Debí Tirar Más Fotos (Pt I)

On the preservation of Puerto Rican history and its archive.

Album cover for DeBí TiRaR MaS FoTos

On January 5, Bad Bunny released his seventh album, DeBí TiRaR MáS FoToS (I Should Have Taken More Photos). And within the first 24 hours, Puerto Ricans all throughout the diaspora began to rejoice as we realized Benito was taking us on a musical journey through each song, one both emotional and political. It was a stance on the archipelago that so many of us hold dearly to our hearts. When I read the title of the album, I knew exactly what he meant. As an archive-obsessed Puerto Rican, it’s not just about the photos, it’s about everything; our traditional music, our food, our beaches, our history. Many people from other Caribbean and Latin diasporas have found comfort in the title track DTMF, taking to social media to post videos and photos of their family set to the song, reminiscing on memories of their childhood. In the chorus of DTMF, he sings,

Debí tirar más fotos de cuando te tuve (I should have taken more photos when I had you)
Debí darte más beso' y abrazo' las vece' que pude (I should have given you more kisses and hugs when I could)
Ey, ojalá que los mío' nunca se muden (Oh, I hope my people never move away)
Y si hoy me emborracho, pues que me ayuden (And if I get drunk today, well, I hope they help me out)

Each post is inundated with comments like “This made me cry.” or “My grandma’s kitchen looked just like this!” The trend even reached people in the Palestinian diaspora, sharing old photos of their lives in Gaza before the occupation. It’s one of the more tender social media moments, with Benito himself posting a video where he sheds a tear to the song, acknowledging that he’d seen the fan edits and was moved at how the music was being received.

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The allure of the archive, whether historical or personal, always circles back to an interest in people and their histories, whether or not we know them. Maybe it’s just part of the human condition, but getting the chance to have a peak into someone else’s life is fascinating. It connects us in ways that are unimaginable. Sometimes, seeing others experience the same painful nostalgia reminds us that we’re all only human after all.

A family photo can instantly transport me back to my childhood bedroom, or holidays at a relatives house, where I can almost hear their voices and smell the cooking from the kitchen. As a child of the diaspora, my story begins in the Bronx, but for my grandparents and those that came before them, it starts in Puerto Rico. I remember visiting for the first time at the age of 14, a magical trip, with every trip after healing a part of me that I didn’t know needed healing. Then, about five years ago, I did what many diasporicans dream of and moved to PR. I was fixated on making memories in this “new” place, trying to understand what life must have been like for my family, while acknowledging the privilege I was given to be able to return. But a relocation like this is a lot less common that people might think. It’s typical for Puerto Ricans to leave the archipelago, immigrating to the “mainland,” (as it’s often referred to, implying a hierarchy amongst lands) looking to start a new life, with promises of career options, education, and health care. But why would one immigrate to a country they were already part of?

The narrative dates back to 1917, when Puerto Rico, previously under Spanish rule, became a territory of the United States, and by proxy, their residents became citizens. Although citizenship was granted, it did not mean that Puerto Rico was now a state — its status as a commonwealth wouldn’t allow its residents (and still doesn’t) to have a say in Congress, nor be allowed to vote in the presidential election. But by 1945, about 13,000 Puerto Ricans had migrated to New York City, and only a year later, more than 50,000 were living there. Over the next ten years, more than 25,000 Puerto Ricans would migrate each year to the continental United States. However, over the last few years, there has been an influx of Puerto Ricans (like myself) that moved back to the archipelago. Many go with the intent of creating a community, reconnecting with their families, reclaiming their heritage, all while working to put the land back into the hands of other Puerto Ricans and out of incentive-hungry realtors’. This act of returning to one’s location of heritage has been referred to as rematriation, a play on words, rejecting the patriarchal connotations of the word “repatriation,” as well as referring to the land in a maternal sense. The use of the term is fitting, as Puerto Rico is often referred to in the feminine: la isla.

