A few hours from now, I would have been walking up to the entrance of Estadio Atanasio Girardot for the single greatest night of my life.
Except.
My dog, Checo, ripped off one of his dew claws the day before I was supposed to fly to Medellín.
I took him to the vet. I hoped it wouldn’t be serious. The vet sedated him to clean up the nail and his paw. We were sent home with strict instructions to give him painkillers and antibiotics every 12 hours, and to not let him play outside or with his friends for a week while he healed.
But…what about the bad bunny concert in four days??? The concert I had been waiting for for months??? SURELY I wouldn’t miss that concert, right???
The vet’s instructions were the death sentence for my travel plans–Checo is terrified of strangers, so I couldn’t leave him with just anyone, and everyone I could have left him with has their own dog that he couldn’t play with and probably would be aggressive toward because he was in pain from losing his claw.
I recognize that missing a concert is a 1 out of 10 on the scale of problems I could have. But I was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO sad. I’ve shed a few tears this weekend while telling myself it’s not a big deal. I couldn’t listen to Bad Bunny for a few days because it was too painful (dramatic but true). I couldn’t listen to any music in Spanish at all for a few days because it was too painful (even more dramatic but also true). That was hard because 92% of the music I listen to is in Spanish. Was I supposed to listen to Blink 182 while I recovered emotionally?
DTMF is a really meaningful album to me, and going to Bad Bunny’s concert in Colombia was even more meaningful to me. Traveling to this concert felt like the most outwardly Latina thing I’d ever done, in the context of a worldwide superstar that even my non-Spanish speaking friends are aware of and impressed with. Getting to go to the concert in Colombia specifically felt like a personal affirmation of how far I’ve come in celebrating (instead of hiding) being Latina. So not getting to go made me feel like a fraud. A very sad fraud. This was mi gran tragedia.
On Friday night, I watched Marcello Hernandez’s American Boy on Netflix. So many of Marcello’s jokes are spot on with experiences that I and my brother had growing up. It helped me get over my sadness to connect with Marcello’s jokes; I guess ear twists and getting in trouble at the mall are universal experiences for Latinos :’) I’m back to listening to Bad Bunny again, though I refuse to be on instagram this weekend in case I see videos from the Medellín concerts.
But like Karol G says, LATINA FOREVA. Missing a concert doesn’t change that. . . right?