I've mentioned my insecurities and low self-esteem, told you of how I often feel so out of place and inferior. Whether in my personal relationships or professional duties, I can overwhelm myself into paralysis and depression with the idea that there is someone better suited for my life, that I do not belong where I am, that I am simply not good enough. It's a problem. But, considering that I was a red-headed white kid, growing up in the housing projects of Newark, within a large, Puerto Rican family who spoke a different language, and had an alcoholic father who cheated on my mom and often humiliated me, it's not too difficult to understand.
How could I be good enough? How could I belong? I couldn't make my father happy, and I couldn't stop my mom from crying. I was a bad boy and I wasn't yet a man. And, while this was all a very long time ago — I am an adult now, after all — I still have a difficult time thinking of myself as a "man." In so many ways, I continue to feel young and out of place. This, I think, is why I have, for such a very long time, dreamed of being older. While others bemoaned their birthdays, I looked forward to turning thirty. Maybe I thought that, as I grew in age — becoming somehow more dignified or respectable in the eyes of others — I would also be able to love myself. I don't know.
In any case, as I approach my thirtieth birthday, I don't feel it happening.
I've also mentioned my recent discovery and love for salsa music. I can't explain the attraction, but to say that I seem to understand it. I like to think that it's somehow in my blood. And, of course, it is. Though the lyrics are foreign to me and the rhythms are sometimes difficult to follow, I've heard this music before. It was there, playing in the background, when my father was pounding holes into the walls, shoving my mom onto the floor, bringing tears from her eyes. It was there, also, when my family got together for meals and Mets games. It was there in my uncle's basement, and it was there in my grandmother's kitchen, and, when it was time to open presents, it was there again.
No one can tell me that I don't belong to this music, that this music doesn't belong to me.
And, god, it's wonderful. The music is grand and passionate and absolutely alive, it communicates joy and desperation and the simplest dreams and fears. It is soul music, without a doubt. Listen to the horns and to the clave and to the timbales, listen to the pride and certainty in Hector Lavoe's voice, listen to the sand and streets in Ismael Rivera's. The music is also thrilling, completely unpredictable, but nevertheless filled with hooks and gorgeous choruses. I'm in love with it and with the way that it was created — so many musicians together, playing seemingly simple roles, coming in and falling out at just the right times — the whole being so much more than the individual parts. I realize now that, when I went on and on about creating a very special and different band, I was really dreaming of creating a salsa band. This makes sense to me.
Earlier this week, my uncle Edwin shared one of his favorite songs with me: "La Cartera" by Larry Harlow.
