the Latin charts for the year. Aside from the title song, a re-
make of the Pete Rodríguez band’s classic boogaloo number of thirty years
earlier, Nieves’s version of “Bang Bang” also struck a chord and made it clear
that, though boogaloo was handily eclipsed by the Fania brand of “salsa,” the
airs of that Puerto Rican-flavored rhythm and blues linger on in the sensibil-
ity of many Puerto Rican New Yorkers, and many others as well. Historical
interest also heightened, such that a major discussion and performance
event entitled “I Like It Like That: Remembering the Boogaloo Era” was
scheduled for the Public Theater, featuring the recollections of such musi-
cians as Jimmy Sabater, Hector Rivera, Frankie Lebrón, and Joe Bataan.
On the rap scene, 1998 saw Big Pun go platinum and Nuyorican rap-
pers finally gain their due recognition in the mass culture. Following in the
path of his friend and mentor Fat Joe (Joseph Cartagena), Big Punisher
(Christopher Rios) broke onto the scene with his chart-topping CD Capital
Punishment on RCA, with his track “Still Not a Player” featuring Fat Joe
capturing nationwide hip-hop audiences with its powerful, suggestively
bilingual rhymes. The way to this supreme popularity had been paved by
the movement to get back to “old school” rap, the days when with African
Americans Puerto Ricans played an instrumental role in the forging of the
style in the first place. Identified with other well-known performers like
Frankie Cutlass, the Beatnuts, Tony Touch, and Hurricane Gee (Gloria Ro-
driguez), this tendency in late-nineties hip-hop predilections is not merely
nostalgic or revivalist in purpose; in fact, rather than acting on the retro-
spective notion of “old school,” some performers and commentators, re-
acting to the thoroughgoing commercialization and dilution of the genre,
prefer to speak in terms of a continuity of “true school” rap. Though part
of this renewed presence and recognition of Nuyorican themes and artists
results from the continued attraction and growing selling power of things
“Latin,” as is clear from the use of Spanish words and phrases by big-time
favorites like the Fugees and Puff Daddy, the specifically Nuyorican di-
mension includes a strong sense of unity and interaction between Puerto
Rican and Black cultures.8
It happens that 1998 also saw the publication of a lengthy conversation with
three contemporary writers from Martinique, and again some interesting
parallels and insights can be drawn as to the issues of contemporary colo-
nialism.9 Acknowledging the influence of Edouard Glissant’s theoretical per-
spectives, Patrick Chamoiseau, Raphäel Confiant, and Jean Bernabé call
themselves “créolistes” and are seeking new ways of understanding the cul-
tural and political aspects of colonial relations in today’s world. Chamoiseau,
author of the widely admired novel Texaco, offers a three-stage typology of
colonial history, starting with the “brutal, violent” stage, followed by the neo-
colonial stage of “domination from a distance,” and then a present-day stage
which would surely resonate in thinking of the “lite colonial” condition of
Puerto Rico. He calls it the “third stage, furtive domination, which works
through the great communicative circuits that link up the world today.”
When he came to understand this new situation, Chamoiseau explains that
he had to transform himself “from a word scratcher into a warrior . . . who
can recognize that the battle against oppression and domination has moved
into the realm of the imaginary. We’re planed down, crushed, deadened by
the dominant imaginary, without even realizing that we’re being subjugated
and transformed. The domain of the imaginary is an absolutely fundamen-

tal theater for resistance” (140).
In staking out their new position, the “créolistes” are openly critical of
their forebear, the monumental Martinican poet and statesman Aimé Cé-
saire, in part for what they see as the essentialism of his Négritude move-
ment, and in part for the annexation of Martinique as a department of
France which he oversaw. In his book on Césaire, Confiant comments that
he would like Martinique to have a status vis-á-vis France like that of Puer-
to Rico to the United States. Aware of the disastrous social problems fac-
ing Puerto Rico, he explains that for him “becoming an associated state—
like Puerto Rico—is an indispensable phase in the reconstruction of our
economy” (which is in a shambles as a result of departmentalization), and
toward national sovereignty. As the status of autonomy does not exist in the
French constitution, “the only thing we can call for is the status of associ-
ated statehood, a separation like Puerto Rico’s” (158–59). Though their po-
sition is clearly an anticolonialist one aimed at self-determination, the
“créolistes” are cautious about the idea of independence. Citing Jean-Marie
Tjibaou, the assassinated Kanak leader, Confiant comments that “in this
day and age, independence is the possibility to choose your interdepen-
dencies,” and Chamoiseau explains in terms that are of interest to con-
temporary thinking about national liberation: “I don’t think anyone can de-
clare themselves independent in this day and age. We’re all dependent on
each other. You can’t simply raise the flag, dance around the pole, and
imagine you’re free. Concepts like liberty, sovereignty, and responsibility
can only be articulated once you’ve taken the ongoing process of globaliza-
tion into consideration” (160).
Raphäel Confiant envisions a way out of this modern-day quagmire of
annexation, where even the prospect of Puerto Rico’s political limbo has its
attraction. “I do talk of independence,” he states, “but independence with-
in a Caribbean Federation.” In the face of the splintering process that has
plagued the region throughout its history, and the “retractile tendencies”
toward essential and pure identities, Confiant sets forth his vision of inde-
pendence within an “interdependent” Caribbean, and again the cultural
front is central to the change. “If we manage to modify the collective An-
tillean imaginary,” he concludes, “there’ll be writers here in French, in Cre-
ole, in English, in Spanish, in any language that entices them. No one can
foresee what will happen in the totalité-monde” (160).

Notes
I NTRODUCTION
1. Meagan Morris, Too Soon Too Late: History in Popular Culture (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1998), 24.
2. See Johannes Fabian, Moments of Freedom: Anthropology and Popular Culture (Char-
lottesville: University Press of Virginia, 1998), 133 passim.
3. See Argeliers León, Del canto y el tiempo (Havana: Letras Cubanas, 1974), and Angel
G. Quintero Rivera, !Salsa, sabor y control!: Scociología de la música tropical (Mexico
City: Siglo XXI, 1998), 32–86.
1. “PU EBLO PU EBLO”: POPU LAR CU LTU RE I N TIME

1. Peter Stallybrass and Allon White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression (Ithaca:
Cornell Univesity Press, 1986), 3. This process of “symbolic inversion,” developed
by Stallybrass and White, is actually taken from Barbara Babcock, The Reversible
World: Symbolic Inversion in Art and Society (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1978),
3. The concept of “moments of freedom” forms the title of the book by Johannes
Fabian, Moments of Freedom: Anthropology and Popular Culture (Charlottesville: Uni-
versity Press of Virginia, 1998).
2. See Stuart Hall, “Notes on Deconstructing ‘the Popular’,” in Raphael Samuel, ed.,
People’s History and Socialist Theory (London: Routledge, 1981), 227–40. See also
note 22, this chapter.
3. Such, for example, is the perspective of John Fiske in his frequently cited primer
Understanding Popular Culture (London: Routledge, 1989), as well as that of the
thoughtful critical response by John Frow, Cultural Studies and Cultural Value (Ox-
ford: Oxford University Press, 1995). For an extended discussion of this theoretical
shift, see my “Reinstating Popular Culture: Responses to Christopher Lasch,” Social
Text 12 (1985): 113–23.
4. See John Frow, Cultural Studies and Cultural Value, esp. 75–79, where frequent ref-
erence is made to the relevant writings of Hall and others.
229
230 Notes
5. See García Canclini, Culturas híbridas: estrategias para entrar y salir de la modernidad
(Mexico City: Grijalbo, 1989), and Consumidores y ciudadanos: conflictos multicultur-
ales de la globalización (Mexico City: Grijalbo, 1995).
6. See García Canclini, Consumidores y ciudadanos, 27–30.
7. See Arjun Appadurai and Carol A. Breckenridge, “Why Public Culture?” Public Cul-
ture Bulletin 1.1 (Fall 1988): 5–9.
8. See Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (Min-
neapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), 12 passim.
9. Fabian, Moments of Freedom, 133.
10. Ibid., 133–34.
11. Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá, El entierro de Cortijo (Río Piedras, P.R.: Ediciones Huracán,
1983), 12 (“. . . ya se perfila que esta crónica será el encuentro de muchas cruces
históricas”).
12. Ibid., 18. (“¿Cómo definir este pueblo? Definirlo es fácil, pero ¡qué difícil es des-
cribirlo! Es pueblo pueblo, mi pueblo puertorriqueño en toda su diversidad más
contradictoria.”)
13. Jesús Martín Barbero, De los medios a las mediaciones (Barcelona: Grijalbo, 1987).
14. On the role of the “imagination” in the study of contemporary popular culture, see
especially Appadurai, Modernity at Large, 3ff.
15. Rodríguez Juliá, El entierro de Cortijo, 18 (“las perlitas de su grasoso sudor me re-
cuerdan aquellas abnegadas planchadoras y cocineras que pasaban los sábados por
la calle de mi infancia, allá dirigiéndose al proletario culto evangélico”).
16. Stuart Hall, “What Is This ‘Black’ in Black Popular Culture?” in Gina Dent, ed.,
Black Popular Culture (Seattle: Bay Press, 1992), 21–33.
17. Hall, “What Is This ‘Black’ . . . ,” 26.
18. Ibid., 27.
19. Ibid., 22.
20. See Renato Ortiz, Mundializaçáo e Cultura (Sáo Paulo: Braziliense, 1994), 105–45.
22. See Peter Burke, Popular Culture in Early Modern Europe (New York: New York Uni-
versity Press, 1978), esp. 3–22. See also William A. Wilson, “Herder, Folklore, and
Romantic Nationalism,” Journal of Popular Culture 6:4 (Spring 1973): 819–35; and
Renato Ortiz, Románticos e Folcloristas: Cultura Popular (Sáo Paulo: Editora Olho
d’Agua, n.d.). On the history of the concept, see Morag Schiach, Discourse on Popu-
lar Culture: Class, Gender, and History in Cultural Analysis, 1730 to the Present (Stan-
ford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1989)
23. George Yúdice has pointed out the need to differentiate further between the “nation-
al” and the regional or local dimensions. Speaking of the situation of popular culture
in Latin America, Yúdice states: “Historically, national cultures have entailed the pri-
orization of some local cultures above others, and at least since the early 20th centu-
ry, through mass culture, especially radio. . . . I would argue that those forms of cul-
ture identified with the national in Latin America tend to have gotten that valence
Notes 231
through mass culture, since the twenties. And a controlled mass culture has priori-
tized one local culture as the national culture” (letter to author, March 7, 1999).
24. See García Canclini, Culturas híbridas.
25. See García Canclini et al., Tijuana, la casa de toda la gente (Iztapalapa [Mexico]:
INAH-ENAH, 1989).
26. Hall, “What Is This ‘Black . . . ,” 32.
27. For the following, see Peter Applebome, “The Medici Behind Disney’s High Art,”
New York Times, October 4, 1998, sec. 2, pp. 1, 38.
28. Stallybrass and White, The Politics and Poetics of Transgression, 5.
2. TH E LITE COLON IAL: DIVERSIONS OF PU ERTO RICAN DISCOU RSE

