By Adriana Monteagudo
A Side:
“Let’s go for a ride.” This command was a staple in my childhood, ringing in my ears like an unwelcome jingle. I couldn’t seem to escape it. It was the chore I didn’t want to do, the one I tried to pass on to my brother in exchange for washing the dishes. My dad saw these drives as a chance for family connection, while I saw them as an unavoidable obligation. Growing up in a predominantly white and affluent town on the outskirts of New York City, my experiences felt starkly different from those of my parents. I hadn’t yet understood that my father was attempting to engage me in these differences and teach me about the world through these car rides.
In many regards, we had become the “odd ones out.” My parents refrained from speaking to me and my brother in Spanish in hopes that by suppressing our heritage, we could fit in better—a misguided attempt to make us seem more “white” in a town that had very little patience for difference. Their intentions were rooted in love, yet I felt trapped between two identities with two separate sets of expectations placed upon me. My parents gave me instructions on how to navigate my complex social landscape: speak a certain way, avoid slang, and speak formally. The list was endless. These rules loomed over me like a rain cloud above my head. However, once the car doors closed and we embarked on our journey, a different world emerged within that confined space. In the confines of the car, the outside rules seemed to dissolve. The chatter turned lively–more authentic, the music blared, and laughter echoed. We were untethered from the pressures of fitting in. It was a sanctuary where we could express our most genuine selves, even if only temporarily.
“Whose world is this? The world is yours,” the familiar cadence of Nas plays softly in the background as we cruise down the buzzing streets of New York City. As we are consumed by the music, my dad glances out the window, highlighting the places that shaped his youth in the Bronx and Washington Heights. Occasionally, he saw a different landscape when he glanced at a site. A club turned into a coffee shop, and a family-owned store turned into a new housing development. He would share the stories that lay within the foundations of new construction. On each journey, there were more stories to be told about the spirits of old buildings that had stood silent witnesses to history, now replaced by gleaming developments that whispered promises of progress but often drowned out the echoes of the past. My dad took a megaphone to the echoes of the past, illuminating the history and culture within these neighborhoods. Each site carried a story, a fragment of his past etched into the ever-changing landscape. He emphasized the importance of actively listening for echoes of the past to prevent it from being buried beneath layers of sheetrock and concrete. Active listening was crucial to ensuring our cultural epicenter was not repositioned.
After cruising around, he’d find a suitable spot to park, the door creaked open as he stepped out, and my favorite part follows—he made a quick detour to grab me a Rica. This sweet Dominican orange juice was only found in the margins of predominantly Latino neighborhoods. It was a commodity that was not found within the borders of my predominantly white neighborhood. The sight of Rica was indicative of a rich culture within a neighborhood. It was a small gesture, but it was important to ensure I remained content and engaged while he reconnected with old friends. As we grew closer to the corner store, I watched him greet faces that seemed familiar yet distant from me. With each introduction, the past poured down as if time had paused for this moment. They shared laughs and anecdotes, thrown back and forth like old friends, and reminisced about their youth. A stream of faux nostalgia took over, I heard tales packed with life, lessons, and laughter, even stories that probably shouldn’t have been shared in front of a kid like me.
“Man, I wonder what ___ is up to now?” one of his friends proposed, prompting another flood of memories. I sat there sipping my Rica, absorbing every word and nodding as I gained a newfound perspective on my dad and the world he once navigated. Every laugh and moment being reminisced is a piece of history—a glimpse into a life I was just starting to understand. A life of laughter, resilience, love, understanding, and community– something that didn’t exist where I lived.
Side B:
These rides became a standard routine in my life. I’d hop in the car with my dad, often accompanied by my mother and brother, and begin our journey, music blaring. My dad would play anything from punk to soul, featuring legends like James Brown, The Misfits, Biggie, Joe Arroyo, Héctor Lavoe, and Amy Winehouse. Each song was more than a melody; it was a gateway into understanding, rich with biographical and historical information. You would’ve believed he had known each artist personally, retelling tales of their lives and struggles.
Through these musical expeditions, I began to form a nuanced understanding of the world around me. Issues like corporate greed, substance abuse, and racism were no longer abstract concepts but rather tangible lessons woven within the lyrics and melody. “Say it Loud– I’m Black and I’m Proud” by James Brown opened discussions about self-identity, race, and pride. My parents ensured any “Who am I?” assignment in elementary school was written with a pen full of pride, and whenever my school held monotonous “culture days,” they ensured I brought a new tempo. I found myself wanting to uncover why my neighborhood appeared so unchanging. In this quest for understanding, “La Rebelión” by Joe Arroyo was an outlet that deepened my awareness of historical injustices. Through the beat and lyrics, I could discern how history impacted the current day. I began to understand why I was among ten children of color in a neighborhood with good public education. All the while, songs like Lauryn Hill’s “Doo-wop” introduced me to the idea of female empowerment and the importance of role models, shaping my understanding of gender dynamics. My mother had broken the cultural curse of being a homemaker, gaining a higher level of education than my father, and I was next up to maintain our new tradition. Through my expedition, I discovered I could be whatever I desired, despite my ethnicity or gender.
It wasn’t until I grew older that I realized my dad’s intention was not just to share knowledge of the world with me but to sculpt my identity and shape my values. Lyrics from Nas’ Illmatic taught me ambition, emphasizing the sentiment that the world is mine for the taking. Lauryn Hill’s reminder, “Don’t be a hard rock when you really are a gem,” encouraged self-acceptance and authenticity, emphasizing the importance of recognizing one’s worth. My dad was meticulously crafting a sense of self-awareness into me, instilling the belief that I am a product of my history. I understood that I am shaped by the experiences of every person before me, with access to opportunities they could only dream of. It was essential for me to educate myself with an understanding of the contrasting lives we had, and seize the opportunities they helped create for me.
Music served as a narrative thread, not only linking the lives of artists but also the experiences of my father. He often reminisced, discussing how he would listen to Joe Arroyo with family, sneak out to punk concerts in eighth grade, or listen to Fat Joe with my mom when they first met. Each song held more than just a story, they were lessons about community, resilience, and familial history.
In those moments, the car transformed into a classroom, a space where the world unfolded around me through sound. I learned that music was a powerful vehicle for understanding the complexities of life. With each ride, I not only absorbed the melodies but also values like empathy, social justice, and the importance of embracing one’s heritage. These lessons became the foundation of my character, shaping someone who believes in learning from the past to forge a better future.
