The same way a jacket on a cold day wraps you in comforting warmth, Tejano music has a way of bringing me back to a place that feels like a safe and welcoming home. No matter where I am in the world, when those familiar sounds begin to play — the bright accordion melodies, the steady rhythm of the drums, the soulful voices that tell stories of love, heartbreak, and hope — I feel grounded. Tejano music is more than just a genre to me; it’s a part of my identity. It reminds me of who I am and where I come from. It connects me to my roots, to the culture that shaped me, and to the memories that have stayed tucked away in the corners of my heart.
Growing up, Tejano music was the heartbeat of everyday life. Sunday morning house cleaning, from ceiling to bathroom floors; to dancehall dance floors taking my father’s lead, it transports me to good memories. It played at family cookouts, weddings, quinces and long hot summer afternoons. It was there in moments of joy, but also in moments of sorrow, when life felt heavy and uncertain.
Bands like La Mafia and Bronco, and Corpus Christi’s very own Selena, became the soundtrack to both celebration and reflection. Their songs carried a balance of resilience and tenderness, reminding me that strength and vulnerability often coexist, even for the most macho of the Hispanic males. Tejano can bring the most horse-breaking, tough man to his knees crying. Listening to Tejano feels like hearing the voices of my ancestors, the people who worked the farms and cotton fields, (like my grandmother and her father who marched alongside Cesar Chavez) who loved deeply, and family (my great-grandfather) that passed on their own stories through rhythm and song.
But music’s power goes far beyond nostalgia or joy. Sometimes, it brings back memories you’d rather forget – those painful moments, heartbreaks, and losses that still linger somewhere deep inside. A song can unexpectedly open a door right through your heart, to a part of yourself you thought you’d closed off long ago. It can bring back the ache of a goodbye, the sound of someone’s loud singing (who’s no longer around) or the feeling of being lost in a world that once felt safe. And yet, even when it stirs those painful emotions, there’s something comforting about it. Music allows you to revisit those feelings without being consumed by them.
That’s the paradox of music – it can make you cry and smile within the same note.
It can carry weight of sadness but still leave you feeling lighter. The same Tejano songs that once played during hard times now remind me of how far I’ve come, of the strength it took to move through those chapters. It doesn’t erase the pain; it transforms it into something meaningful.
When life becomes chaotic or uncertain, music is an anchor. For me, Tejano does that. It reminds me of belonging, of a tight, proud community. It reminds me that home isn’t just a place, it’s a feeling you carry with you. It’s ready to be awakened by a familiar tune, beat or lyric.
Even when a song brings back old pain, I’ve learned not to turn away. Because in that pain, there’s truth. There’s connection. There’s life. Music reflects what it means to be human: fragile, resilient, and endlessly moved by sound. And maybe that’s its greatest gift. Even in the moments when it hurts to listen, it still manages to heal.