1. The Madonna incident was discussed in all the Island’s newspapers in the days fol-
lowing the event, from late October through early November 1993. See especially
Luis R. Dávila Colón, “En-madonnados,” El Nuevo Día (San Juan), October 29, 1993,
69; and Mateo Mateo, “La caída del ídolo,” El Nuevo Día, November 12, 1993, 57. For
an extended critical discussion, see Carlos Pabón, “De Albizu a Madonna: para
armar y desarmar la nacionalidad,” Bordes 1 (1995): 22–40; and Madeline Román,
“El Girlie Show: Madonna, las polémicas nacionales y los pánicos morales,” Bordes
1 (1995): 41–53.
2. See Dávila Colón, “En-madonnados,” 69.
3. These remarks and their implications are discussed in Pabón, “De Albizu a Madon-
na,” 33. It is interesting that though Pabón offers a sharp critical analysis of the
whole affair in its ideological context, he cites the usage “cocolo” by Dávila Colón
without a mention of its racist overtones. Indeed, Dávila Colón makes it even clear-
er by referring to his informant in the street as “the cocolo que se coló,” roughly “the
black dude who sneaked in.”
4. See Luis Dávila Colón, “Perspectiva,” El Nuevo Día, January 18, 1997; Manuel de J.
González, “Nacionalismo que paga,” El Nuevo Día, January 25, 1997, 83; and Luis
Dávila Colón, “No disparen, que soy yo . . . ,” El Nuevo Día, January 31, 1997, 69.
5. See Pabón’s explanation of his article and of the provocative graphic in “Albizu y
Madonna o la política de la representación,” in Bordes 2 (1995): 129–30.
6. “La estadidad desde una perspectiva democrática radical,” Diálogo (February 1997):
30–31. See also Ramón Grosfoguel, “Globalización y status,” El Nuevo Día, October
35, 1997, 67.
7. See the articles by Juan Duchesne Winter, “Convalecencia del independentismo de
izquierda” and “Nación, identidad y levedad,” and by Carlos Gil, “Poder y fascina-
ción: Respuesta amistosa al neo-independentismo,” in Postdata.
8. See Luis Fernando Coss, La nación en la orilla: respuesta a los posmodernos pesimistas
(San Juan: Punto de Encuentro, 1996). From a similar perspective, see Juan Manuel
Carrión, Voluntad de nación: ensayos sobre el nacionalismo en Puerto Rico (San Juan:
Nueva Aurora, 1996). For a discussion of contemporary thinking on the Puerto
232 Notes
Rican nation, see Jorge Duany, “Para reimaginarse la nación puertorriqueña,” Re-
vista de Ciencias Sociales 2 (January 1997): 10–24.
9. For a description and sampling of these new positions, see “Dossier Puerto Rico,”
in Social Text 38 (1994): 93–147, a Special Issue ed. Juan Flores and María Milagros
López. See also Frances Negrón-Muntaner and Ramón Grosfoguel, eds., Puerto Ri-
can Jam: Essays on Culture and Politics (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press,
1997); and Jorge Duany, “Después de la modernidad: debates contemporaneos
sobre cultura y política en Puerto Rico,” Revista de Ciencias Sociales 5 (June 1998):
218–41.
10. See Ella Shohat, “Notes on the‘Post-Colonial’,” Social Text 31–32 (1992): 99–113; and
Anne McClintock, “The Angel of Progress: Pitfalls in the Term ‘Post-Colonialism,’ ”
ibid., 84–98. See also Anne McClintock, Aamir Mufti, and Ella Shohat, eds., Dan-
gerous Liaisons: Gender, Nation, and Postcolonial Perspectives (Minneapolis: University
of Minnesota Press, 1997).
11. Many of these alternative formulations are suggested in the collection Puerto
Rican Jam, ed. Negrón-Muntaner and Grosfoguel. The editors’ introduction pro-
poses adoption of the term “ethnonation,” while the essay by Agustín Laó, and the
author and critic Mayra Santos Febres in another context, utilize the concept of
the “translocal nation.” The idea of “transnation” is explained in Arjun Appadu-
rai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (Minneapolis: Uni-
versity of Minnesota Press, 1996): see especially, “Patriotism and Its Futures,”
158–77.
12. Pabón, “De Albizu a Madonna,” 32: “El surgimiento de un ‘capitalismo lite.’ Me re-
fiero a un capitalismo que se ha hecho puertorriqueñista explotando para su bene-
ficio los símbolos nacionales, que como la bandera, representan ‘nuestras costum-
bres, tradiciones y modo de vida.’ Es éste un capitalismo posfordista que como
producto de los procesos de globalización e internacionalización de la economía y
de la cultura busca incorporar al ‘otro.’ ”
13. See Barry Buzan and Gerald Segal, “The Rise of ‘Lite’ Powers: A Strategy for the
Postmodern State,” World Policy Journal 13.3 (Fall 1996): 1–10. On the use of the
concept of “flexibility” in cultural analysis, see Aihwa Ong, Flexible Citizenship:
The Cultural Logics of Transnationality (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press,
1998). The term “globaloney” is used by Robert Fitch in The Assassination of New
York (London: Verso, 1993). See also Janet Abu-Lughod, “Going Beyond Global
Babble,” in Anthony D. King, ed., Culture, Globalization, and the World-System:
Contemporary Conditions for the Representation of Identity, 131–38 (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1997); Dani Rodrik, Has Globalization Gone Too
Far? (Washington, D.C.: Institute of International Economics, 1997; and Luis
Vidal Rucabado, “Tan lite que ni siquiera es de hoy,” Visión (Mexico) (October
1–11, 1996): 5.
14. Walter LaFeber, Michael Jordan and the New Global Capitalism (New York: Norton,
1999).
Notes 233
15. Stuart Hall, “The Local and the Global,” in King, ed., Culture, Globalization, and the
World-System 30–31.
16. For an extended discussion of the role of commercial interests in the fashioning of
contemporary Puerto Rican cultural identity, see Arlene M. Dávila, Sponsored Iden-
tities: Cultural Politics in Puerto Rico (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1997).
17. See Edouard Glissant, Caribbean Discourse (Charlottesville: University Press of Vir-
ginia, 1989), esp. 14–26. For an excellent discussion of Glissant’s work in a Carib-
bean context and in relation to postcolonial theory, see Román de la Campa, “Mim-
icry and the Uncanny in Caribbean Discourse,” in de la Campa, Latin Americanism
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1999), 85–120.
18. The concept of the “modern colony” is applied effectively to some countries in the
contemporary Caribbean by Gerard Pierre Charles in El caribe contemporaneo (Mex-
ico City: Siglo XXI, 1985).
19. Glissant, Caribbean Discourse, 18.
20. See Mbmembe, “The Banality of Power and the Aesthetics of Vulgarity in the Post-
colony,” Public Culture 4.2 (Spring 1992): 1–30.
22. Ibid., 20.
23. Ibid., 26.
24. See for example Álvaro Fernández Bravo and Florencia Garramuño, “La disemi-
nación de lo nacional: Entrevista a Homi Bhabha,” Bordes 1 (1995): 87–92.
25. On the omission of the U.S. Puerto Rican experience in Puerto Rican historical and
theoretical work, see Arcadio Díaz-Quiñones, La memoria rota: Ensayos sobre cultura
y política (Río Piedras, P.R.: Ediciones Huracán, 1993); see also “Broken English
Memories,” ch. 3 (present volume).
27. Ibid.
28. Stuart Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” in Patrick Williams and Laura
Chrisman, eds., Colonial Discourse and Post-Colonial Theory (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1994), 392–403 (quote from 395).
29. Hall, “Cultural Identity and Diaspora,” 394.
30. Ibid.
31. Abraham Rodriguez, The Boy Without a Flag (Minneapolis: Milkwood, 1992), 20–21.
Subsequent page numbers are cited in the text.
32. Interview with Abraham Rodriguez in Carmen Dolores Hernández, ed., Puerto Ri-
can Voices in English (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 1997), 137–56 (quote from 142).
33. Ibid., 146.
34. See, for example, Manuel de J. González, “Aquí seguimos un siglo después,” Clari-
dad (January 9–15, 1998): 12; and Juan Manuel Carrión, “Sobre la nación sin bor-
des,” Diálogo (March 1996): 41.
35. Dávila Colón, “En-madonnados,” 69.
36. Ibid.
234 Notes
3. BROKEN ENGLISH MEMORI ES: LANGUAGES I N TH E TRANS-COLONY

1. Arcadio Díaz-Quiñones, La memoria rota: Ensayos sobre cultura y política (Río Pie-
dras, P.R.: Ediciones Huracán, 1993).
2. Arcadio Díaz-Quiñones, “Puerto Rico: Cultura, memoria y diáspora,” Tercer Milenio
1 (1994): 11–19.
3. The title of Luis Rafael Sánchez’s story “La guagua aérea” [The air bus], trans. Diana
Vélez, Village Voice, January 24, 1984, has become proverbial for the commuter sta-
tus of Puerto Rican culture.
4. “Los emigrantes fortalecían—de una manera imprevista por el discurso excluyente
de algunos sectores de las élites puertorriqueñas—la necesidad de conservar identi-
dades, y, de hecho, la necesidad de fijar nuevas descripciones de la identidad.” And:
“Había en aquellas comunidades puertorriqueñas la posibilidad de un nuevo futuro
que exigía conservar ciertos lugares reales y simbólicos, una nueva valoración de la
geografía insular, de sus ríos y lomas, de sus barrios.” Díaz-Quiñones, “La vida in-
clemente,” in La memoria rota, 50–51.
5. “La pertenencia, el sentido de ‘hogar’ y comunidad, se afirma sobre todo en la dis-
tancia, con la incertidumbre del lugar. Ello explica, quizás, por qué se puede dar la
paradójica situación de que algunos en Guaynabo desprecian su cultura, mientras
que otros, en Filadelfia, la defienden con pasión” (ibid.).
6. Tato Laviera, AmeRícan (Houston: Arte Público, 1985), 53.
7. Homi Bhabha, “Between Identities: Homi Bhabha Interviewed by Paul Thompson,”
in Rina Benmayor and Andor Skotnes, eds., Migration and Identity (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1994), 190.
8. Michel Foucault, Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews,
ed. Donald F. Bouchard (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977), 33–34.
9. Sandra María Esteves, Tropical Rains: A Bilingual Downpour (New York: African
Caribbean Poetry Theater, 1984), 26.
10. Esmeralda Santiago, “The Puerto Rican Stew,” New York Times Magazine, December
18, 1994, 34, 36.
11. Martorell’s performance-installation was first presented at the International Collo-
quium on the Contemporary Social Imaginary, held at the University of Puerto Rico
in February 1991. The text, “Imalabra II,” appears in Nydza Correa de Jesús, Heidi
Figueroa Sarriera, and María Milagros López, eds., Coloquio internacional sobre el
imaginario social contemporáneo (Río Piedras, P.R.: University of Puerto Rico Press,
n.d.), 161–64. What Martorell means by “la lengua mechada” (as in “carne mecha-
da,” meat that has been larded and stuffed) becomes clear in the following sentence:
“Like it or not, our tongue [language] has been stuffed and stuffed to the gills with
other languages and with images which were dreamed up, remembered, forgotten,
combated, surrendered, victorious and subversive, well versed or in verse, prosaic or
precocious, silenced or no-lensed, incarnate or inchoate, tame or tempestuous,
lending flavor and fullness to our appetite, length to our longing, endearment to our
hunger” [“Nuestra lengua, querrámoslo o no, está mechada y requetemechada con
Notes 235
otras lenguas y con imágenes soñadas, recordadas, olvidadas, combatidas, rendidas,

victoriosas y subversivas que versadas o en verso, prosáicas o procaces, silentes o sin
lentes, encarnadas o bernejas, berrendas o virulentas dan sabor y grosor a nuestro
apetito, estensión a nuestras ansias, caricia a nuestra hambre”].
12. “Qué alcance tiene la definición del idioma único, ante la hibridez y mezcla del es-
pañol, del inglés y del spanglish que se oye en Bayamón, Puerto Nuevo o en Union
City? Las élites puertorriqueñas defienden, con razón, su bilingúismo, que les per-
mite leer a Toni Morrison o a Faulkner, y acceder a la alta cultura del Metropolitan
Museum o el New York City Ballet, y, claro, a Wall Street. La diáspora de emigrantes
puertorriqueños ha ido mezclando su lengua, una vez más, en sus continuos viajes
de ida y vuelta.” Díaz-Quiñones, “La política del olvido” (1991), in La memoria rota.
13. “¿Tendremos nosotros la capacidad para descolonizar nuestro imaginario, salir de la
niebla colonial de que habló Hostos, sin renunciar a este revolú que nos identifica?”
(ibid.).
14. Pedro Pietri, Puerto Rican Obituary (New York: Monthly Review Press, 1973), 12–16.
15. Coco Fusco, English Is Broken Here: Notes on Cultural Fusion in the Americas (New
York: New Press, 1995).
16. “Porque se trata, precisamente, de un modo de concebir la identidad que escabulle
las redes topográficas y las categorías duras de la territorialidad y su metaforización
telúrica. En Laviera la raiz es si acaso el fundamento citado, reinscrito, por el silbido
de una canción. Raices portátiles, dispuestos al uso de una ética corriente, basada
en las prácticas de la identidad, en la identidad como práctica del juicio en el viaje.”
Julio Ramos, “Migratorias,” in Josefina Ludmer, ed., Las culturas de fin de siglo en
América Latina (Buenos Aires: Beatriz Viterbo, 1994), 60.
17. Tato Laviera, Mainstream Ethics (ética corriente) (Houston: Arte Público, 1988), 27.
4. “SALVACIÓN CASITA”: SPACE, PERFORMANCE, AN D COMMU N ITY

