Coming into my own rhythm: A reflection for Hispanic Heritage Month

A familiar rumble takes over my kitchen floor as laughter and smiles swing along to the music. Moving in rhythmic steps, everyone adds their own style — the flick of a hand or an extra tap of the foot. Even though the kitchen doesn’t have much floor space, the pairs of dancers never clash. While their movements are based on their own interpretation of the music, everyone is dancing a salsa style. Step once, step twice, take a spin or two — the order didn’t matter to the people on the dance floor.

One couple is caught up in a flurry of fancy spins and quick steps while another pair is busy trying to remember the basics. On the other side of the room to me, my brothers and relatives play along with an assortment of instruments from my family’s collection. Each musician uniquely plays their instrument of choice, but if you look closely at them, you can see the slight slip of a hand or the delayed tap of rhythm. If you hear them, you can detect the strong salsa beat woven into each note. Even to the dancers, it never matters to them how loyal the musicians are to the beat. As long as the energy is high and the music keeps going, that’s all they need.

For the dancers’ movements and the players’ music, the lack of strictness to their respective mediums doesn’t affect their connection to it. It doesn’t matter how perfect they play or dance — they are inextricably integrated into the salsa culture. As I watched the scene from the sideline, I didn’t understand this lesson hidden among the movement of bodies and sound until years later — a lesson about what it meant to be loyal to the core of my identity.

From September to October, when the Hispanic identity is celebrated so highly, I felt too intimidated to enter the dance floor. While my relatives skillfully made their way across the kitchen floor, I felt rooted in my place. Looking down at my own feet, no amount of willingness allowed even a single step. The struggle of taking the first step pushed me further away from the Hispanic identity which I was already on the edge of being completely alienated from. In the space taken up by relatives, there was a stark visual contrast of their appearance with my own. With their darker hair and tanner skin, paired with shorter, curvier figures, I felt like I was disloyal to the image associated with being Hispanic. Though we shared blood, I felt like my appearance was a silent betrayal to the culture.

Where I lacked in stereotypical appearance, I lacked even more confidence in my linguistic skills. I wasn’t a “no sabo” kid by any means, but my confidence to speak outside of close familial settings betrayed me during this transition to Princeton. My fear of not speaking Spanish perfectly to my new Hispanic friends would take over in conversations, as I rushed my words and misspoke conjugations. Vocabulary would leave my mind the moment it was needed most, and my own embarrassment would drive me away from ever attempting to converse in group settings. Missing both qualities — physical and linguistic — that I associated with the loyalty to the Hispanic identity made the distance between myself and the dancers in front of me seem greater.

Blissfully unaware of my identity spiral, the magic of the room continues on without me. As the next song fills my ears, I watch both the dancers and musicians continue to perform. Some stay loyal to the rhythm of “Quimbara,” while others stray just enough to add extra spice to the classic moves. The room is filled with life both in music and motion, neither strictly loyal to the original salsa style. The excitement invites any shy dancer for a chance to experience the cultural thrill. An invitation I wanted to take, but I still was faced with a moment of hesitation. Would I ever overcome this pause of confidence in myself? Was I always going to feel this distance between myself and the dance floor before me? In this moment of questioning, I was forced to confront the inevitable conclusion. If I keep avoiding the opportunity to connect with my identity because of my fear of not fitting in or doing it right, when will I ever actually connect with the Hispanic Identity?

It wasn’t until I came to Princeton as a first-year that I accepted that the one thing I kept avoiding was going to be one of my strongest connections in rebuilding my Hispanic identity. Ironically, dancing in front of strangers came easier than talking to them in Spanish. Joining Más Flow was the first time I wanted to challenge the internal judgment I built up in my head. Entering the room for auditions, I was exposed to the true range of the Hispanic identity. With a membership consisting of a wide range of cultures, ethnicities, and experiences, it eased some of my worry. And while my worst fears led me to expect that I would be judged on my “authenticity” as a Hispanic, I wasn’t judged on how I looked nor how well I spoke. All that the members asked for was for me to dance.

For the first time in my crisis of identity and finding my sense of belonging, I ignored the reflexive response to decline. Instead, I allowed myself to take that first step onto the dance floor and focus on what matters: the music and the motion. The first step turned into the first dance combo learned at my first rehearsal. And soon that first rehearsal escalated into full blown performances that were a part of large-scale shows.

The stage has become my source of connection to the origins I was too intimidated to dance with. And now with these experiences giving me the assurance I needed, I can take more than just a couple of steps onto the dance floor. Now, going over that moment of hesitation I had felt so many times before, I let the warm hand of the salsa music and dancers’ movements guide my steps for the rest of the night, joining my relatives at the kitchen floor.

Amanda Hugas is a member of the Class of 2027 and a contributing writer for The Prospect. She can be reached by her email at ah0942[at]princeton.edu.