I only saw a few snippets from the Super Bowl halftime show, but they were enough to move me. On the most-viewed stage in the United States—that where it’s decided what deserves to be celebrated before millions—Hispanic music, language, and joy appeared without asking permission. And as I watched, I felt something difficult to explain: as if the heart took a deep breath… and then squeezed a little.
Hope, because that moment seemed to tell our people: you are not defeated; there is still beauty, there is still a voice. And at the same time, a slight sadness, because public applause does not erase wounds or suddenly make everyday life safe for so many families living in uncertainty. Nevertheless, there was something undeniable: for a moment, Hispanic was not suspicion or a problem, but celebration. And that, in times like these, is no small thing.
I thought about how many times, lately, our communities appear in the news only when there’s conflict, figures, or controversy, and rarely when there’s joy, talent, or shared life. Migrants turned into statistics or abstract threats, but almost never presented as concrete people with stories, dreams, and real contributions to the society they inhabit and sustain. Perhaps that’s why that moment was so moving: it wasn’t just music, it was the recognition of a presence that so often goes unnoticed, working, caring, holding homes and communities together without receiving any recognition.
I also thought that perhaps it had to be precisely an artist like Bad Bunny —with his contradictions and a style debated by many— who managed to produce that effect, because he connects with an audience that other discourses no longer reach. It’ingeniously that popular culture, for one night, put at the center something so simple and so necessary: the joy and dignity of a people.
While some public speeches insist on sowing distrust towards those who come from other countries, art manages to remind us of something elemental: that we share similar dreams, losses, and hopes. And I also thought about our communities of faith, largely sustained by migrant women who serve, care, and accompany while carrying their own uncertainties. Many times their faith is the only thing that allows them to continue moving forward while continuing to support others.
That’s why it was so significant to see, even if only for a few minutes, that what is usually lived on the periphery appeared publicly celebrated. As if, for a moment, the dignity of those who rarely occupy the center of the stage was recognized, even within our own believing communities, where so many women silently sustain communal life.
And then a serene but inevitable question arose: how can it happen that, at certain times, popular culture manages to express shared humanity more clearly than some Christian discourses when it comes to migrant communities?
I don’t say this as an accusation, but as an examination of conscience. What the Gospel shows is that human dignity shouldn’t need scenarios to be recognized. However, sometimes it’s art that manages to remind us that no one should live reduced to fear or invisibility.
Perhaps that’s why that moment resonated beyond the spectacle. Because it recalled that the joy and dignity of our peoples are still alive. And perhaps hope begins to rebuild in unexpected places, where we are still reminded that we are shared humanity.
Sometimes an instant of recognition is enough for the heart to breathe again. And perhaps, in silence, something like that began to happen that night.
Yolanda Chávez
English version translated with AI