1. Brochure for exhibit “Las Casitas: An Urban Cultural Alternative,” Smithsonian In-
stitution, Washington, D.C., February 2, 1991.
2. For other analyses of the casita phenomenon from various perspectives, see Luis
Aponte-Parés, “What’s Yellow and White and Has Land All Around It? Appropriat-
ing Place in Puerto Rican Barrios,” in Antonia Darder and Rodolfo D. Torres, eds.,
The Latino Studies Reader: Culture, Economy, and Society (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell,
1998), 271–80; and Joseph Sciorra, “ ‘We’re not here just to plant. We have culture.’:
An Ethnography of the South Bronx Casita Rincón Criollo,” New York Folklore 20.3–
4 (1994): 19–41.
3. For an introductory discussion of the history of plena music, see my essay “Bum-
bún and the Beginnings of Plena Music,” in Divided Borders: Essays on Puerto Rican
Identity (Houston: Arte Público, 1993), 85–91. On plena and other Puerto Rican mu-
sical forms in New York, see Ruth Glasser, My Music Is My Flag: Puerto Rican Musi-
cians and Their New York Communities, 1917–1940 (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1995).
236 Notes
4. On Cortijo, see Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá, El entierro de Cortijo (Río Piedras, P.R.: Edi-
ciones Huracán, 1983). See also my essay “Cortijo’s Revenge: New Mappings of
Puerto Rican Culture,” in Divided Borders, 92–107.
5. This point and other useful information about the early plena may be found in Félix
Echevarría Alvarado, La plena: Origen, sentido y desarrollo en el folklore puertorriqueño
(Santurce: Express, 1984).
6. For informative reports on recent developments at Rincón Criollo, see David
González, “Atop a Mule to Serenade Woes Away,” New York Times, January 1, 1996,
33, and “The Serpent in the Garden of Renewal,” New York Times, August 29, 1998,
B1. See also R.K., “Puerto Rican Institution Moving; Some Say Its Flavor May Not,”
New York Times, February 20, 1994, C11.
5. “CHA-CHA WITH A BACKBEAT”: SONGS AN D STORI ES OF LATI N BOOGALOO

1. Unless referenced in the endnotes, all citations are from personal interviews and
conversations conducted in June and July 1998 with the following musicians: Joe
Bataan, Benny Bonilla, Johnny Colón, Joe Cuba, Andy González, Pucho Brown,
Bobby Marín, Richard Marín, Eddie Palmieri, Tito Ramos, Richie Ray, Fernando
Rivera (King Nando), Hector Rivera, Tony Rojas, Jimmy Sabater, Pete Terrace, and
Willie Torres. I thank all of them for their time and generosity.
I also thank the following music historians and others knowledgeable about as-
pects of the boogaloo experience: David Carp, René López, Bob Moll, John Storm
Roberts, Max Salazar, Harry Sepúlveda, Henry Medina, Richie Bonilla, Sonia Marín,
Miriam Jiménez Román, John Sánchez, and David Maysonet.
Max Salazar in particular provided many key insights and opened many doors
for me as I got started on the project, and his richly informative article, “Latinized
Afro-American Rhythms,” served as the basis of the present essay. That article ap-
pears in Vernon W. Boggs, ed., Salsiology: Afro-Cuban Music and the Evolution of
Salsa in New York City (New York: Excelsior, 1992), 237–48.
Finally, I wish to thank my friend and colleague, the late Vernon W. Boggs, who
first got me into the Latin R&B groove ten years ago, before his tragic and untime-
ly death in 1994.
2. See especially the work of Vernon Boggs, “Rhythm ’n’ Blues, American Pop, and Salsa:
Musical Transculturation,” Latin Beat 2.1 (February 1992): 16–19, and “Behind the
Harptones and Mambo Boogie” (1954), Latin Beat 2.10 (December–January 1993):
32–35. See also the 1995 LP release disk Vaya!!! R&B Groups Go Latin on Verve, espe-
cially the liner notes by Donn Fileti.
3. King Nando, quoted in Salazar, “Latinized Afro-American Rhythms,” 244.
4. Sanabria, quoted in Vernon W. Boggs, “Visions and Views of a Salsa Promoter—
Izzy ‘Mr. Salsa’ Sanabria: Popularizing Music,” in Boggs, ed., Salsiology, 187–93
(quote from 191).
5. The quote is from Salazar, “Latinized Afro-American Rhythms,” 241.
6. Ibid., 240.
Notes 237
7. See Robert Pruter, Chicago Soul (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1991), 204.
8. Ibid.
9. Bobo, quoted in Salazar, “Latinized Afro-American Rhythms,” 241.
10. Ibid., 242.
11. See David Carp, “Pucho and His Latin Soul Brothers,” Descarga Newsletter 27 (1996):
14–15.
12. Pabón, quoted in Salazar, “Latinized Afro-American Rhythms,” 243.
13. Ibid., 243.
14. See Langdon Winner, “The Sound of New Orleans,” in Jim Miller, ed., The Rolling
Stone Illustrated History of Rock and Roll (New York: Random House, 1980), 43. See
also Jason Berry, Jonathan Foose, and Tad Jones, Up from the Cradle of Jazz: New Or-
leans Music Since World War II (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1986), 126–28;
and Grace Lichtenstein and Laura Dankner, Musical Gumbo: The Music of New Or-
leans (New York: Norton, 1993), 117 passim.
15. Salazar, “Latinized Afro-American Rhythms,” 244.
16. Ibid., 245–46.
17. See Felipe Luciano, “The Song of Joe Bataan,” New York, October 25, 1971, 50–53
(quote on 53).
18. Salazar, “Latinized Afro-American Rhythms,” 244.
19. Ibid.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid., 245.
22. Sanabria, quoted in Boggs, “Visions and Views of a Salsa Promoter,” 191.
23. On the stereotyping in “Che Che Colé,” see Juan Otero Garabis, “Naciones rítmicas:
La construcción nacionales en la música popular y la literatura del Caribe hispano”
(Ph.D. diss., Department of Romance Languages, Harvard University, 1998), 111–14.
24. See Vernon W. Boggs, “Willie ‘El Trombonista’ Colón” (interview), Latin Beat 2.10
(December–January 1993): 11. (“I feel that until things really change for Latinos in
this country, they should really hold on to Spanish and not assimilate. . . . This is
the only thing that they’ve got left. They don’t have much, so I think they should
hold on to the language rather than always use English lyrics.”)
25. Salazar, “Latinized Afro-American Rhythms,” 247
26. John Storm Roberts, The Latin Tinge (London: Oxford University Press, 1979; rev.
ed., 1998), 169.
27. George Lipsitz, Dangerous Crossroads: Popular Music, Postmodernism, and the Poetics
of Place (London: Verso, 1994), 80.
28. On the Puerto Rican role in early hip-hop, see “Puerto Rocks: Rap, Roots, and Am-
nesia,” chapter 6 in the present volume.
6. PU ERTO ROCKS: RAP, ROOTS, AN D AMN ESIA

1. Quotes of Charlie Chase are from my interview with him, “It’s a Street Thing!” pub-
lished in Calalloo 15.4 (Fall 1992): 999–1021.
238 Notes
2. See my article, written in 1984, “Rappin’, Writin’ and Breakin’: Black and Puerto
Rican Street Culture in New York City,” Dissent (Fall 1987): 580–84 (also published
in Centro Journal 2.3 [Spring 1988]: 34–41). A shortened version of the present chap-
ter appeared as “ ‘Puerto Rican and Proud, Boy-ee!’: Rap, Roots, and Amnesia,” in
Tricia Rose and Andrew Ross, eds., Microphone Fiends: Youth Music and Youth Cul-
ture, 89–98 (New York: Routledge, 1994). Other references are Craig Castleman,
Getting Up: Subway Graffiti in New York (Cambridge: MIT Press, 1982); Herbert
Kohl, Golden Boy as Anthony Cool: A Photo Essay on Naming and Graffiti (New York:
Dial, 1972); Steven Hager, Hip-Hop: The Illustrated History of Break Dancing, Tap
Music, and Graffiti (New York: St. Martin’s, 1984). See also David Toop, The Rap At-
tack: African Jive to New York Hip-Hop (Boston: South End, 1984).
3. Quotes from Latin Empire are from my interview with them, “Puerto Raps,” pub-
lished in Centro Journal 3.2 (Spring 1991): 77–85.
4. Ed Morales, “How Ya Like Nosotros Now?” Village Voice, November 26, 1991, 91.
5. For an overview of Latino rap, see Mandolit del Barco, “Rap’s Latino Sabor,” in
William Eric Perkins, ed., Droppin’ Science: Critical Essays on Rap Music and Hip-Hop
Culture (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996), 63–84.
6. Elizabeth Hanley, “Latin Raps: Nuevo ritmo, A New Nation of Rap Emerges,” Elle,
March 1991, 196–98; C.A., “El rap latino tiene tumbao,” Más 2.2 (Winter 1990): 81.
7. Joseph Roland Reynolds, “The Packaging of a Recording Artist,” Hispanic Business
14.7 (July 1992): 28–30.
8. Ibid.
9. Cited in Flores, “Rappin’, Writin’, and Breakin.’”
7. PAN-LATI NO/ TRANS-LATI NO: PU ERTO RICANS I N TH E “N EW N U EVA YORK”

1. Nancy Foner, ed. New Immigrants in New York (New York: Columbia University
Press, 1987), 1, 3. See also The Newest New Yorkers: An Analysis of Immigration into
New York City During the 1980s (New York: Department of City Planning, 1992).
2. As cited by Gabriel Haslip-Viera, “The Evolution of the Latino Community in the
New York Metropolitan Area, 1810 to the Present,” in Haslip-Viera and Sherrie
Baver, eds. Latinos in New York: Communities in Transition (Notre Dame: Notre Dame
University Press, 1996), 3–29.
3. See, for example, Saskia Sassen, The Global City: New York, London, Tokyo (Prince-
ton: Princeton University Press, 1991). The idea of New York as “global city” was
also an integral part of the mayoral campaign and administration of Ed Koch; see
also Robert Fitch, The Assassination of New York (London: Verso, 1993).
4. Andrés Torres and Frank Bonilla, “Decline Within Decline: The New York Perspec-
tive,” in Rebecca Morales and Frank Bonilla, eds., Latinos in a Changing U.S. Econo-
my (Newbury Park, Calif.: Sage, 1993), 98–99.
5. Oscar Handlin, The Newcomers: Negroes and Puerto Ricans in a Changing Metropolis
(Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1959).
6. Torres and Bonilla, “Decline Within Decline,” 99.
Notes 239
7. Puerto Ricans in the Continental United States: An Uncertain Future (Washington,

