More than spectacle: Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance gives us permission to centre our roots

When I watched Bad Bunny on the field for Super Bowl halftime, I wasn’t just watching a performance. I was watching a declaration.

In a stadium built around one of the most traditionally American spectacles, he stood there and sang in Spanish — wrapped in the rhythms and imagery of Puerto Rico — and refused to dilute himself for comfort. That, alone, felt radical.

Last year, Kendrick Lamar’s halftime show was unapologetically Black. It centred Black artistry, Black history, and the political realities tied to both. He did not ask for permission to exist in that space. He claimed it.

This year, Bad Bunny did something equally powerful. His show was unapologetically Latino. It did not translate itself, tone itself down, or perform Latinidad as an accessory to American culture. It presented it as central to it.

That progression matters.

Two consecutive halftime shows have challenged the idea that there is only one version of America worth celebrating. First, a show rooted in Black cultural legacy and resistance. Then, a performance rooted in Puerto Rican pride and pan-Latino identity. Together, they suggest the biggest stage in American sports is slowly widening its lens.

For years, immigration has been treated as a problem to solve rather than a story to understand. Debates around borders and Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids dominate headlines in the U.S. Families live with the fear of separation, and immigrants are reduced to statistics or slogans.

Bad Bunny has never been quiet about that reality. He has used previous platforms to speak out against ICE and to dedicate his success to those who leave their home countries in pursuit of safety or opportunity. So when he stepped onto the Super Bowl stage, that context was already there. Even without naming policies directly, his presence carried weight.

There is something powerful about performing almost entirely in Spanish at an event watched by millions across North America and beyond. It challenges the assumption that English is the default language of legitimacy. It forces viewers to engage with a culture on its own terms. For some, that may have felt unfamiliar. For others, especially those from immigrant backgrounds, it felt like recognition.

I’m the daughter of Indian immigrants who moved to the U.A.E. before I eventually built my life in Canada. My understanding of home has always been layered. India is heritage, ritual, and memory. The U.A.E. is childhood and transition. Canada is adulthood and ambition. I have always existed between languages, expectations, and versions of myself.

Watching Bad Bunny celebrate Puerto Rican culture so unapologetically on a global stage reminded me of that in-between space. He did not soften his accent. He did not translate his lyrics. He did not present a version of himself engineered for comfort. He brought his whole identity with him. That matters when you grow up learning how to code switch, how to adjust your pronunciation, and how to explain your name in classrooms and workplaces.

In a political climate where immigration enforcement agencies, including ICE, are often framed as protectors of national order, the humanity of immigrants can get lost. Bad Bunny’s artistry pushes back against that erasure. His show insisted that Latino identity is not peripheral to the U.S. but foundational to it. It reframed the word America to include the Americas — plural. It suggested that culture does not stop at borders drawn by policy.

For me, that resonates deeply. My parents left India in search of possibility. They carried their traditions into a new country, then watched me carry them again into another. None of our identities are singular. We are not just Indian or Gulf-raised or Canadian. We are migration stories in motion. When I see an artist centre their roots instead of minimizing them, it feels like permission to do the same.

Featuring unapologetic Blackness and unapologetic Latinidad back to back was not accidental. It reflects a constantly moving cultural landscape where marginalized communities are no longer asking to be included but are asserting that we have always belonged.

As someone shaped by multiple homelands, I saw more than spectacle. I saw a reminder that our languages deserve microphones, our histories deserve primetime, and that in a world quick to politicize our existence, pride can be a form of resistance.