I can remember when I was around 6 years old listening to the biggest hits on HOT 99.5 on the drive to school. That was the extent of the music I listened to, except for in the evenings when I would do my homework on the dining room table. My father would cook carne asada in the kitchen, crack open a beer and pull up his favorite songs on YouTube.
Through the laptop speaker, Daddy Yankee had a very contrasting sound to the top hits I was used to. My mother would fly in out of nowhere and yell at my father to turn off the music, probably saying something along the lines of “Apaga esa música, que música asquerosa, no le dejes escuchar esas macanas.” [Turn off that music, that music is disgusting, don’t let her listen to that nonsense.] It was her attempt to shield my innocence from the explicit lyrics of reggaeton music. My mind was made up. My religious upbringing decided that “reggaeton = the devil’s music,” and “the devil’s music = bad and scary!”
Reggaeton music is a way that many young Latin people express themselves at clubs or house parties — but before that, it started in the ‘80s when Jamaicans immigrated to Panama City in search of opportunity. The Panama Canal’s construction attracted a lot of workers, and it was in that vibrant city where the Jamaican dance/reggae scene rose in popularity — eventually inspiring reggaeton.
What makes reggaeton reggaeton is its expression, unrestricted by judgment. Its booming rhythms and flashy nature are usually accompanied by provocative dances and slutty outfits. Old Latin music has an instrumental, romantic feel and is lyrically sweet compared to reggaeton. So when the genre was introduced to the culture, conservative groups in Puerto Rico campaigned against it in the 90s, leading to the National Guard confiscating cassettes and DVDs from stores.
Later, a new wave of artists in Puerto Rico — like DJ Playero and Plan B — rose to popularity in the US through YouTube videos and became trendy because of their hip-hop influences.
On the other hand, reggaeton is also full of sexist remarks and storylines in its lyrics. Sexism in Latin music stems from “machismo,” a term we use to describe men who feel superior to women and strongly believe in gender roles. It’s a generational issue in Latin American families, especially for women and queer people. Young girls are taught more harshly than young boys; we’re expected to be perfect while trying to reach outdated expectations that require us to sacrifice our authentic voices. All the while, boys are more likely to be confident in their words and are praised. Machismo can come out as physical or verbal abuse. Our internalized pain is lashed from mother to daughter, from sister to sister, from Latina to Latina as we have that deep, underlying voice in our heads of machismo, telling us “We will never be good enough.”
From that point on — after my mother’s scolding — I never listened to reggaeton … or any Latin music, really. Later in life, I started to question if I actually hated listening to reggaeton. When my sisters would play it in the car, the words of my mother would ring incessantly in my head, and my frustration would grow because I wanted to fit in with the Latin kids. That is, until I discovered Arca.
It was in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic when I listened to Arca for the first time. Her experimental, self-titled 2017 album had an avant-garde, ambient intelligent dance music (IDM) style. It was especially interesting to me because I barely knew any alternative artists who would sing in Spanish.
I didn’t go further into Arca’s discography until her music video for “El Alma Que Te Trajo” ft. Safety Trance came out in 2022. I was in my freshman year of college and too anxious to leave my dorm room. I spent most of my free time lying on my bed and mindlessly scrolling through Instagram and Twitter, until I stumbled upon a post by an Arca fan account. Her video left me stunned, like that stock image meme of a human brain glowing.
Arca’s genre-bending music appeals to wider audiences, and her lyrics — which openly discuss her gender identity — are completely opposed from the traditional reggaeton style. Arca came out as non-binary in 2018, and then again as a trans woman on Instagram live in 2019, to which her fans responded very supportively.
But before that, Arca grew up in a Venezuelan household where she also felt hyper-aware of her actions. She was born in Caracas, Venezuela, and moved back and forth between there and the United States until the age of 9. She came from a financially stable family that lived in a tall apartment, protecting themselves from the protests occurring under the socialist dictatorship in Venezuela. She took piano lessons during her childhood and listened to Nelly Furtado, Aaliyah and Arthur Russell, according to an interview with The Guardian.
She later discovered alternative bands like Aphex Twin and Nine Inch Nails while looking at her brother’s music. It’s what inspired her to produce under the name Nuuro, and eventually led her to studying music at NYU.
“When I moved to New York at age 17, I was very repressed. There were a lot of colors that I was muting internally,” Arca said in an interview with The New York Times. She found her space in the city and was inspired to experiment with her music, taking the time to explore her identity.
On top of her alternative/IDM style, Arca incorporates aspects of Venezuelan folk music to expand on themes of queer, Latin love. She talks about feeling like an outsider, an alien or mutant, and how long she’s felt that way. She incorporates mutant-like fashion concepts in her album covers.
Arca’s song “Luna Llena” is a slower, more melancholic style of reggaeton. She sings about pleasing her lover and how being in a relationship is like a light in the darkness for her. She goes on explaining how she’s transcended like a “luna llena” — meaning “full moon” in Spanish — and how her soul revealed its true colors journeying beyond.
One of her more fast paced songs, “Tiro,” has that classical reggaeton sound. I particularly like her lyric, “Dónde están los gringos y los güeros para que tiren su dinero, bomba-Latina Máquina guaira.” [Where are the whites and güeros so that they throw their money, bombshell Latina, guaira machine.] Her wit and sassy voice keep the energy going. It’s basically an anthem for Latinas to let loose and to be unapologetic.
Arca recently collaborated with the artist Tokischa, who is known for her dembow/reggaeton style, sexually explicit lyrics and exuberant personality. She closed the heteronormative split in Latin music and introduced queer and sex-positive representation to Latin mainstream culture. Young Miko, a popular name in the Latin trap genre, has collaborated with Tokischa as well. Young Miko publicly announced her lesbian sexuality, which comes across clearly in her lyrics. And of course, Bad Bunny, one of the most popular artists in all of music, revealed his fluid sexuality when he controversially kissed a man on live television at the VMAs in 2022.
Growing up, I didn’t understand why I felt so much shame thinking about my sexuality and gender. When I was kid I learned to be more feminine, to always be hyper aware of my clothing and mannerisms. In my Latin community, people mostly fear others who do not conform to heteronormativity/sexuality. It stems from Latin communities in America coming from religious backgrounds, and results in homophobic beliefs. It’s much more dangerous to be queer in Latin America. Hate crimes are overlooked and undercounted because of systematic corruption.
Latin communities are close knit like a big family, but they sometimes lack boundaries. Feeling outcasted by your own community or family is the reality for most young, queer Latin kids. It’s like you can’t trust the people who you love most, constantly trying to fade your own colors, because it’s the only way to protect your family from rumors that spread like wildfire. Staying closeted will make you hate yourself, but it’s the only way to survive. Trying to figure out and accept the fact that you’re queer while being Latin feels like an overdue homework assignment you’ve been putting off for years.
The Latin music industry is a reflection of Latin culture, one ingrained with generational, conservative beliefs. We need to recognize our own issues with racism, sexism and homophobia. What’s the point of Latin artists having all the influence if they aren’t making things better for us? I feel like the Latin music industry is silencing the voices of artists, putting too much pressure on those with a lot of influence — like Bad Bunny — therefore, making it difficult to be unapologetic about their sexuality.
Thankfully, artists like Arca are collaborating and bringing up taboo topics with their music. We are starting to see a sexually liberated and queer-friendly side of Latin culture, which holds a lot of hope for queer Latin kids in the U.S. like me.
Graphics by Ryan Benson