Dancing with Our Wounds: Puerto Rico, María, and Benito En El Choli

September 20th in Puerto Rico is not just any other day on the calendar. Since 2017, the date carries the weight of a collective wound – Hurricane María. It’s a marker of loss, of trauma, of negligence, of survival. Every year when that day comes around, I feel it in my body. There’s a silence in the streets, an unease in the air, an ache that’s hard to name.

But this year was different. September 20th, 2025, landed on Bad Bunny’s surprise “Una Más” concert right after his 30-concert residency in el Choli. And for the first time in eight years, September 20th became something else too: a day of joy, unity, and resistance expressed through music.

The Weight of September 20

To understand the significance of that night, I have to take you back to 2017.

I was in San Juan when María hit. I live in a condo on a higher floor, and I remember feeling the building sway as the winds roared. The sound of the hurricane pushing against the windows was deafening, almost like the sky itself was screaming. Water seeped through electrical sockets, puddling in corners of my apartment. I was privileged and lucky that my apartment stood, as many others lost so much more, as I came to find out later.

The real terror, for me, wasn’t during the actual hurricane– it was after.

Walking outside to see the island stripped bare of its green, trees skeletonized, streets unrecognizable. Living without electricity for months, standing in endless lines for food and gas. Listening to a small radio as families called into stations, desperate to let their loved ones know they were alive, because cell service was gone. And 4,645 lost their lives as a result of the hurricane and the government’s negligence.

To top it off, there was the humiliation– the image of Trump tossing paper towels into a crowd, treating our devastation like a photo-op.

Eight years later, much of that pain lingers. The grid is still unstable. The trauma resurfaces every time the power cuts or a tropical storm warning comes. So, September 20th has always been heavy, a day where memory and anger converge.

That’s the weight we carried into el Choli.

Walking Into History

I was in section 226 that night– not the closest seats, but close enough to see La Casita. I went with mi cuñada and a Mexican friend who has lived here for 16 years. It wasn’t planned that way. But, in hindsight, it feels symbolic of my own layered identity: Mexican roots, Puerto Rican home, and the shared bonds that come from building community in this archipelago.

Even before the lights dimmed, the air inside el Choli felt charged. There was this buzzing anticipation–¿a quién traerá?, what surprises were in store, how the night would unfold. But beneath the excitement was something else, something heavier. We all knew what date it was. We all carried María inside us.

And yet, instead of silence or mourning, there was joy. The kind of joy that feels like rebellion.

Voices of Resistance

One of the moments that gave me chills was when the crowd, without any beat or cue, broke into chants of “que se vayan ellos, que se vayan ellos”. Thousands of voices, echoing through the Choli, demanding change, pushing back against corruption and neglect.

This wasn’t just a concert. This was resistance. Not resistance in the form of protest signs and marches, but resistance in sound, in joy, in collective presence.

Later came one of the most emotional moments: Preciosa. Bad Bunny and Marc Anthony, standing together, the baby blue Puerto Rican flag waving as tens of thousands sang what, for many of us, is the true national anthem. The pride, the pain, the beauty of that moment– it was unforgettable.

I’ve always believed Preciosa should be Puerto Rico’s anthem. That night, it felt like it was.

Joy as Resistance

There were moments of pure magic throughout the night. Debí Tirar Más Fotos had people hugging, crying, swaying together. Mi cuñada kissed me on the cheek during that song, and it was such a tender, grounding reminder of why we were there: to love, to connect, to exist fully in this fleeting moment.

The crowd never stopped moving. I never sat down once. It was dancing, crying, screaming, laughing, living. It was the kind of joy that feels almost defiant, like saying: aquí estamos, seguimos de pie.

And Bad Bunny’s words about love weren’t just filler– they landed. They felt like reminders that even in the face of ongoing struggle, el amor es lo que nos sostiene.

More Than a Concert

What made this night even more significant was knowing it wasn’t just us in el Choli. This concert was broadcast worldwide. Which meant that bomba, plena, salsa, and reggaetón weren’t just filling the air en la isla– they were resonating across the globe.

Puerto Rican culture, in all its depth and resilience, was being witnessed everywhere. People in the diaspora, Latinos across the world, even those with no connection to Puerto Rico were tuning in. They saw us. They heard us. They knew we exist, that our little 100x35 is full of magic, even in the face of pain.

Redefining September 20

Walking out of el Choli that night, I realized this September 20th would stay with me forever. Not because it erased what happened in 2017– it never could. The lives lost, the devastation, the betrayal of our government, all of that is still etched into our history.

But because for the first time in eight years, we wrote a new story on that date.

September 20th, 2025, became a day of music, unity, resistance, and joy. A day where Puerto Ricans celebrated themselves and their culture, refusing to be defined only by tragedy.

We will never forget September 20th, 2017. But now, we will also never forget September 20th, 2025.

Both dates will live side by side: one marking pain, the other marking resilience. And together, they remind us that vivir, cantar, bailar, perrear– eso también es resistencia.