I’ve never claimed to be a fan of it. I’m a writer, I like words, and trap music eliminates the need for comprehensible lyrics. Which is fine, because I’m pretty sure I already know what the artist is preaching about to his listeners (i.e. getting hoes, taking molly, stacking paper, etc.)
However, I reached an epiphany the other day at Johnny Mac’s (hipster bar in Asbury Park; breeding ground for college students majoring in things like Art History and Graphic Design). Growing up in an urban and mainly Hispanic little city dotted with chicken shacks and bodegas, Johnny Mac’s sort of feels like something out of a romantic comedy for me. It’s this massive oak labyrinth strung with Christmas lights and eclectic signs with witty quotes painted on them. It’s the type of place I feel like I could go to and find a White guy named Connor to marry and have blue-eyed babies with (not on my list of goals but you get the gist). For real, there was one Black guy in the entire bar and he was with us (we lured him there under false pretenses).
So I found myself lurking in a dark corner with my friends, sipping my third Jameson ginger ale in the hopes of catching a buzz strong enough to make me enjoy myself. Alas, something was MISSING, but what? “Sweet Caroline” comes on, and everybody around us goes nuts and starts jamming like it’s a One Direction song and we’re a crowd of pre-pubescent fanatic little girls. And I figured out what the missing ingredient to this watered down cocktail of a night was – trap music. In that very moment, I would have been 100% down with Future and Young Thug and all of the molly and all of the hoes.
I can’t relate to “Sweet Caroline.” My parents didn’t play Neil Diamond when I was growing up – they played Antony Santos and old school bachata and merengue. This might be politically incorrect of me to say, but I tend to feel out of place when I’m at any social gathering where the crowd is primarily White. The ironic part is that when I’m surrounded by Hispanic people, I’m always categorized as being the White girl. Thus is the struggle of being the first-generation daughter of immigrants.
It’s like being suspended in this cultural limbo where I don’t quite belong completely to one category or the other. I love rice and beans – I also love cheeseburgers. I can appreciate bachata, but my iTunes is filled from top to bottom with bands like The Strokes and Arctic Monkeys. I understand Spanish, but the minute I speak it, my accent gives away my American-ness like tearing off a mask to reveal a new identity.
It’s quite the conundrum, growing up with parents who want me to assimilate successfully into American culture in order to have privileges they never had, but at the same time, feeling ashamed for straying too far from my roots. How does one find a balance?
Are you expecting me to answer that question? I’m still searching for answers, so your guess is as good as mine. The point is, I am NOT Sweet Caroline, I’m not Young Thug, I’m not a natural-born bachata dancer. I’m just one colorful, awkward mess of a human being with an appreciation for all cultures.
This whole blog post was one huge digression, but it’s my blog and I’ll digress if I want to. Moral of the story: There is a time and place where it is completely appropriate to play trap music. Johnny Mac’s should make note of this.
