To My First Love, Soca

Written by: Reshma Ramkellawan-Arteaga

You first twinkled in my ears with the rousing chorus of “Baba-naba-baba-naba-baba-ba-ba-bana, tiny winey, wine yuh bum bum.”

My earliest memory is of Ajee, in her classic floral mumu shaking her rump with my dad as her partner. They shimmied side to side as though no one else was on the floor while newly arrived family members looked on. “Don’t rock the thing so baby, don’t rock it so,” coupled with “Ragga Ragga” were also favorites. My youngest aunt, the biggest comedian, would drop the volume of her voice to match Red Plastic Bag while grabbing people by the hands from the sidelines—one of them being my mom.

My parents frequented Soca Paradise in its original form and before the city shut it down. If these songs reverberated in the room mere seconds after the needle touched the phonograph player, you knew it was going to be a good night. House parties were the norm—everyone getting together just because. After spending decades separated from siblings and loved ones, these parties offered a chance to reconnect. And there you were, my soca, serving as the glue that bound us together. Sometimes place and space was limited, especially if we were in the basement. That didn’t matter, though, as your presence alone told us that time and space were not liminal. Now, my daughters don't know many of their second-cousins or the liveliness that once filled every weekend, but they still know the joy that you bring. 

As I got older, you didn’t always come around. Your riddims and catchy choruses were missing from a home that was often filled with chaos and instability. For a while, I forgot about you and the tremble of my waist down to my feet at the drop of the bass. In forgetting you, I failed to remember the importance of music to my identity. How much I loved dancing and singing, even when told I had no business carrying a tune. 

One day you popped up in my life again, like many first loves do. Not as a fond memory tinged with sadness. No, you came back full force. You were the first CD that I bought—Soca Gold,1995. My dad bought it just so I could hear “Pump Me Up” on repeat. Only, he didn’t know that I wanted to hear just one song until after shelling out $19.99 at the local record/pirating shop.

“I spend all this money just so you could listen to one song?” he asked, incredulous.

Turns out he ended up loving the song, too. Years later, it was also the song that kept me awake and away from tears while driving on the Van Wyck to JFK airport, mere hours after he died. When the song came on, with Spotify set to randomly shuffle, it felt like a message from him. Esoteric? Maybe. Like a true friend, you comforted me in the hardest hours of my life. You carried his memory forward in your beats.

In middle school, my “coolness” was rooted in you. Soca was having one of its many crossover moments and Rupee and his demand to “Jump” was incredibly popular. My tape recorded copy of the song was requested by my peers during recess. It was a beautiful respite from being relentlessly teased for my frizzy hair, chipped tooth and obesity. You made me special instead of strange.

We ebbed and flowed through later adolescent years. Brown gyal in a primarily white school meant having to assimilate and tone down the parts of myself that stood out too much. So we amicably separated while I spent some time with Linkin Park, Metallica and Velvet Revolver. You were patient because you knew I would come back as I always did. Separation forces growth and when you are not in touch, I didn’t have context for these changes. You created an offshoot of riddim-driven tracks. When quoting some of your songs in conversation, I was met with derision at my antiquated knowledge. “You are such a coconut. That song was from three years ago.” Was I a coconut? Why couldn’t we reconnect like before? Did I even want to know the new you?

Yes, yes I did. You are my longest, and most trusted relationship. We are in it for the long haul. 

Like a diligent student, I studied and grappled with the new sounds, vibes and artists. Immersing myself in the waters of your copious genres. You became a permanent fixture in my life. You had me at “Hello.” There is no Reshma without the beauty of you. The first non-lullaby song I ever listened to was “Big Bad Soca.” The millisecond of Master Garlin’s signature grunt brought her chubby limbs to attention. Without modeling or direction, she knew what to do. The freedom and expression that comes with your drums is in her DNA. Her sister followed suit several years later, both echoing  “Ayyyyyyyy, Big Bad Soca!” They couldn’t keep up with the Spaniard’s stellar lyricism, and it was adorable to see them try. Watching them dance prompted reflections of the women before me—those who loved music but were forced to shame and censor their bodies because it didn’t match the mold or because moving to the melody was seen as improper. No one censors my girls. They move how they want to. Without fear or being mocked. You did that. You reminded me that there is always a throughline and boundaries are meant to be pushed. 

You stayed with me through doctoral studies and academia, providing opportunities for mental breaks  with a little wine that didn’t hurt anybody. Inspiration for articles about “The Struggle” of being an anti-racist activist educator fighting to dismantle oppressive practices within classrooms. My heart is full when I hear you because you are the manifestation of generations fighting for liberation. 

This past year, I traveled to Trinidad Carnival. “It was time,” you said, “to see firsthand the stories your family shared about perceived revelry.” Guyana had Mashramani, but Carnival was the Mecca. In the days leading up the trip, filled with tepid excitement, I was also petrified. I had been mocked for loving you, before. Would this be the same? Would old wounds become bare?

No. Like a warm cocoon, you kept me safe for those five days. And I emerged bedecked in sequins, gems and stones feeling truly empowered in my skin for the first time in my adult life. I danced freely and maybe even a little wildly. Wore all the clothes I was told I could never look good in. It was liberating and like true tabanca, has me coming back for more. No, my dear Soca, you are not a drug. You are the shot of adrenaline we need when society grinds us down, tells us we aren’t enough or are people without a land. You are the dose of love that forges a community out of  strangers all with the same goal in mind. 

And now, as my daughters sip on Cocoa Tea at the top of their lungs, I am filled with unmeasurable joy knowing that you are still here. The circle continues. You remain my first love, but you are also their inheritance—a gift that keeps giving, generation after generation. In a world that tries to silence us, you teach us to sing louder. In a world that tries to still us, you remind us to keep dancing.

Forever yours, 

Reshma