D.C.: U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, 1976). That report states: “The Commis-
sion’s overall conclusion is that mainland Puerto Ricans generally continue mired
in the poverty facing first generations of all immigrant or migrant groups. Expecta-
tions were that succeeding generations of mainland Puerto Ricans would have
achieved upward mobility. One generation later, the essential fact of poverty re-
mains little changed. Indeed, the economic situation of the mainland Puerto Ricans
has worsened over the last decade.
“The United States has never before had a large migration of citizens from off-
shore, distinct in culture and language and also facing the problem of color preju-
dice. After 30 years of significant migration, contrary to conventional wisdom that
once Puerto Ricans learned the language the second generation would move into
the mainstream of American society, the future of this distinct community in the
United States is still to be determined (145).”
8. Torres and Bonilla, “Decline Within Decline,” 102–103.
9. For a discussion of pan-ethnic Latino organizations and activities in New York dur-
ing the early decades, see Ruth Glasser, My Music Is My Flag: Puerto Rican Musicians
and Their New York Communities, 1917–1940 (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1995), esp. 94–97. See also Bernardo Vega, Memoirs of Bernardo Vega: A Con-
tribution to the History of the Puerto Rican Community in New York (New York: Month-
ly Review, 1984).
10. See Jack D. Forbes, “The Hispanic Spin: Party Politics and Governmental Manipu-
lation of Ethnic Identity,” Latin American Perspectives 19.4 (1992): 59–78.
11. For this wider historical perspective, see Forbes, ibid.; Martha Giménez, “U.S. Eth-
nic Politics: Implications for Latin Americans,” Latin American Perspectives 19.4
(1992): 7–17; William I. Robinson, “The Global Economy and the Latino Popula-
tions in the United States: A World Systems Approach,” Critical Sociology 19.2
(1992): 29–59; Félix Padilla, “Latin America: The Historical Base of Latino Unity,”
Latino Studies Journal 1.1 (1990): 7–27.
12. On the question of terminology (“Hispanic” vs. “Latino”), see David E. Hayes-
Bautista and Jorge Chapa, “Latino Terminology: Conceptual Basis for Standardized
Terminology,” American Journal of Public Health 77.1 (January 1987): 61–68; Fer-
nando M. Treviño, “Standardized Terminology for Standardized Populations,”
American Journal of Public Health 77 (1987), 69–72; Earl Shorris, Latinos: A Biogra-
phy of the People (New York: Norton, 1992), xv–xvii; Ilan Stavans, The Hispanic Con-
dition: Reflections on Culture and Identity in America (New York: HarperCollins,
1995), esp. 24–27.
13. See David López and Yen Espiritu, “Panethnicity in the United States: A Theoretical
Framework,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 13 (1990): 198–224: Yen Le Espiritu, Asian
American Panethnicity: Building Institutions and Identities (Philadelphia: Temple Uni-
versity Press, 1992); Howard Winant, Racial Conditions: Politics, Theory, Comparisons
(Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1994), 60–62.
240 Notes
14. Félix Padilla, Latino Ethnic Consciousness: The Case of Mexican Americans and Puerto
Ricans in Chicago (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1985), vii.
15. See, for example, Félix Padilla, “Latin America: The Historical Base of Latino Unity,”
Latino Studies Journal 1.1 (1990): 7–27; and Padilla, “On the Nature of Latino Eth-
nicity,” in Rodolfo de la Garza, ed., The Mexican American Experience (Austin: Uni-
versity of Texas Press, 1985), 332–45.
16. Misguided pomposity and downright errors abound in Stavans’s book (The Hispan-
ic Condition), as in his unreflected use of terms and phrases like “Latino metabo-
lism” (14), “a five-hundred-year-old fiesta of miscegenation” (13), “our aim is to as-
similate Anglos slowly to ourselves” (9), “society is beginning to embrace Latinos,
from rejects to fashion setters, from outcasts to insider traders” (8), “yesterday’s vic-
tim and tomorrow’s conquistadors, we Hispanics” (10), etc.
17. See especially José Calderón, “ ‘Hispanic’ or ‘Latino’: The Viability of Categories for
Panethnic Unity,” 37–44, and Forbes, “The Hispanic Spin,” 59–78, in Latin Ameri-
can Perspectives 19.4 (1992).
18. See Suzanne Oboler, Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives: Identity and the Politics of (Re)Pres-
entation in the United States (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1995), 3–6. Sub-
sequent page numbers are cited in the text.
19. Giménez, “U.S. Ethnic Politics,” 8.
20. Linda Chavez, Out of the Barrio: Toward a New Politics of Hispanic Assimilation
(New York: Basic Books, 1992), 156. See also the interview with Chavez, “How
Welfare Has Hurt Puerto Ricans,” New York Newsday, October 22, 1991, 97, 100.
21. Chavez, Out of the Barrio, 156.
22. Ibid., 158.
23. Colón, quoted in “Taking Exception with Chavez,” New York Newsday, October 23,
1991, 86.
24. Serrano, quoted in ibid., 83.
25. Enrique Fernández, “Estilo Latino: Buscando Nueva York [sic],” Village Voice, August
9, 1988, 19.
26. Stavans, The Hispanic Condition, 42 passim.
27. Orlando Rodriguez et al., Nuestra America en Nueva York: The New Immigrant His-
panic Populations in New York City, 1980–1990 (New York: Hispanic Research Cen-
ter, Fordham University, 1995).
28. Evelyn S. Mann and Joseph J. Salvo, “Characteristics of New Hispanic Immigrants
to New York City: A Comparison of Puerto Rican and Non-Puerto Rican Hispanics,”
Paper presented at the Annual Meeting of the the Population Association of Amer-
ica, Minneapolis, Minn., May 3, 1984.
29. “Understanding Socioeconomic Differences: A Comparative Analysis of Puerto Ri-
cans and Recent Latino Immigrants in New York City,” unpublished manuscript,
dated June 1995 (in author’s possession).
30. Ibid., MS pages 35–36.
31. Ramona Hernández, Francisco Rivera-Batiz, and Roberto Agodini, Dominican
Notes 241
New Yorkers: A Socioeconomic Profile (New York: CUNY Dominican Studies Insti-
tute, 1995), 5.
32. See Ramona Hernández and Silvio Torres-Saillant, “Dominicans in New York: Men,
Women, and Prospects,” in Haslip-Viera and Baver, eds., Latinos in New York, 30–56.
33. Jorge Duany, Quisqueya on the Hudson: The Transnational Identity of Dominicans in
Washington Heights (New York: CUNY Dominican Studies Institute, 1994), 2.
34. See for example Torres and Bonilla, “Decline Within Decline,” 102.
35. See Robert Smith, “Mexicans in New York: Memberships and Incorporation in a New
Immigrant Community” in Haslip-Viera and Baver, eds., Latinos in New York, 57–103.
See also Joel Millman, “New Mex City,” New York, September 7, 1992, 37–43.
36. The phrase “transnational sociocultural system” was used in a study of Caribbeans
in New York; see Constance R. Sutton, “The Caribbeanization of New York and the
Emergence of a Transnational Sociocultural System,” in Sutton and Elsa M. Chaney,
eds., Caribbean Life in New York City: Sociocultural Dimensions (New York: Center for
Migration Studies, 1987), 15–30.
37. Geoffrey Godsell, “The Puerto Ricans,” Christian Science Monitor, May 1, 1980, 13.
38. The specification of Puerto Ricans as “colonial (im)migrants” and their parallel posi-
tion to colonial or postcolonial immigrants in metropolitan contexts is noted but
scarcely elaborated by Clara Rodríguez, Puerto Ricans: Born in the U.S.A. (Boston:
Unwin Hyman, 1989), 18–19. For a fuller discussion see Ramón Grosfoguel, “Carib-
bean Colonial Immigrants in the Metropoles: A Research Agenda,” in Antonia Dard-
er and Rodolfo D. Torres, eds., The Latino Studies Reader: Culture, Economy, and Society
(Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 1998), 281–93.
39. See, for example, Andrés Torres, Between Melting Pot and Mosaic: African Americans
and Puerto Ricans in the New York Political Economy (Philadelphia: Temple Universi-
ty Press, 1995).
40. Elena Padilla, Up from Puerto Rico (New York: Columbia University Press, 1958), 32.
41. See Jorge Oclander, “Latinos Split Over Keeping Their House District,” Chicago Sun
Times, December 13, 1995, 22–23.
42. “Hispanics Must Forget Politics, Focus on Unity,” Chicago Sun Times, December 27,
1995, 30.
43. For a discussion of the relation of Puerto Ricans to the issue of immigration, see
Franklin Velázquez, “Puerto Ricans and Immigrants: La Misma Lucha,” Crítica 9
(February 1995): 1, 5–6. A valuable assessment of Latino politics in New York City
may be found in Annette Fuentes, “New York: Elusive Unity in La Gran Manzana,”
NACLA Report on the Americas 26.2 (September 1992): 27–33.
8. LI FE OFF TH E HYPH EN: LATI NO LITERATU RE AN D N UYORICAN TRADITIONS

1. Nicolás Kanellos, “The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love” (review), Americas Review
18.1 (1990): 113.
2. Cited in W. J. Stuckey, The Pulitzer Prize Novels: A Critical Backward Look (Norman:
University of Oklahoma Press, 1966), 7. See also John Hohenberg, The Pulitzer
242 Notes
Prizes: A History of Awards in Books . . . (New York: Columbia University Press,

1974), and J. Douglas Bates, The Pulitzer Prize: The Inside Story of America’s Most
Prestigious Award (Secaucus, N.J.: Carol, 1991).
3. Stuckey, The Pulitzer Prize Novels, 262.
4. Cited in ibid., 250.
5. Kanellos, “The Mambo Kings” (review), 113.
6. Enrique Fernández, “Exilados on Main Street,” Village Voice, May 1, 1990, 85.
7. Quoted in Alexandra Kuczynski, “Spider Man: Novelist Abraham Rodriguez Clocks
the Bronx,” Paper (May 1993): 20.1
8. Examples of this assertion as to the historical importance of The Mambo Kings and
its Pulitzer may be found in Harold Augenbraum, ed., Latinos in English: A Selected
Bibliography of Latino Fiction Writers of the United States (New York: Mercantile Li-
brary, 1992), 12, and from a very different perspective, Marc Zimmerman, U.S. Lati-
no Literature: An Essay and Annotated Bibliography (Chicago: March/Abrazo Press,
1992), 38.
9. See, for example, Lori M. Carlson, ed., Cool Salsa: Bilingual Poems on Growing Up
Latino in the United States (New York: Fawcett Juniper, 1994), and Delia Poey and
Virgil Suarez, eds., Iguana Dreams: New Latino Fiction (New York: HarperCollins,
1992).
10. Historical overviews of the “Hispanic literary heritage” may be found in Ramón
Gutiérrez and Genaro Padilla, eds., Recovering the U.S. Hispanic Literary Heritage
(Houston: Arte Público, 19930, as well as in Harold Augenbraum and Ilan Stavans,
eds., Growing Up Latino: Memoirs and Stories—Reflections on Life in the United States
(Boston: Houghton-Mifflin, 1993), and Zimmerman, U.S. Latino Literature. See also
William Luis, Dance Between Two Cultures: Latino Caribbean Literature Written in the
United States (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 1997).
11. See Gustavo Pérez Firmat, Life on the Hyphen: The Cuban-American Way (Austin:
University of Texas Press, 1994), and Ilan Stavans, The Hispanic Condition: Reflec-
tions on Culture and Identity in America (New York: HarperCollins, 1995), whose first
chapter is entitled “Life in the Hyphen,” 7–30.
12. Pérez Firmat, Life on the Hyphen, 1.
13. Ibid., 136–53. Another lengthy discussion of The Mambo Kings may be found in Luis,
Dance Between Two Cultures, 188–214.
14. Pérez Firmat, Life on the Hyphen, 1. Subsequent page numbers are cited in the text.
15. Stavans, The Hispanic Condition, 19. Subsequent page numbers are cited in the text.
16. See, for example, Augenbraum and Stavans, eds., Growing Up Latino, xi–xxix.
17. Stavans, The Hispanic Condition, 19. Subsequent page numbers are cited in the text.
18. For a discussion of the mambo-bolero contrast in The Mambo Kings, see Pérez Fir-
mat, Life on the Hyphen, 149–53.
19. See Oscar Hijuelos, The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love (New York: Farrar, Straus,
Giroux, 1989), 165–66.
20. Gráfico, March 27, 1928, 2; as quoted (in part) in Virginia E. Sánchez Korrol, From
Notes 243
Colonia to Community: The History of Puerto Ricans in New York City (Berkeley: Uni-
versity of California Press, 1994), 73.
21. For an extended discussion of the concept of “cultural capital” and its bearing on lit-
erary canon-formation, see John Guillory, Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary
Canon Formation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). See also, for the the-
oretical foundations of this analysis, Pierre Bourdieu, The Field of Cultural Produc-
tion (New York: Columbia University Press, 1993), especially the essay “The Market
of Symbolic Goods,” 112–41.
22. See, for example, Eduardo Márceles Daconte, ed., Narradores Colombianos en U.S.A.
(Bogotá: Instituto Colombiano de Cultura, 1993), and Daisy Cocco de Filippis and
Franklin Gutiérrez, eds., Stories from Washington Heights and Other Corners of the
World: Short Stories Written by Dominicans in the United States (New York: Latino
Press, 1994).
23. On this point I am grateful for insights from Daisy Cocco de Filippis, Pedro López
Adorno, and David Unger among others involved in the current “Latino literature”
scene in New York. For a related discussion, see Arlene Dávila, “Art and the Politics
of Multicultural Encompassment: ‘Latinizing’ Culture in El Barrio,” Cultural An-
thropology 14.2 (1999): 180–202.
24. For a more critical approach to Cuban American cultural experience and differ-
entiation from that of resident Latino minorities, see the essays by Cuban Amer-
ican critic Román de la Campa, “The Latino Diaspora in the United States: So-
journs from a Cuban Past,” Public Culture 6.2 (Winter 1994): 294–317, and
“Miami, Los Angeles, and Other Latino Capitals,” Postdata (Puerto Rico) 9 (1994):
65–74.
25. See Nicholasa Mohr, “Puerto Rican Writers in the United States, Puerto Rican Writ-
ers in Puerto Rico: A Separation Beyond Language,” in Denis Lynn Daly Heyck, ed.,
Barrios and Borderlands (New York: Routledge, 1994), 264–69.
26. See Michael Lapp, “Managing Migration: The Migration Division of Puerto Rico and
Puerto Ricans in New York City, 1948–68” (Ph.D. diss., Johns Hopkins University,
1990), 303ff.
27. See Lourdes Vázquez, “Nuestra identidad y sus espejos,” El Nuevo Día (San Juan),
February 9, 1997, 8.
28. Ibid., 9.
29. See Poey and Suarez, eds., Iguana Dreams, xviii.
30. Abraham Rodriguez, Spidertown (New York: Penguin, 1993), 267. Subsequent page
numbers are cited in the text.
31. See Rodriguez interview in Carmen Dolores Hernández, ed., Puerto Rican Voices in
English (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 1997), 137–55 (quote from 152).
32. See Jonathan Mandell, “A Posse of One: The Balzac of the Bronx,” New York News-
day, July 19, 1993, 39, 42–43.
33. See Steve Garbarino, “Urgent Fury: Abraham Rodriguez Jr.,” New York Newsday, Au-
gust 9, 1992.
244 Notes
34. Rodriguez, in Hernández, ed., Puerto Rican Voices in English, 140. Subsequent page
numbers are cited in the text.
35. For further details and analysis, see “Pan-Latino/Trans-Latino: Puerto Ricans in the
‘New Nueva York,’ ” ch. 7 of the present volume.
36. See Tato Laviera, AmeRícan (Houston: Arte Público, 1985).
37. María Fernández, “Ode to the DiaspoRican,” in AHA! Hispanic Arts News (February–
March 1998): 14.
38. Rodriguez, in Hernández, ed., Puerto Rican Voices in English, 140.
9. TH E LATI NO IMAGI NARY: MEAN I NGS OF COMMU N ITY AN D I DENTITY