For Puerto Ricans, it’s a unique experience to be able to grow up existing between both the archipelago and the United States. For some that move stateside, they don’t have the financial opportunities to go back, as the places they once lived were no longer affordable to them. But again, many Puerto Ricans who migrated to the mainland were in search of a better life for both them and their families. In A Wealth of Poor: Puerto Ricans in the New Economic Order, Frank Bonilla and Ricardo Campos wrote about the economic policies that dictated the harsh realities faced by Puerto Ricans after arriving in the United States. In their essay, they discuss how common it was for Puerto Ricans to be met with a labor pool and working conditions that were sub-par in comparison to the other workers in the United States.¹ Bonilla and Campos mention that the lack of data and policy that was focused on the needs of Puerto Ricans reflected their atypical status as a commonwealth:

As U.S. citizens, Puerto Ricans move freely between the island and the mainland, in the United States, they often find themselves perceived and treated as foreigners, in fact thrown together in unofficial statistics with “Hispanic” — citizens and noncitizens, legal and undocumented entrants…It is rarely clear whether the underlying rationale for assigning minority status to Puerto Ricans is economic disadvantage, linguistic or cultural distinctiveness (national origin), presumptions or racial separateness, or a tactic recognition of the need for affirmative steps to counter the continuation of colonial relations in the metropolis.

What Bonilla and Campos explain is a real experience that many Puerto Ricans go through after migrating. Although they are considered “American” on paper, they’re often treated as second class citizens. Many Puerto Ricans arrive not knowing English, which creates yet another barrier when looking for jobs or housing. Bonilla and Campos write that Puerto Ricans are thrown into the “Hispanic” catch-all, although the histories and cultures within this group are wildly different. This consistent othering of the Puerto Rican people often leads to a sense of disconnect that many which who migrate are unprepared for.

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In the first song off the album, NUEVAYoL, Bad Bunny references different things specific to Puerto Rican culture (more specifically Nuyorican), from notable places like the Caribbean Social Club, Toñitas, to locations that many of us in the diaspora have landed, like Washington Heights and The Bronx. More importantly, he samples the 1975 salsa hit, Un Verano En Nueva York by El Gran Combo, dipping into the musical archives and tugging at the heart strings of the people (not just Puerto Rican) who grew up listening to salsa. Benito bridges the gaps, not just between generations, but for us living within the diaspora. The discomfort that many of us experience within these gaps is one of that DTMF tries to resolve; the diaspora is a part of a liminal space, neither here nor there, ni aquí ni allá.

Stills from "DeBÍ TiRAR MáS FOToS" (Short Film) by Bad Bunny

Along with the album, Bad Bunny also released a short film with the same title, starring Puerto Rican actor, filmmaker, and poet, Jacobo Morales. In the first scene, Morales begins to narrate in Spanish while digging up a small memory box: “How many experiences I’ve had,” he says, “I met a lot of people. Good people. I traveled to many countries. Almost everywhere in the world! But none like Puerto Rico…or what it used to be. There was something here…I’m not sure what. An unbelievable magic. And it’s still here.” In a later scene, Morales walks from his house into town for lunch, disheartened by his changing neighborhood. He hears only English being spoken, American musician being played, and stares from new unfriendly neighbors. At the panaderia, the cashier at the proudly states that they don’t take cash, only card. With overpriced food and payment options that only tourists would use — it’s obvious this place is no longer for locals. They ask Morales if he wants a cheeseless quesito. But what’s a quesito sin queso? (A cheese danish without cheese?) Es un Puerto Rico sin Puertorriqueños… (It’s a Puerto Rico without Puerto Ricans.)

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(to be continued, pt ii next week)

1. Bonilla, Frank, and Ricardo Campos. “A Wealth of Poor: Puerto Ricans in the New Economic Order.” Daedalus, vol. 110, no. 2, 1981, pp. 133–76. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/20024727. Accessed 30 Oct. 2022.