When Hate Is Loud, Love Must Be Louder (Bad Bunny)

There are moments when pride arrives so fully formed it takes your breath away. Not pride as a slogan. Pride as recognition. As inheritance. As remembering who we are.

Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime performance may not have been entertainment for everyone. And that’s exactly why it mattered.

The same people demanding an “alternative halftime show” are the same people who once demanded separate water fountains. That parallel isn’t dramatic; it’s historical.

When joy doesn’t ask for permission, when culture refuses to translate itself for comfort, backlash always follows. And still ... love showed up louder.

Benito didn’t dilute a thing.

Not the language.

Not the politics.

Not the grief.

Not the joy.

He said the only thing stronger than hate is love. And then proved it through details so intentional they felt sacred.

He didn’t wave one American flag. He waved all of them. Because America is not just the United States—it is continents, islands, migrations, histories braided together. To say “I care about all of America” in that moment was a quiet refusal to accept a narrow definition of belonging.

The dancers climbing power poles weren’t spectacle. They were testimony. A reminder of Puerto Rico’s ongoing electricity crisis. Of a people still living with the consequences of neglect long after headlines move on. Visibility as accountability.

A real wedding unfolded on that stage. Not symbolism. Not performance. A real commitment. Love, publicly affirmed, in a space where love is so often conditional.

An entire Latino community was present. Not as a monolith, but as a chorus. Caribbean, Central, South, first-gen, undocumented, bilingual, Spanish-only, Spanglish, proud, complicated, joyful.

And yes, Lady Gaga was there. A white woman sharing the stage not as a savior, not as a translator, but as a collaborator. That matters. Solidarity that doesn’t center itself matters.

Imagine being so consumed by hate that you cannot hear joy simply because it’s in Spanish. Imagine turning away from celebration because it doesn’t flatter your comfort.

Bad Bunny didn’t flinch.

He looked directly into the eyes of his younger self. The kid who probably wondered if there was room for him, his accent, his island, his people ... and handed him a Grammy.

Believe in yourself, he said, across time. Across generations.

This performance was a love letter.

And a refusal.

A refusal to shrink.

A refusal to explain.

A refusal to apologize for taking up space.

For so many of us—especially Latinas, especially children of immigrants, especially those taught to soften ourselves to survive—it felt like permission. To be loud. To be proud. To be whole.

When hate organizes, love must organize louder.

When exclusion shouts, joy must sing back.

When the world tells you to make yourself smaller, sometimes the most radical act is to dance exactly as you are.

That night wasn’t about a halftime show.

It was about being seen.

And once you’ve been seen like that, you don’t forget it.