1. David González, “What’s the Problem with ‘Hispanic’? Just Ask a ‘Latino,’ ” New York
Times, November 15, 1992, sec. 4, p. 6.
2. Ilan Stavans, The Hispanic Condition: Reflections on Culture and Identity in America
(New York: HarperCollins, 1995), 27. Another such unusual, and in my view confus-
ing, usage of the terms may be found in William Luis, Dance Between Two Cultures:
Latino Caribbean Literature Written in the United States (Nashville: Vanderbilt Univer-
sity Press, 1997), x–xi; here “Latino” refers to those of Latin American background
born and raised in the United States, while “Hispanic” is taken to refer to those “born
and raised in their parents’ home country.” Though the terminological distinction is
questionable and remote from common parlance, Luis is accurate in calling for dis-
tinctions in group denomination when he states that “it would be incongruous to
group Hispanics from privileged families who have superior educational back-
grounds, traveling to the United States to pursue a post-secondary education, with
Latinos living in the ghettos of East Harlem or East Los Angeles, attending inferior
schools and lacking the economic support necessary to overcome the limitations of
their existence” (xi). For an example of the overemphasis on language and an exces-
sively expansive sense of “Latino” and “Hispanic,” see Geoffrey Fox, Hispanic Nation:
Culture, Politics, and the Constructing of Identity (Secaucus, N.J.: Carol, 1996).
3. The opening citations are renderings of statements I have encountered during the
course of conversations and interviews, or in newspaper accounts. Examples of the
abundant published discussion of the terms Hispanic and Latino may be found in
Suzanne Oboler, Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives: Identity and the Politics of (Re)Presenta-
tion in the United States (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1995); Earl Shorris,
Latinos: A Biography of the People (New York: Norton, 1992); and Latin American Per-
spectives 19.4 (Fall 1992). See also my essay, “Pan-Latino/Trans-Latino: Puerto Ri-
cans in the ‘New Nueva York’,” ch. 7 of the present volume.
4. Documentation of this widespread preference for national designations may be
found in Rodolfo O. de la Garza et al., “Latino National Political Survey,” as pub-
lished in de la Garza, ed., Latino Voices: Mexican, Puerto Rican, and Cuban Perspec-
tives on American Politics (Boulder, Colo.: Westview, 1992). For a response, see Luis
Fraga et al., Still Looking for America: Beyond the Latino National Political Survey
(Stanford, Calif.: Stanford Center for Chicano Research, 1994).
Notes 245
5. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of

Nationalism (London: Verso, 1983). As useful as Anderson’s coinage may be for
characterizing the cultural convergences among Latinos, to posit the idea of a “His-
panic nation,” as in Geoffrey Fox’s book of that title, would seem premature at best,
and misleading in taking Anderson’s analysis too literally (see Fox, Hispanic Nation,
esp. 1–18).
6. The range of theoretical approaches from strictly quantitative to comparative to ide-
ological is evident in the growing published literature on “Hispanics” or “Latinos,”
as cited in note 2 above (this chapter). See in addition, for example, Marta Tienda
and Vilma Ortíz, “ ‘Hispanicity’ and the 1980 Census,” Social Science Quarterly 67
(1986): 3–20; Félix Padilla, Latino Ethnic Consciousness: The Case of Mexican Ameri-
cans and Puerto Ricans in Chicago (Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press, 1985);
Rebecca Morales and Frank Bonilla, eds., Latinos in a Changing U.S. Economy (New-
bury Park, Calif.: Sage, 1993). The concept of “ethnoscape” is set forth by Arjun Ap-
padurai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globalization (Minneapolis: Uni-
versity of Minnesota Press, 1996), esp. 27–65.
7. The present essay was originally intended as a general theoretical introduction to
the projected catalogue of “Latino Voices,” the first international festival of Latino
photography, which opened in Houston in November 1994. The idea of conceptu-
alizing and circumscribing a “Latino imaginary” arose while pre-viewing slides of
images by Chicano, Puerto Rican, and Cuban photographers included in that his-
toric exhibition, and deciding how best to present their theoretical and cultural sig-
nificance to a broad United States audience of the 1990s. Although the catalogue
did not materialize, I have presented the paper in a variety of settings across the
country, incorporating insights as I went along. I especially thank Wendy Watriss,
Frances Aparicio, and Marvette Pérez for their critical responses, though they are in
no way to be held responsible for the arguments of the essay as it stands.
8. The most extended discussion of these instrumental uses of the “Hispanic” label
may be found in Oboler’s Ethnic Labels, Latino Lives, though I also find of some in-
terest the exchange between Fernando Treviño and David Hayes-Bautista in the
American Journal of Public Health 77.1 (January 1987): 61–71.
9. For examples of “Hispanics” in advertisements and other commercial uses, see Flores
and George Yúdice, “Living Borders/Buscando América: Languages of Latino Self-For-
mation,” Social Text 24 (1990): 57–84. That essay also appeared in my book Divided
Borders: Essays on Puerto Rican Identity (Houston: Arte Público, 1993), 199–224. See
also Arlene Dávila, “The Othered Nation: The Marketing and Making of U.S. Latini-
dad” (unpublished manuscript, 1999).
10. On the vast research on “modes of incorporation,” see especially Alejandro Portes and
Robert L. Bach, Latin Journey: Cuban and Mexican Immigrants in the United States
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), and Alejandro Portes and Rubén G.
Rumbaut, Immigrant America: A Portrait (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2d
ed., 1996).
246 Notes
11. See Candace Nelson and Marta Tienda, “The Structuring of Hispanic Ethnicity: His-
torical and Contemporary Perspectives,” in Mary Romero, Pierrette Hondagneu-
Sotelo, and Vilma Ortiz, eds., Challenging Fronteras (New York: Routledge, 1997),
7–29 (quotations from 26).
12. Roberto Suro, Strangers Among Us: How Latino Immigration Is Transforming America
(New York: Knopf, 1998), 146–47. For Rumbaut, see the valuable essay, “The Amer-
icans: Latin American and Caribbean Peoples in the United States,” in Alfred
Stepan, ed., Americas: New Interpretive Essays (New York: Oxford University Press,
1992), 275–307; it is worth noting that while the author seems to have little difficulty
speaking of “Latinos” as a group when contrasting them with African Americans,
he otherwise voices skepticism as to the value of pan-ethnic, or what he terms
“supranational,” identities.
13. See, for example, Silvia Pedraza, “The Contribution of Latino Studies to Social Sci-
ence Research on Immigration,” JSRI Occasional Paper no. 36 (East Lansing: Julian
Samora Research Institute, Michigan State University, 1998). Even broad historical
overviews of Latino immigration may tend to abbreviate the duration of Latino pres-
ence in the United States; see, for example, Rubén G. Rumbaut, “The Americans,”
where preponderant attention goes to the post-1960s period.
14. See Arjun Appardurai,”Patriotism and Its Futures,” Modernity at Large, 158–77.
15. See Fox, Hispanic Nation, esp. 237ff.
16. On Latino rap, see “Puerto Rocks: Rap, Roots, and Amnesia,” ch. 6 of the present
volume. For an interpretation of the casita phenomenon, see “Salvación Casita:
Space, Performance, and Community,” ch. 4 of the present volume.
17. See, for example, Peter Winn, “North of the Border,” in Americas: The Changing Face
of Latin America and the Caribbean (New York: Pantheon, 1992), 550–600. This
chapter, like the book as a whole, is intended as the accompaniment to the ten-part
public television series on contemporary Latin America. “North of the Border,” the
final chapter and segment, is about U.S. Latinos and is based on the research of Ale-
jandro Portes and Rubén G. Rumbaut; their social science findings are significant-
ly amplified by extensive references to rap music, casitas, and other cultural phe-
nomena. See also Fox, Hispanic Nation, esp. 223ff.
10. LATI NO STU DI ES: N EW CONTEXTS, N EW CONCEPTS

1. The events at City College are reported in the New York Times, March 19, 1996, B4,
and in the Chronicle of Higher Education, March 29, 1996, 18. Reporting on the
strike at Columbia University appears in the New York Times, April 15, 1996, B1, B3.
2. The use of the term “globaloney” to refer to obfuscation of local, national, and re-
gional realities and contradictions by imposing a “global” or “transnational” frame-
work occurs in Robert Fitch, The Assassination of New York (London: Verso, 1993).
See also “The Lite Colonial,” ch. 2 of the present volume.
3. See Antonia Darder and Rodolfo D. Torres, eds., The Latino Studies Reader: Culture,
Economy, and Society (Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 1998).
Notes 247
4. Oscar Montero, “Coalitions/Collisions: Notes from a Latino Queer,” in Robert Ji-

Song Ku, ed., Common Grounds: Charting Asian American Studies East of California,
East of California Network of the Association for Asian American Studies, Proceed-
ings of the Fourth Annual Conference (New York: Hunter College/Columbia Uni-
versity, 1996), 45.
5. Angie Chabram, “ ‘Chicana! Rican? No, Chicana-Riqueña!’ Refashioning the Trans-
national Connection,” in David Theo Goldberg, ed., Multiculturalism: A Critical
Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 284.
6. Ibid., 290, 292.
7. It is interesting that Darder and Torres, the editors of The Latino Studies Reader, as-
sume a strong stand against postmodernist orientations, while at the same time
adopting much of the vocabulary and many of the theoretical concerns of post-
modernist discourse (see esp. 5ff).
8. See, for example, Kelvin Santiago, “Subject People” and Colonial Discourses: Economic
Transformation and Social Disorder in Puerto Rico, 1898–1947 (Albany: SUNY Press,
1994).
9. See, for example, Partha Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments: Colonial and
Postcolonial Histories (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), esp. 1–13. See
also Patrick Williams and Laura Chrisman, eds., Colonial and Post-Colonial Theory
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1994).
10. See Bertell Ollman and Edward Vernoff, eds., The Left Academy: Marxist Scholarship on
American Campuses, 3 vols. (New York: Praeger, 1986); Noam Chomsky, ed. The Cold
War and the University: Toward an Intellectual History of the Cold War (New York: New
Press, 1997); and Mark T. Berger, Under Northern Eyes: Latin American Studies and U.S.
Hegemony in the Americas, 1898–1990 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995).
11. An account of the struggle for Chicano Studies, including the original “Plan de Santa
Barbara,” may be found in Carlos Muñoz, Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Move-
ment (London: Verso, 1989). On Puerto Rican Studies, see María Sánchez and Anto-
nio Stevens-Arroyo, eds., Towards a Renascence of Puerto Rican Studies: Ethnic and
Area Studies in the University (Highlands Lakes, N.J.: Social Science Monographs,
1987). See also Frank Bonilla, Ricardo Campos, and Juan Flores, “Puerto Rican Stu-
dies: Promptings for the Academy and the Left,” in Ollman and Vernoff, eds., The Left
Academy 3:67–102; and Pedro Cabán, “The New Synthesis of Latin American and
Latin Studies,” in Frank Bonilla, Edwin Meléndez, Rebecca Morales, and María de los
Angeles Torres, eds., Borderless Borders: U.S. Latinos, Latin Americans, and the Para-
dox of Independence (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998), 195–215.
12. Geoffrey Fox, Hispanic Nation: Culture, Politics, and the Construction of Identity (Se-
caucus, N.J.: Carol, 1996).
13. On the term “ethnoscape” and other pertinent concepts of transnational cultural
studies, see Arjun Appadurai, Modernity at Large: Cultural Dimensions of Globaliza-
tion (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1996).
14. Montero, “Coalitions/Collisions,” 46.
248 Notes
POSTSCRI PT: “NON E OF TH E ABOVE”

1. On the events and political situation in Puerto Rico in 1998, see Andrés Torres,
“Cien Anos de Lucha: The Fight Over the Status of Puerto Rico,” Colorlines (Winter
1999): 23–26, and Mireya Navarro, “Marking a Puerto Rican Anniversary,” New York
Times, July 26, 1998, 24.
2. See Mireya Navarro, “Plan to Sell Puerto Rico Phone Company Leads to Strike,”
New York Times, June 19, 1998, A18.
3. See Mireya Navarro, “With a Vote for ‘None of the Above,’ Puerto Ricans Endorse
Island’s Status Quo,” New York Times, December 14, 1998, A18.
4. J. M. Garcia Passalacqua, “Puerto Rican Nationalism Hits Broadway,” San Juan Star,
December 14, 1997.
5. See Patricia Gonzalez and Roberto Rodriguez, “Puerto Ricans Complain About
‘Yada Yada,’ ” Column of the Americas, May 15, 1998.
6. Don Feder, “No Statehood for Caribbean Dogpatch,” Boston Herald, November 30,
1998.
7. See David Gonzàlez, “The Serpent in the Garden of Renewal,” New York Times, Au-
gust 26, 1998, B1. On current changes in the South Bronx, see Rachelle Garbarine,
“Neighborhood Rises in the South Bronx,” New York Times, December 25, 1998, B7,
and Trish Hall, “A South Bronx Very Different from the Cliché,” New York Times,
February 14, 1999, sec. 11, pp. 1, 7.
8. See Chang Weisberg, “Hip-Hop’s Minority? Latino Artists Unite and Speak Out,”
Industry Insider Magazine 15 (1998): 51–57, 96–97, and Rigs Morales and James
“Chase” Lynch, “Latino Rap Lyricist,” Urban: The Latino Magazine 3.2 (1998): 30–37.
I thank Raquel Rivera for insights into the contemporary Latino rap scene and for
new lines of cultural analysis. See Raquel Rivera, “Puerto Ricans in the Hip-Hop
Zone” (Ph.D. diss., CUNY, 2000).
9. See Lucien Taylor, “Créolité Bites: A Conversation with Patrick Chamoiseau,
Raphäel Confiant, and Jean Bernabé,” Transition 74 (1998): 124–61. Subsequent
page numbers are cited in the text. See also Lucien Taylor, “Mediating Martinique:
The ‘Paradoxical Trajectory’ of Raphäel Confiant,” in George Marcus, ed., Late Edi-
tions 4 Cultural Producers in Perilous States: Editing Events, Documenting Change (Chi-
cago: University of Chicago Press, 1997), 259–329.

