Mexicans in Madrid: coming full circle in a Spanish club

As a brown Mexican-American, Spain has never been high on places I wanted to visit. My parents wouldn’t have moved to America if it wasn’t for the issues western civilization has perpetuated in Latin America. Why would I want to marvel at a place that has displaced my people for generations? I wouldn’t exist without the chain reaction of colonization, but I think not-existing-me would be okay with that if it meant Indigenous people got to continue living uninterrupted by western forces. It’s easy for me to despise the country, but despite all my reasons, my dad has always talked about wanting to visit. So during my semester abroad in Paris, I met up with him and my mom there for a weekend. 

Our first stop was Barcelona on the northeastern coast of the country. The city is known for colorful mosaics and sunny beaches, but it was raining all day and I was having horrible cramps, so my mood was thrown off. Instead of enjoying the experience, I couldn’t help but have an eye of scrutiny. In the midst of my complaining about all the statues being colonizers, and observing the souvenir shops whose artesanias looked just like Mexico’s, I asked my dad, doesn’t this make you angry to see?

His answer surprised me.

He said something along the lines of: As a Mexican, there is something to be proud of while being in Spain. 

That doesn’t help his case as an ethnically ambiguous Mexican, but it wasn’t pride in having a muddled Spanish lineage and feeling reconnected with those roots, or pride in having the financial situation to be able to visit. It was a feeling I couldn’t pinpoint until the end of the weekend. At that moment, I was confused.

The next day, we spent six hours in a car my parents had rented for their week long tour of Spain to get them back to Madrid, the country’s capital, for their departing flight. But I had a friend studying abroad there, who coincidentally was coming back from her own trip to Paris that evening, so I made plans to spend an extra night with her, somehow squeezing into her dorm’s twin bed in the city’s university quarter after exploring for the day on my own. Even though I had my complaints earlier in the trip, I found that Barcelona had a preferable vibe. Despite Madrid being the country’s most populated city, Barcelona had a more industrialized, big city feeling, that housed many more foreigners, and as a result, more locals used to interacting with people from every corner of the world. In Madrid I felt uncomfortable. I felt the indescribable subtle side glances that are only known to those who are well acquainted with microaggressions. Maybe it was all in my head, but I swear I could read it on their faces: what is this brown girl doing speaking fluent Spanish, but not Spanish Spanish, and doing touristy things alone? It was as if they couldn’t comprehend a young, brown Latinx person being able to travel for fun. Even so, I guess the country on its own is beautiful, but I say that because it reminded me of Mexico. The mix of old colorful buildings and golden churches give it an air of regality; the empanadas on every corner didn’t hurt either.

After a long day of monument hopping, I met up with my friend Bri. I knew she was excited to get down to some reggaetón with someone who wasn’t white. She had been telling me of similar experiences with the more traditional, and by traditional I mean white, local population. The only problem was that I don’t know anything about Spanish music. I didn’t grow up listening to it. Sure I’ll listen to Bad Bunny if my friends want to, and I know all the words to “Gasolina,” but they’re not songs you’d find on my everyday  playlists. In my americanized Latinx experience, I’ve always preferred Selena Gomez, or more recently The Marías and Kali Uchis. As my friends reminisce about listening to Vincente Fernandez in the car with their parents, or with their moms on early Sunday mornings to clean before church, I think back on silent car rides with my mom to school and resent the twinge of shame that surrounded my parents’ immigration to the US. They weren’t ones to share their culture loudly. My most prominent experience with Spanish music happened enclosed in the safe space of my tia’s home, where I spent late winter nights as a child sleepily sprawled on the coach after the posada with my tío strumming his guitar in the background. But I couldn’t tell you any of the song’s names. It’s a complex feeling, being brown and struggling to immerse yourself in your culture while also constantly being questioned on your heritage because of the color of your skin. And within this complexity, I’ve constantly felt something lacking in my latinidad. But even with this gap in my cultural knowledge, one thing I can say: Spaniards love them some reggaetón.

Having met up around 8pm, all Bri and I had time for was a much needed joint, dinner, and the club. After a quick nap, we walked to the metro around 1am, when the nightlife was barely beginning. With our cowboy boots clacking on the platform, we boarded the next train to Shoko. Located in the Lavapies neighborhood, the club attracts the local college population of Madrid. Even with the extra heel on my boots, the blonde, leggy Spanish girls towered over me in strappy pumps. They looked straight out of a Fashion Nova ad, but the men were nowhere nearly as dressed up. Their club football polos peppered the street outside as we walked up. But it didn’t make me nervous. If anything, it was a spectacle. Neon lights reflected against the array of black shimmery body con dresses to the beat of Spanish reggaetón mixes as we walked up to the bar. Of course, tequila was our drink of choice. The club was where my feelings about Spain really fell into place.  As the alcohol began to hit my bloodstream, I looked upon the hazy dance floor to see the Spanish crowd proudly chanting along to Bad Bunny’s “Callaíta” and took in the irony of the scene. I realized the only real connection they had to the music was the language, which only exists as a product of their country’s conquests. I began to understand the impact Latin music has had on me. Even without being well versed in the artists, the admiration that surrounds latinx musicians ties deep into my culture. The diaspora of Africans into Latin America, along with the shared indigeneity of Latin America has inspired countless beats in the music that has followed me from childhood all the way to Spain. It was the last place I thought I’d find myself connecting to the very specific feeling of pride that comes with listening to Latinx music. Because while the Spanish revel in being able to sing along to the lyrics, they will never really understand what it feels like to have a community that has created art through the violence they’ve inflicted on our societies. It’s inspiring to see people love something so loudly that is birthed out of a place everyone else underestimated. 

My limited knowledge of Spanish music is a product of my parents’ story of immigration to the US, and I refuse to be ashamed of that. Although the Latinx experience is extremely varied and the layers of harm colonization goes beyond what I, or even my family can comprehend, I know they are united by the need to rise above the problems colonization has maintained in their societies. And I get what my dad meant now, to come to a place that has morphed your very existence so much, only to see how badly they want to co-op your unique identity, whether it be spices that have found themselves integrated into their food, or the afro beats of southern Latin America that are being copied by their artists. It might not be the most pleasant thing, but the irony is stunning. So shout out to the Spanish club, I know they could never do it like us.

Written by Karla Limon

Photos by Karla Limon