Latin Dance Nights Are Helping Me Reconnect to a Time-Honored Tradition

Ask anybody from New York, and they'll tell you that summers in the city are special. They are so special that they've been immortalized in great works of literature, cinema, and songs for decades now. Perhaps most famously on the Latine side of things, El Gran Combo's "Un Verano En Nueva York" stands as an ode to New York City summer and everything it brings with it: street festivals, block parties, boat tours, beach days. And for many Latines in the city, summertime marks the return of a time-honored tradition: Latin dance nights.

As a kid, my father had my sister and me on the weekends, and he would take us down to South Street Seaport for salsa night. This was before the recent renovation, back when the Fulton Fish Market still operated out of downtown and would fill the air with the strong scent of tilapia, salmon, and sea bass. But as you got closer to the water, the scent dissipated, and the rhythm of the clave got stronger. You'd pass Pizzeria Uno and the now-defunct bar Sequoia, turn a corner, and boom, a dance floor full of NYC's best steppers, the bass thick enough to swim through.

Those Latin dance nights were a formative part of my childhood. Not because I learned how to dance there (I still haven't fully), but because of the experience of the community they provided, the enclave of Latinidad that enveloped you when you walked in. It was like a big family, where faces you hadn't seen in years would bob up and out of the crowd. I still have good relationships with all my dad's friends (who are now in their 60s) because of those Latin dance nights. I still remember the many times my parents - separated for years at that point - would bump into each other by chance at an event or party, and the more difficult aspects of their relationship would be forgotten as they spun their way through a song or two.

But this summer, rather than reliving those fond memories, I plan to make my own and go to as many Latin dance nights as possible. Toñitas 50th Anniversary Block Party in June was a sight to behold. Amid the clash of boutique restaurants and three-story brick buildings in South Williamsburg, Grand Street was packed with gyrating bodies swaying to the rhythms of salsa and reggaeton. Vendors from all over the city, such as La Fonda, served up Puerto Rican staples, while others provided classic Caribbean refreshments such as coco frio; DJs and live bands played in the background. It was a day that felt like you were in old New York City.

But while Toñitas was a legitimate throwback, two other organizations, Perreo 2 the People and La 704, have been hard at work trying to bring the future sounds of Puerto Rico to the Big Apple. Two times in as many months, the collectives have hosted perreo parties at Starr Bar in Bushwick, showcasing the next generation of island talent. More than being a platform for up-and-coming artists like Bendi La Bendición, Taiana, Keysokeys, and Enyel C, the parties also serve as a bridge between diaspora and the motherland. At a time when Puerto Ricans are vanishing from the city we helped build, these parties are an important part of maintaining the culture, language, and political power we've seen dwindle as rents have soared. And for me, they represent a kind of homecoming.

I've been a professional of color for many years now, navigating the ups and downs of the corporate world. As I have, I've found that new environments and opportunities opened up to me, taking me far away from my concrete beginnings. Working in tech meant nights filled with craft beer, ping pong, and karaoke. Advertising led me to the snowy-covered streets of Buffalo, where decades-old pubs and ritzy fine dining mingle on Main Street. However, the more ingrained I became in corporate culture and the more I looked for out-of-the-box experiences, the further away I drifted from the humble Latino parties that sustained me in my younger years. We didn't need a lot to have fun, no top shelf liquor or fancy appetizers. We just needed a beat and a dance floor.

Now that I'm older and wiser, I'm looking forward to getting back to my roots, to getting back and giving back to my community, and getting back a piece of myself I had long ago put away. And maybe I'll finally become the salsa dancer I always wanted to be.