As A Little Girl Growing Up In Colombia Jun 2026

The music was omnipresent. From the open windows of tiendas (corner stores), Carlos Vives or Shakira (pre-global megastardom) spilled onto the pavement. On weekends, there was la plancha —the moment when Dad pulled out the ancient vinyl record of Diomedes Díaz . you didn’t just listen to vallenato ; you felt it in your bones. You learned to dance cumbia with your cousins, swaying your skirt in a circle to mimic the flowing river. You learned that rhythm is not a skill; it is an inheritance.

Colombia was not a country. It was a room. A very small room, and a very large one, all at once. It was the sound of my mother’s heels on the tile. It was the silence of a missing classmate. It was the taste of arepa and the smell of rain on hot asphalt and the terror of a knock at the door.