Para Bailar La Bamba

Se necesita una poca de gracia.

I sat with my dad in front of the huge box television watching Gloria Estefan in a concert with Miami Sound Machine. I was 10. My dad was pointing at her describing her arm movements to me, ”Ves cómo mueve sus brazos?" And then he stands up and proceeds to do it very poorly but confidently. I jumped up and joined him in our brown carpeted living room where he and Gloria taught me four moves to apply to my talent show.

I was not a popular kid growing up. I was quiet. Weird. Had a funny accent. My dad fit the stereotype to all the white families in my small town of a Colombian drug lord. My mom was shy, my siblings were bullied, and we were secretly atheists pretending to be Catholics. I never realized this until later in my life.

When the talent show was mentioned at my school I was thrilled. I have no idea why. I was always on my own and did not have many talents. I should clarify. I had no cool talents. I played the flute and piano. I asked a few classmates if they would do something with me, they said no. When I asked to join other already formed groups I also got a no. In their defense many were gymnasts who planned to somersault around the whole stage. There were only about 14 people in my class, so I ran out of people to ask fast.

I can’t remember what compelled me to submit my name as a solo act.

Thankfully my father is full of brilliant ideas. I agreed that the best way to showcase myself would be to dance by myself on the stage while La Bamba played over the speakers. I would stand in the middle of the stage of our church and do four moves over and over until the song ended. I would go down in small town history.

My routine:

"Para bailar la bamba..."

Elbows high, hands in a fist. Circle hands together like a boxer, punching a speed bag.

"Yo no soy marino... soy capitan, soy capitan..."

Put hand to my head and salut the crowd. Repeat this forever.

"Bamba, Bamba..."

A little shoulder shimmy. Again. Repeat until headache.

"Pa' mi, Pa' ti... Por ti seré, por ti seré..."

Point at the crowd multiple times. Dad will point back at me.

It must have been excruciating to watch. I wore a bright lime green tutu outfit that my mom bought for me. I was giddy and almost cried when she showed it to me. It had the lyrics of the song WRITTEN ON THE SHIRT. My mom was the fucking best.

A scene from a movie that I love was in Little Miss Sunshine when the little girl performs in the beauty pageant to Super Freak and does all the sexy dance moves her grandfather taught her to everyone's horror.

And although I’m positive I didn’t shock anyone in the audience with my moves like in the movie, I love to think of how unashamed and brave my dad and I were to prepare for a show we had no business being in.