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Acknowledgments and Permissions
Many friends and associates offered invaluable help in studying and thinking through
the issues treated in this book. In fact, From Bomba to Hip-Hop is the result of an ongo-
ing dialogue and debate with a whole range of generous and intense people. In addition
to those acknowledged in specific chapters, I am grateful to the following friends,
among many others, who have been my intellectual companions over the past years:
Edna Acosta-Belén, Luis Aponte-Parés, Antonio Arantes, Tony Boston, Arnaldo Cruz-
Malavé, Arlene Dávila, Arcadio Díaz-Quiñones, Ricardo Dobles, Jorge Duany, James
Early, Maria Fernández, Nestor García Canclini, Juan Gelpí, Gabriel Haslip-Viera,
Agustin Laó, George Lipsitz, René López, Nicholasa Mohr, Gerardo Mosquera, Juan
Otero Garabis, Deborah Pacini Hernández, Jorge Pérez, George Priestley, Julio Ramos,
José Rivera, Raquel Rivera, Abraham Rodriguez, Rick Rodriguez, Edgardo Rodriguez
Juliá, Mayra Santos, José Segarra, Diana Taylor, and Wilson Valentín.
I am especially thankful to Doris Sommer and George Yúdice, who read the complete
manuscript at various stages and made a range of insightful criticisms and suggestions,
as did Jean Franco and Robin Kelley. I have attempted to address their comments as I
revised the text.
I also wish to thank all the photographers and visual artists for their guidance, and
Roy Thomas, Ann Miller, and Brady McNamara of Columbia University Press for mak-
ing the completion of this book an enjoyable and rewarding experience.
My compañera Miriam Jiménez Román was her usual intelligent and giving self, and
saw me through all aspects of the book, from early inklings to repeated drafts and re-
writes. To her I owe a very special gratitude and love.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to reprint material from the following copyright-

ed works:
Excerpts from “Kinda Hungry” and “Just Not Listed” (song lyrics) by the Latin Empire.
Reprinted by permission of Anthony Boston and Richard Rodriguez of Latin Empire.
253
254 Acknowledgments and Permissions
Excerpt from “melao” (poem) by Tato Laviera. From Mainstream Ethics (Houston: Arte
Público Press—University of Houston, 1988). Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Excerpt from “nuyorican” (poem) by Tato Laviera. From AmeRícan (Houston: Arte
Público Press—University of Houston, 1985). Reprinted by permission of the publisher.
Excerpts from “La Vida Te Da Sorpresas,” “Ven Acá (Tiguerito Tiguerito),” and “Puer-
to Rico No Te Vendas” (song lyrics) by Tomás Robles (TNT). Reprinted by permission of
Tomás Robles.
Earlier versions of some of the essays included in this book were published in jour-
nals or essay collections. I thank the editors of these publications for permission to
reprint revised versions of the original essays:
The Prelude is adapted from material originally published in Diálogo (Puerto Rico)
(February 1995): 53.
Chapter 3 is adapted from material originally published in the Modern Language Quar-
terly 57.2 (June 1996): 381–95. Reprinted by permission.
Chapter 4 is adapted from material originally published in Diana Taylor, ed., Negotiat-
ing Performance: Gender, Sexuality, and Theatricality in Latino/o America (Durham, N.C.:
Duke University Press, 1994). Reprinted by permission.
Chapter 6 is adapted from material originally published in William Eric Perkins, ed.,
Droppin’ Science: Critical Essays on Rap Music and Hip-Hop Culture (Philadelphia: Temple
University Press, 1996). Copyright (c) 1996 by Temple University. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by permission of Temple University Press.
Chapter 7 is adapted from material originally published in Centro Journal 8.12

(Spring 1996): 170–86. Reprinted by permission.
Chapter 9 is adapted from material originally published in Frances Aparicio and Su-
sana Silverman-Chávez, eds., Tropicalizations: Transcultural Representations of “Latinidad”
(Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1997). Reprinted by permission.
Chapter 10 is adapted from material originally published in the Harvard Educational

Review 67.2 (Summer 1997): 208–21. Copyright (c) 1997 by the President and Fellows
of Harvard College. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.

Index
Acid Jazz (music style), described, 111 Ayala, Benny, 64, 65, 67
Adorno, Theodor, 18, 50 “¡Ay Qué Rico!” (song), 95
African Americans: relating to Puerto “Azúcar” (song), 89, 94
Ricans, 10, 80, 163; literature and,
184; as minority, 195; musical heri- “Bang Bang” (song), 79–84, 86, 91,
tage of, 104, 112, 117, 123; musical 94–98, 111, 226
styles of, 88, 128; musical tastes of, Barbero, Jesús Martín, 23
80–81, 87, 91, 96–97; rap groups, Barretto, Ray, 89, 91–92, 108–109, 125
2–3 Bataan, Joe, 105–108, 226
African American studies, 216 batey, described, 66, 70
aguinaldos, 109, 226 Bauzá, Mario, 80
Alegre All-Stars (group), 90 Benítez-Rojo, Antonio, 39
Alonso, Tite Curet, 110 Bernabé, Jean, 227
Alpert, Herb, 86 Bernstein, Leonard, 141
Alvarez, Henny, 68 Bhabha, Homi, 35, 55, 214, 237n7
Alvarez, Julia, 173–74, 176, 177 Big Bad Hank, 127
American studies, 215–16 Big Daddy Kane, 116–17
AmeRícan term, described, 187 Big Punisher (Christopher Rios),
Amigos de la Plena (group), 226 226–27
Anderson, Benedict, 193, 213–14 bilingualism, 57–58; of Mean Machine
Aponte-Pares, Luis, 64 (group), 124; Puerto Rican statehood
Appadurai, Arjun, 19, 23, 230nn7–8 and, 224; rap and, 122, 128, 137–38,
Arnaz, Desi, 169–71, 173, 175, 185 227; rhyming and, 127, 131. See also
Asian Americans, as minority, 195 language; Spanglish
Asian American studies, 205–206, 210 Blades, Rubén, 134
“Así Es la Vida” (song), 131 Bobo, Willie (William Correa), 93
Ateneo Puertorriqueño, 31–32, 178 Boggs, Vernon, 236nn1–2
“At the Party” (song), 83, 91, 97–98, 104 bolero (music style), 85, 87, 90, 175
255
256 Index
bomba music, 226; introduced, 1, 4; Chamoiseau, Patrick, 227

Latin rap and, 138; at Salvación Casita charanga-pachanga (music style), 87, 91
event, 67 Chase, Charlie (Carlos Mandes), 2, 3,
bomba y plena, 2, 53, 67–69, 74, 127, 116–17, 139; on bilingualism, 128;
226 history of rap and, 118–26; on rap
Bonilla, Benny, 94, 95–96, 99 scam, 127
“Boogaloo Blues” (song), 83, 88, 100– Chatterjee, Partha, 51, 214
104 Chavez, Linda, 155–57, 163
boogaloo music, 4, 13, 80–112, 201, 226; “Che Che Colé” (song), 110, 237n23
demise of, 107–12; Latin rap and, Checker, Chubby, 86
138; origins of, 86, 88–89 Cheetah Club, 80, 108
Boston, Anthony (MC KT “Krazy Chicano: literature, 173, 176–77, 183;
Taino”), 4, 129–30, 134 rock music, 201; studies, 207, 215,
Bourdieu, Pierre, 19 216–17, 247n11
breakdancing, 118, 121, 138 Cisneros, Sandra, 173
Brown, Henry Lee. See Pucho (Henry citizenship: vs. popular culture, 19; of
Lee Brown) Puerto Ricans, 162
Brown, James, 138 civil rights movement, 200–201, 215
Burgos, Julia de, 183 civil society vs. popular culture, 19
Clark, Carolina Mora, 70
“Cachao.” See López, Israel Club Dos Antillas, 148
Campos, Pedro Albizu, 33 cocolo, described, 32, 231n3
Canario y Su Grupo (group), 67 Cold Crush Brothers (group), 2, 3, 116;
Capeman (musical play), 224 Charlie Chase and, 118–19, 121, 128
Caribbean: immigration from, 143, 209; Cole, Nat King, 88, 90
rap history and, 138; Spanish- Colón, Jesús, 141
language reggae-rap in, 115 Colón, Johnny, 83–84, 88, 100–101, 103,
casitas, 64, 69, 202, 235n2, 246n17; as 108
alternative places, 75; meanings of, Colón, Willie, 109–10, 123, 156–57, 162
74–77; in Puerto Rico, 71–72, 75; in colonialism, 8–10, 12, 157, 186, 241n38;
South Bronx, 72–74, 75, 225–26 commercial, 39; Latino studies and,
Castillo, Pepe, 68 206, 218; lite, 31–47; rap and, 138.
Castleman, Craig, 118 See also postcolonialism
Castor, Jimmy, 138 commercialism: bilingualism and, 122;
Central America, immigration from, Puerto Ricans in rap and, 117
143–44 communities: emigrant Puerto Rican,
Cepeda, Rafael, 64, 65–66, 68, 77 50, 52; imagined, 193–94, 213–14,
Cepeda, Tito, 122 217; Latino studies and, 207, 217;
Certeau, Michel de, 19, 21 nomenclature and, 192–93; popular
Césaire, Aimé, 228 culture and, 25; transnational,
Chabram, Angie, 211 161–62
cha-cha (music style), 87, 94 Concepción, César, 67
Index 257
Confiant, Raphäel, 227–28 Dávila Colón, Luis, 33, 46–47

Cooper, Martha, 64 deejays, Puerto Rican, 118–20
Coquets (group), 105 Def Committee (group), 122
Correa, William. See Bobo, Willie demographic labels, 194–95, 209
Cortijo, Rafael, 21–22, 67, 68 diasporic experiences, 42–43, 46; during
Cortwright, Wito, 91 1998, 223–27; contemporary culture
Coss, Luis Fernando, 34 and, 28–29; of Cubans, 172, 178;
Cowley, Malcolm, 168 described, 9–11; hybrid culture and,
créolistes, described, 227–28 26; language and, 57; Latino studies
crossover music, 86, 138; boogaloo as, and, 213; of Mex-Yorkers, 162;
89 Nuyorican literature and, 187
Cruz, Bobby, 84, 85 Diaz, Junot, 177
Cruz, Celia, 57 Díaz-Quiñones, Arcadio, 49–52, 55, 57,
Cruz, Norma, 64, 65, 70 60
Cruz, Victor Hernández, 54, 59, 182 diversion concept, 39–41, 42, 47
Cuba: immigration from, 142, 144, 199; Dominican Republic: immigration from,
literature and, 170–75, 182–83 141–44, 199; rappers in, 112; slang of,
Cuba, Joe, 79, 82, 83, 90, 94, 110. See 135
also Joe Cuba Sextet Dominicans, 7; literature about, 174, 177;
Cubop music, 80, 88 in New York, 141–42; relationships
cultural identity issues: axes of under- with Puerto Ricans of, 160
standing and, 42; community and, Dominican Yorks, 161–62
193–94; in emigrant communities, doo-wop (music style), 80, 87–88, 89;
53; hip-hop and, 126, 138; Latino Latin rap and, 138; retrospective
studies and, 206; in literature, 169– record albums of, 111
70, 172, 176–77, 180, 225, 243n21; of Drifters (group), 88
Puerto Ricans, 46, 56, 163–64; in Duany, Jorge, 160–61
Puerto Rico, 3, 33–34, 232n16; rap Duchesne Winter, Juan, 36–37
history and, 137–39
cultural: literacy, 178–79; nationalism, East Harlem, housing in, 63
33; studies, 211 East Harlem Music School, 103
cultures 7; hybrid, 26, 28; literature and, ELA. See Estado Libre Asociado
169–74, 225 El Barrio: drug use in, 103; housing in,
Cutlass, Frankie, 227 63; members of, 66; musicians
Cypress Hill (group), 112, 126–27 from, 104–105; musicians of, 83;
songs about, 135
Dalto, Jorge, 110 El General (group), 115
dance music: boogaloo music and, 86; El Gran Combo (group), 83, 112, 127
Charlie Chase and, 119; popular Ellis, Cynthia, 95
culture and, 15; watusi, 91–92 “El Pito” (song), 80, 86–87, 91
danzas, 109 “El Watusi” (song), 89, 91–93, 109
Dávila, Arlene, 233n16, 245n9 Escobar, Emilio, 69
258 Index
Espiritu, Yen, 150 geographic location: effect on collective

