By Ariel Collado
The afternoon of June 11, 2023, will forever be a core memory engraved in my heart and soul. A memory of pride. The memory of a street lit up by the celebration of the people from the forgotten island of Puerto Rico. People crowded onto the sidewalks along Fifth Avenue. Everyone was waiting to watch the quiet street come alive with their Borinquen culture. Flags of bright red, blue, and white were attached to every hand in sight. And then, the festival began.
Cars animated the streets with their proud music. The music my mother would play to clean the house every Saturday. The music that creates every Latino party. The music would last until 2:00 a.m. in the streets. The music that would transport you to paradise. The music that reminded you of home. People began flooding the avenue. And on that early afternoon, the island of Puerto Rico was brought to Fifth Avenue in Brooklyn. Cars carried their colorful pride with them every block they passed, starting new sparks of Latino animation with every honk of the horn. The proud paradise parade had lasted nearly half an hour. And although we were done with the formal festivities, little did we know the spirit of our culture was far from done with us.
My cousins and uncle joined together in a small group. They brought with them my uncle’s accordion and drumsticks from church, using buckets as their drums. Another man joined the mini band, equipped with a trumpet as his voice. The parade united us all. Regardless of whether we were blood-related or not, we were made family through the common roots that connected us back home. It began with my eldest cousin singing in a stern, loud, clear voice, penetrating the calm atmosphere. Adding impactful weight to the many invisible words, he sang, “Quien recibe a Cristo en su corazón, encuentra la paz y la salvación.” The avenue lit up once more with music. The spirit of Puerto Rico had been revived through its people.
(Photo provided by Ariel Collado)
The proud noise symbolized who ran the block. It symbolized the resilience and pride of the people, as well as their island. Looking around at the people surrounding us, I may not have known the majority of the people, but there wasn’t a face I did not recognize. That was the first time I had seen my people. The first time I had seen myself. This was the first time I fully understood what it meant to be Boricua. I won’t say I had never been proud of my roots, but growing up, it was hard to understand them. Looking back on my elementary and middle school years, I had never truly appreciated where my blood was from. Now, having been surrounded by so many like me, I understood. Living all my life, I was drowned in a sea of people who looked nothing like me. Going to an all-white school and being the darkest there, despite my light skin tone.
I had lost myself in a white wilderness. I lost myself trying to hide from the piercing gaze of prejudice, trying to hide my tan from the snow. I learned a lesson I will hold with me for years to come. Our history and its people have survived so much. How then could we not scream, shout, and sing? How could we not flood the streets of Sunset Park, more than proud to celebrate our island? La Isla del Encanto. The Forgotten Spot in the Caribbean, to everyone on the outside, could never be ignored, for its people would never allow it. Too many of us were proud to shout with our brothers and sisters: “¡Soy de Puerto Rico y vine a presentar!”
Ariel is attending Pace University in the Fall of 2025 to pursue Human Resources.
