Many people argue that the official language of America is English, as if that statement alone settles the question of who should represent the country on a stage as large as the Super Bowl halftime show. That debate escalated when it was announced that Benito Antonio Martínez Oscasio, professionally known as Bad Bunny, would headline the biggest game of the year. The backlash was immediate. Some critics promoted an alternative halftime show in protest, upset that a Spanish-speaking, Puerto Rican Latin artist had been chosen to perform at such a visible and stereotypically American event.
Bad Bunny opened with one of his most popular songs, “Tití Me Preguntó,” and the stage design told a vivid story. Bushes and crops filled the background, recognizing jibaros, the traditional, hardworking farmers of Puerto Rico. The set seemed alive and familiar. There was a bodega. A barber mid-cut. Nail technicians laughing. A child asleep in a chair during a loud family gathering. It was chaotic in the way home is chaotic. Warm. Familiar. Real. For many of us, it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt like a memory.
If you grew up in a place like Union City, where Spanish is spoken throughout the streets and corner stores feel like a community, you recognize it instantly. You saw your uncles, your neighbors, and your childhood in that performance. For once, that world was not hidden in the backbone of America. It was front and center.
What I truly don’t understand is how people could reduce all of that to one complaint: that the songs were “not in English.” Since when does language cancel meaning? Since when does it make emotion less valid? Music has always moved beyond translation. You don’t need to understand every word to feel salsa in your chest. You don’t need subtleties to recognize joy, pride, and pain.
The message was clear, especially in a time when this country feels fractured, politically divided, and socially tense. People are quick to label and slow to listen, yet the performance pushed something softer but stronger — unity.
Toward the end, as he named countries across the Americas, it didn’t feel like he was dividing the lines. It felt like he was erasing borders. The sign in the back, saying “The only thing more powerful than hate is love” and “Together, we are America,” inscribed on the football, didn’t sound like slogans to me. They sounded like pleas.
Even the damaged electric poles on stage carried weight. They symbolized the constant power outages in Puerto Rico, a reminder of a place that is part of the United States but is often treated as distant and forgotten. Those broken poles were scars; the set was proof of struggle and survival.
Some claimed the show was political. What made it political was the reaction: when Turning Point USA created its alternative halftime show in protest, the culture became a battleground. The performance itself spoke about identity, resilience, and belonging. The backlash turned it into something else.
President Donald Trump called the halftime show “absolutely terrible, one of the worst, ever!” and described it as an “affront to the Greatness of America.” But what is the greatness of America if not its people? All of them. In every language they speak. In every beat that they carry.
At its core, the halftime show asked a quiet yet powerful question: Who gets to be America out loud?
America has never been one sound, one accent, or one story. It has always been layered, complicated, and beautiful in its differences. Diversity does not divide us unless we choose to see it as a threat.
That night was much more about making space than replacing one culture with another. It was also about saying that Spanish, too, is just as deserving as English of being sung on a stage. That Latines belong. That the kid asleep at the party belongs. That love is stronger than the noise trying to drown it out.
The inclusivity is what made some people uncomfortable. It was not the language and certainly not the music. This year’s Super Bowl halftime show is a reminder that America is bigger than they imagined.