Estado Libre Asociado (ELA), 47 awareness of, 52–53; hip-hop and,
Estefan, Gloria, 170–71 138; identity and, 56
Esteves, Sandra María, 54, 56, 59 George, Catherine (Doña Catín), 70
Estrada, Noël, 59 Gerardo (group), 115, 132
ethnic studies, 205, 207, 216 Gil, Carlos, 36
ethnographic interventions, 21 Gillespie, Dizzie, 80, 87
ethnonation, 36, 232n11 Giménex, Martha, 153
Glaser, Nathan, 155
Fabian, Johannes, 14–15, 20, 23 Glasser, Ruth, 235n3, 239n9
Fania All-Stars (group), 80, 108, 110, 123 Glissant, Edouard, 39–40, 41–42, 227
Fania record label, 106, 226; salsa, global communication, popular culture
origin of, 108–109 and, 24
Fanon, Frantz, 50 global consumer culture, 28
Fantastic Five (group), 122 globalism, 10, 161, 164; Latino studies
Fat Boys (group), 116–17 and, 209; mass consumption and,
Fat Joe (Joseph Cartagena), 226–27 37–38; postcolonial theory and, 36
Fearless Four (group), 116, 122 Goldner, George, 101, 105, 107
Feliciano, Cheo, 81, 90, 95, 108 González, Andy, 84, 106
Fernández, Enrique, 157, 168 González, José Luis, 50, 51, 183
Fernández, María (Mariposa), 187 gospel (music style), 89
Figueroa, Humberto, 74 graffiti writing, 115, 118, 121, 138, 238n2
Fiske, John, 229n3 Gramsci, Antonio, 25
Fitzpatrick, Joseph, 155 Gran Combo (group), 83
flag incidents: American flag, 43–44; Grandmaster Cas, 127
Puerto Rican flag, 31–33, 43–44, 224 Grandmaster Flash, 3, 119–20
folklore: of Puerto Ricans, 13–14; shift Grandmaster Theo, 120
of, to popular culture, 17–19 Greenberg, Clement, 18
“Fortuna” (song), 105 Grillo, Frank. See Machito
Foucault, Michel, 55–56 group identification: Latino music and,
Fox, Geoffrey, 201 13; in New York, 142
Frow, John, 18 guajiros, described, 175
Fugees (group), 227 guaracha (music style), 65, 85, 87
funk (music style), 92–93 “Gypsy Woman” (song), 105–107
Fusco, Coco, 58
fusions: cultural, 163; musical, 138 Hager, Steven, 118, 127
Hall, Stuart, 18, 24–25; on
gangs, hip-hop and, 138 carnivalesque, 26; on diasporic
gangsta rap, in Puerto Rico, 3 experience, 42–43; on contemporary
Garcia, Cristina, 176, 183 colonialism, 37–38
García Canclini, Nestor, 19 Hancock, Herbie, 93
gender issues, 210. See also women Handlin, Oscar, 18, 145
Index 259
Harlem, social history of youth culture imaginary, Latino, 191–203, 227–28,

in, 118 245n7
Harlow, Larry, 108–109 imagined communities, 193–94, 213–14,
Harptones (group), 88, 111 217
Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass immigration: Latino, 9–10, 141–47, 171,
(group), 86 200–201, 246n12; Latino studies
Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 25 and, 206, 246n13; legislation and,
Hernández, Rafael, 175 143–44; Mexican Americans and,
Hertz, Betti-Sue, 64 161–62; Puerto Rico and, 196–97,
Hijuelos, Oscar, 167–70, 173–74, 175, 241n43; rap history and, 138. See also
181, 183, 188 migration
Hi Latin Boogaloos (group), 105 imperialism, Latino studies and, 214
hip-hop: history of, 137–38; Latinization Impressions (group), 105
of, 116; movies, 117, music style, 227; independence movement (Puerto Rico),
style wars of, 132. See also Latin rap; 34, 222–23. See also statehood issues
rap Independence Party (Puerto Rico), 31, 46
Hispanics, term discussed, 7–8, 142, Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña, 178
147–49, 153–54, 191–92, 196–98,
203, 209, 244nn2–3, 245n6 Jackson, Michael, 47
historical memory, 49–61; imagination jala jala, 84–85, 108
and, 23; labels and, 148; Latino Jamaican dubbing, 138
studies and, 207; modernity and, 29; jazz music, 85, 89, 226. See also Latin
understanding of, 7 jazz
housing: casita culture and, 74; Lloréns Jiménez, Mannel (Canario), 67
Torres projects, 21; in South Bronx, Jiménez, Nick, 79, 90
63, 225 Joe Cuba Sextet, 79, 81, 90, 96, 99
Hurricane Gee (Gloria Rodriguez), Johnny Colón and His Orchestra, 101,
227 103
hybrid cultures, 26, 28 June Bug, 122
hyphenation, discussed, 170–74, 176,
180, 183 Kanellos, Nicolás, 168
K-Doe, Ernie, 99
identity: community and, 194; dual Kenner, Chris, 98–99
sense of, 161; literature and, 174; Kid Frost, 132, 135; Kid Frost (group), 115,
pan-Latino unity and, 150–52; 126–27, 128
portable, described, 59; of Puerto “Kinda Hungry” (song), 133–34
Ricans in rap, 122–23 Kohl, Herbert, 118
identity politics, 10. See also cultural Krazy Taino. See Boston, Anthony (MC
identity issues KT “Krazy Taino”)
Iglesias, César Andreu, 51
“I Like It Like That” (song), 83, 94, 96– Laclau, Ernesto, 18
99, 103 La India (group), 112
260 Index
language: boogaloo music and, 109–10; Latin rap, 117, 122, 124, 128, 137, 139;
hip-hop and, 115; Latino literature overview of, 238n5. See also rap
and, 175; literature and, 178; memory Latin Soul Brothers (group), 93–94
and, 51–52, 56–61; rap and, 122. See Latin soul music, 89, 103, 105, 110–11,
also bilingualism; Spanglish 201. See also soul music
La Perfecta (group), 94 Latin Souls (group), 1–5
La Protesta (group), 97 “La Vida Te Da Sorpresas” (song), 134
La-So term, described, 105 Laviera, Tato, 53–54, 59, 187
La-Teens (group), 105 Lavoe, Hector, 109
Latin Acid (music style), described, 111 Lebrón Brothers, 105, 226
Latin-aires (group), 105 Lee, Peggy, 97
Latin Alliance (group), 126, 135 LeFeber, Walter, 37
Latin America: music radio program- León, Argeliers, 15
ming in, 110; pan-Latino unity and, Leonard, Chuck, 119
151; Spanish-language reggae-rap in, Lewis, Oscar, 141, 155, 174
115 Lewis, Stan, 101
Latin Chords (group), 110 Libre (band), 65, 74, 112, 127. See also
Latin Empire (group), 1, 4, 115, 117, 124, Oquendo, Manny
127; lyrics of, 132–34; name origin of, Lipsitz, George, 111
130–31; racial issues in rap and, 129. Lisa M (rapper), 3, 116
See also Boston, Anthony (MC KT literature, Latino, 167–88, 202
“Krazy Taino”); Rodríguez, Rick LL Cool J, 116–17
(“Puerto Rock”) Longhair, Professor, 99
Latin hip-hop (music style), 126. See also “Lookie Lookie” (song), 84–85
hip-hop (music style) López, David, 150
Latinismo, term discussed, 151, 164 López, Israel “Cachao,” 95, 104
Latin jazz, 80, 88; Latin rap and, 138. See López, René, 82
also jazz music Los Guineitos after-hours club (Banana
Latin New York magazine, 108 Club), 100–101
Latino identity, 7–8, 153, 154, 157, Los Pleneros de la 21 (group), 2, 67, 68,
175–76; community and, 194; in 69, 74, 127, 226
New York City, 188. See also pan- “lowercase people,” described, 180–
Latinization of New York; straight 88
males and, 210. See also cultural Lymon, Frankie, 88
identity issues; identity
Latino: imaginary, 191–203, 227–28, MacDonald, Dwight, 18
245n7; literature, 167–88, 202, 225, Machito (Frank Grillo), 80, 87, 90, 95,
243n23; studies, 205–18; unity, 126 109, 175
Latinos: invisibility of, 120, 125, 175, 180; Madonna incident, 31–33, 38, 45, 46
term discussed, 7–8, 142, 147–49, Maldonado, Adal, 179
152–54, 191–92, 203, 209, 244nn2–3, Maldonado, David, 125
245n6 mambo music, 80, 82, 84, 85, 89, 125,
Index 261
175; vs. American pop music styles, colonialism and, 46; literature about,
109; as Latin formative style, 87 180, 188; Puerto Rican historical
Manrique, Jaime, 176 memory and, 60; and resettlement,
Marc Anthony (group), 112 of Puerto Ricans, 11, 50–51. See also
Marín, Bobby, 88, 110 immigration
“Mariposa” (María Fernández), 187 Mills, C. Wright, 155
Marqués, René, 50 Miracles (group), 98
Martí, José, 57, 158, 183, 198, 200 misogyny in Latino literature, 169, 181–
Martín Barbero, Jesús, 23 82
Martinique: colonialism and, 39–41; Mohr, Nicholasa, 178, 182, 186
writers from, 227–28 “moments of freedom,” 17, 20, 22, 28,
Martorell, Antonio, 57 229n1; catching and, 21
mass culture, 17–18, 232n23; debate Montañez, Victor, 67
(1950s), 18 Montero, Oscar, 210, 218
mass media: advent of, 17–18; pan- Morales, Noro, 175
Latinization and, 149; popular Morris, Meagan, 229n1
culture and, 24 Muévete conference (November 1994), 1
Masucci, Jerry, 106 multiculturalism, 10, 126, 137–38; in
Mayfield, Curtis, 105 Latino literature, 169; Latino studies
MC KT. See Boston, Anthony (MC KT and, 211–12
“Krazy Taino”) musica jíbara, 4, 53
MC Rubie Dee (Rubén García), 139
MC TNT (Tomás Robles), 134–36, 139 NAFTA (North American Free Trade
Mean Machine (group), 124, 128, 135 Agreement), 209
mediation, popular culture and, 17-18, Nando, King (Fernando Rivera), 88,
22–23 104–105; on demise of Latin booga-
Mellow Man Ace (group), 112, 115, 131; loo, 107
bilingualism and, 128 nationalism, 33–34, 230n23; colonial,
memory, historical, 23, 49–61, 199–200 36, 45–46; concept of, in Puerto
merengue music, 2, 226; in Puerto Rico, Rico, 12; cultural, 33; Díaz-Quiñones
3; rap and, 115 interpretation of, 50; Latino studies
Mexican Americans: in Chicago, 150–51; and, 212–13
globalization and, 208; in New York, national-popular term, described, 25
161 negative assimilation, 173
Mexico: immigration from, 142–44; Négritude movement, 228
Tijuana border culture study and, 26 New Music Seminar (1990), 128
Mex-Yorkers, 161 New Rican Village, 179
Miami Sound Machine (group), 170 New York Latin (music style), 89, 91, 94;
Midnighters (group), 92 African American music and, 110;
migration, 161, 243n26; circular, 164; origin of, 132
hybrid cultures and, 26; Latino Nieves, Tito, 111, 226
imaginary and, 198–99; lite “Not Listed” (song), 132
262 Index
nuestra América, 165, 198, 200 Pedreira, Antonio S., 50

nueva canción, 226 Perdomo, Willie, 187
Nuyorican life, 43; introduced, 12; poetry Pérez, Matías, 67
about, 53–54, 138, 179, 183, 187; Pérez Firmat, Gustavo, 170–72, 173, 175,
Puerto Ricans and, 142 180
Nuyorican: literature, 176–78, 182–83, Pete Rodríguez y Su Conjunto (group),
185–86; music, 82, 134, 226 95
Nuyorican Poet’s Café, 179 Pichón, Vicente, 68
Pickett, Wilson, 92, 98
Oboler, Suzanne, 151–54, 156, 157, 165 Picó, Fernando, 50
“Ode to the DiaspoRican” (Mariposa), Pietri, Pedro, 58, 179, 182, 186
187 Piñero, Miguel, 186
Operation Bootstrap, 46, 145 plebiscite (Puerto Rico, 1998), 22–23, 225
Oppenheimer, “Bumbún,” 68 plena music, 2, 65, 136, 225; Latin rap
Oquendo, Manny, 65, 74, 81, 94, 100, and, 138; origin of, 69, 235n3, 236n5;
112, 127 origins of salsa and, 109; at Salvación
Orlons (group), 92 Casita event, 67–70
Orquesta Aragón (group), 109 pleneros, 67–69, 136, 226
Orquesta Broadway (group), 96 Pollard, Ray, 104
Ortíz, Fernando, 39 popular culture: capturing of, 29;
Ortiz, Luis ‘Perico,’ 125 comments on, 12, 13–14; as contem-
Ortiz, Renato, 25 porary practice, 15; hegemonic
Ortíz Kofer, Judith, 176, 182, 186 meaning of, 24–25, 34; hip-hop and,
“Our Latin Thing” (film), 80, 108 116–17; imagination in, 23, 230n14;
moments of freedom and, 20;
Pabón, Carlos, 33, 34, 36–37 reconversion and, 26–28
Pabón, Tony, 88, 96–99 popular culture in time, 17–29;
Pacheco, Johnny, 109, 110 described, 14–15
Padilla, Félix M., 150–52, 164 Popular Democratic Party (Puerto Rico),
Pagán, Ralfie, 104 223
Pagani, Federico, 106 postcolonialism: Latino studies and, 214;
Palladium Ballroom, 80, 87 Puerto Rico and, 9–10, 35–39, 201,
Palm Gardens Ballroom, 79–80, 86 233n17, 241n38. See also colonialism
Palmieri, Charlie, 83, 95 Price, Sally, 64, 75
Palmieri, Eddie, 89, 94–95, 108, 110 Prince Whipper Whip, 122
pandereta, 70 Proposition 209 (California), 206
pan-ethnic diversity in New York, Pucho (Henry Lee Brown), 93–94, 111
147–57, 164 Puente, Tito, 83, 87, 89, 95, 100,
pan-Latinization of New York, 142–44 108–109, 175, 225; Charlie Chase
pan-Latin unity, discussed, 128, 151 and, 125
Partido Revolucionario Cubano, 148 “Puerto Rican and Proud, Boy-ee”
Pastrana, Joey, 104, 105 (song), 4
Index 263
Puerto Rican Day Parade (New York), Ramos, Juan Antonio, 36

224 Ramos, Julio, 59, 235n16
Puerto Ricans: as colonial emigrants, Ramos, Tito, 88, 101–103, 110
162–63; globalization and, 208; as rap: history of, 118–26, 137–38;
“Hispanics,” 8–9, 141–65; migration invisiblity of Latinos and, 120, 125;
and resettlement of, 11; in New York, Puerto Rican and Black youth and,
as Hispanic stereotypes, 141–42; in 117; Puerto Ricans and, 121, 226–27;
New York, pan-Latino unity and, salsa and, 112. See also Latin rap
154–61; in rap, 115–16, 134; relation- rappers: clothing of, described, 121, 130;
ships with Dominicans of, 160; histories of, 116–18; naming of,
unemployment and, 145–46 130–31
Puerto Rican studies, 207, 215, 217 “Rapper’s Delight” (song), 127
Puerto Rico: diaspora of, and language, Ray, Ricardo (Richie), 83–86, 87, 94, 110
57; diaspora of, and postcolonialism, Raza studies, 207
41–42, 46; diaspora of, described, R&B. See rhythm and blues music
9–11, 144; diaspora of, government reconversion, discussed, 26–27
and, 222; diaspora of, hybrid culture Red Alert (group), 128
and, 26; flag desecration incident in, reggae music, 138; in Puerto Rico, 3
31–33; historical memory and, 49; reggaespañol dance hall, 138
music radio programming in, 110; reversion (rétour) concept, 40, 42
political status of, 136–37; as a post- Reyes, Marcial, 68
colonial colony, 9–10, 35–39; rap in, rhymes: bilingualism and, 127, 131; of
3; rappers in, 112, 116; traditional Latin Empire, 132–34; of MC Rubie
music of, 109; U.S. invasion of Dee, 139; of MC TNT, 134–35
(1898), 221 rhythm and blues music, 80–82, 87–89;
Puerto Rock (Rick Rodríguez), 4, 124, 134 Charlie Chase and, 119, 124; retro-
Puerto rocks: described, 130; rap history spective record albums of, 111
and, 137–39 Rincón Criollo casita (South Bronx), 2,
Puff Daddy (group), 227 64, 76, 225, 236n6; founders of, 67,
68; front yard of, described, 70;
Quinn, Anthony, 174 replica of, in Smithsonian Institu-
Quintero Rivera, Angel G., 15 tion, 74–75; women instrumentalists
at, 70
racial issues: Latin bands and, 175; Rivera, Edward, 54
Latino studies and, 206; in rap, 116, Rivera, Fernando. See Nando, King
129, 138 Rivera, Hector, 83, 97, 104, 111, 226
racialization, 152; Latino studies and, Rivera, Ismael, 68
210–11 Rivera, José, 2, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 72,
racist labels, 153, 158 225, 226
radio music stations, 110, 118, 119 Rivera, Mon, 67, 68, 69
Rama, Angel, 50 Rivera, Ramón (“Papo Chín”), 2, 64, 67,
Ramírez, Louie, 110 68, 72, 226
264 Index
Rivera, Raquel, 3, 248n8 dancing at, described, 70–71; women

Robinson, Sylvia, 127 instrumentalists at, 70
Robles, Tomás. See MC TNT (Tomás Sanabria, Izzy, 89, 108, 109
Robles) Sánchez, Luis Rafael, 51, 234n3
Robski, 122 Santamaría, Mongo, 89, 93, 110, 111
rock and roll music, 87, 226 Santana (group), 110
Rodgers, Michael, 98 Santiago, Al, 90
Rodrigues, José, 94 Santiago, Esmeralda, 54, 56, 58, 176, 182
Rodriguez, Abraham, 43–45, 168, scratching, 120, 123
180–85, 187–88, 225 seis, 109, 226
Rodríguez, Arsenio, 91, 109 Serrano, José, 157, 162, 163
Rodríguez, Charlie, 32–33 shing-a-ling, 95, 105, 108
Rodríguez, Clara, 162 Shorris, Earl, 149
Rodríguez, Pete, 83, 88, 94, 95–96, 98, Smith, Huey “Piano,” 99
101, 110, 226 Smithsonian Institution Experimental
Rodríguez, Rick (“Puerto Rock”), 4, 124 Gallery, 63–64, 75–77
Rodríguez, Tito, 87, 95, 175 son (music style), 80, 81, 84, 85, 87
Rodríguez Juliá, Edgardo, 21, 23, 230n15 Soto, José Manuel (“Chema”), 64, 67,
Rogers, Barry, 94 68–69, 225–26
Rojas, Tito, 112 Soto, Pedro Juan, 183
Rojas, Tony, 88, 101–103 soul music, 81, 82, 89. See also Latin
Román, Madeline, 33 soul music
roots: language and, 59; rap and, 120; South Bronx: housing in, 63, 225;
sala music and, 109–10 literature about, 180, 183, 185, 225;
Rosaldo, Renato, 51 social history of youth culture in, 118;
Rosario, Willie, 91 Spidertown neighborhood (fictional)
Rubén DJ, 3, 116 of, 42–43, 225
Ruby D (Rubén García), 121 Spanglish, 56–57; Latin rap and, 127,
Run DMC (group), 116–17 138; rap and, 115, 122
Spivak, Gayatri, 214
Sabater, Jimmy, 79–81, 83, 87, 88, 90, Stardust Ballroom, 90
99, 104, 112, 226 statehood issues, 31, 34, 221–22, 224–25.
Said, Edward, 50, 52, 55 See also independence movement
Salazar, Max, 110, 236n1 (Puerto Rico)
salsa music, 2, 3–4, 65, 89, 201, 226; Stavans, Ilan, 150, 151, 172–73, 175–76,
Charlie Chase and, 119; Cuban- 180, 240n16
based, 139; and demise of boogaloo, “Still Not a Player” (song), 227
108–109; in English language, 112; Style Wars (film), 117
origin of, 80; term, described, 110–11 Suarez, Gil, 105
salsa-rap, 125 subaltern studies, 213
salsoul term, described, 105 Sugar, Dick “Ricardo,” 106
Salvacíon Casita (event), 65–70, 76, 225; Sugar Hill record label, 127
Index 265
Sunsets (group), 88 Vázquez, Lourdes, 179

symbolic inversion concept, 229n1 Vega, Bernardo, 51, 141, 239n9
Symphony Sid, 101 Vega, Ed, 186
Vibrations (group), 92
Teenagers (group), 88 Vico C, 3, 116
telephone company strike (Puerto Rico), Victor Montañez y Sus Pleneros de la
221–23 110 (group), 68
tertulia: described, 4; Latino studies and, Viento de Agua (group), 226
13
Third Base (group), 128–29 “Watermelon Man” (song), 89, 93
Thomas, Piri, 82, 180, 182, 183, 186, 225 “We’re Puerto Rican and Proud” (song),
timbales, 93–94, 99 131
“To Be with You” (song), 89–90, 93 West Side Story, 141
Tom and Jerrio (group), 92 Whodini (group), 117
Tony Touch, 222 Wild Style (film), 117, 122
Toro, Yomo, 225 Williams, William Carlos, 174
Torres, Willie, 81, 84, 89–91, 108 women: in Latino literature, 181–82; in
Tough Bronx Action, 135 plena music, 69–70
Toussaint, Allen, 99 women’s studies, 216
translocality, Latino studies and, 211, 214 Wright, Richard, 184
transnational: 36, 38, 47, 158, 186, 209, writers: from Martinique, 227–28;
211, 214, 232n11, 241n36; communi- Nuyorican, 182, 186; on pan-Latin
ties, 161–62; consumer culture, 32; identity, 149–54; presence of, 20–21;
movements, 10, 26, 201 Pulitzer Prize winner, 167; women,
182, 187
underground music, in Puerto Rico, 3
Yúdice, George, 230n23
Valdéz, Vicentico, 96
Valentín, Bobby, 123 Zulu Nation, Puerto Rican chapter of,
Vargas, Wilfredo, 127 135

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What is the book about?

What is the book about?

What topics are discussed in the book?

What topics are discussed in the book?

From Bomba to Hip-Hop

Popular Cultures, Everyday Lives

Interzones: Black/White Sex Districts in Chicago and New York in

City Reading: Written Words and Public Spaces in Antebellum

Selling Suffrage: Consumer Culture and Votes for Women

Ladies of Labor, Girls of Adventure: Working Women, Popular

Telling Bodies, Performing Birth: Everyday Narratives of Childbirth

Puerto Rican Culture and Latino Identity

Columbia University Press

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

E184.P85 F58 2000

Casebound editions of Columbia University Press books are

Printed in the United States of America

Some of the material in this book is reprinted by permission

2. The Lite Colonial

3. Broken English Memories

5. “Cha-Cha with a Backbeat”

8. Life Off the Hyphen

9. The Latino Imaginary

10. Latino Studies

The concept of popularity itself is

termined rivalry with the greatest deejay of those years, Grandmaster

As the populations of Latin American and Caribbean background in the

cal constructs depends overridingly on the attention paid to the specifics

its place taken by the sundry guises of globalism, transnational movements

no matters” in an integral way. More graphically perhaps than in other in-

other U.S. expressive currents in Latin boogaloo, a striking 1960s forebear

lines. The socioeconomic and power-defined tension implicit in the idea of

ical narratives. The “coexistence of tradition and modernity” that Fabian

problem of contemporaneity as it poses itself specifically in the study of

the media with their commercial and political overdeterminations. The

settings, and under conditions, not of purity or boundedness, but of what

purveyor of mass culture, is resolutely going upscale, dedicating a surpris-

comes the recognition by the newfound purveyors of high culture of the

cessively spatial conception of cultural relations that prevails in popular

The concept of popularity itself is not particularly popular. It is not

The Lite Colonial

independentistas, and autonomists shared in this ironic and mildly defiant

tional interaction with other “national” cultures. In the theoretical lan-

ticles of faith of Puerto Rican political and cultural self-understanding been

ony in the context of postcolonial globality. Puerto Rico today stands as a

(1993) book of stories and sketches “ocurrencias ‘lite.’ ” While Duchesne

What is so “unsettling” about this disjunctural aspect of diasporic expe-

by the Island, which he says is no more than a “myth” to him. In an inter-

“Where the Sun Don’t Shine . . .”

Broken English Memories

waned definitively, the historical gaps grounding those earlier hegemonies

memories are mixed-code memories, lodged at the points where English

The accuracy of the “paradoxical” inversion of geographical location

yo peleo por tí puerto rico, ¿sabes?

que honran tu presencia, preservando todos

[I fight for you, puerto rico, you know?

vival and inclusion, helps us critically examine prevailing continuities

the possibilities of being, somehow, in between, of occupying an inter-

The experience of being “in between,” so deeply familiar to Puerto Ri-