How we began, why we exist
The Origin of Tres Golpes
How New York and Dominican roots shaped our mission
Roots & Beginnings
I was born in New York to Dominican parents from Santo Domingo. They carried over everything that makes a home feel Dominican — the food, the music, the jokes, the rhythm.
In our house, bachata wasn’t something you learned. It was something you absorbed. Family parties that stretched until sunrise, radios playing in the kitchen, cousins dancing in the living room — the music was always there. Nobody taught us how to dance. We just lived it.
My 20s were nights spent in Spanish clubs, Dominican lounges, and endless family gatherings. Drinks on the table, bass rattling, more Wisin y Yandel than Anthony Santos some nights — but the culture was always there. The rhythms were different, but the Dominican energy never left the room.
It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t choreographed. But it was home. And I thought that was all there was.
Finding the Gap
When I finally stepped into the formal dance community — socials, studios, classes — I realized there was a whole other version of bachata out there. The music was slower, the moves were bigger, the vibe leaned modern and sensual. In those spaces, this was presented as the bachata.
That was a shock. In the same city that holds the largest Dominican community outside the island, the style being taught and promoted felt disconnected from what I grew up with.
Meanwhile, Dominicans outside the dance scene were still doing what they’d always done — dancing Dominican bachata at house parties, weddings, and neighborhood clubs — never realizing there was even a debate. The gap existed inside the dance world, not in the culture itself.
Standing at a social, I looked around and thought: This isn’t bachata. Even if I wasn’t refined yet, I knew what I was seeing wasn’t what I knew in my bones. So I started searching for the right people, the right teachers, the right spaces.
Finding those people took time. At first, it was one person. Then two. Little by little, I pieced together a small community. I practiced daily, hit socials, and traveled whenever I could — to Europe, to DR, to festivals that seemed to pop up every month abroad while here in the States the scene stayed thinner.
That’s when I realized something: the gap wasn’t just about style. It was about structure. If people could organize festivals every month overseas, there was no reason we couldn’t build something real here too.
I took a teacher training, not because I planned to teach, but because I wanted to grow. Somewhere in that process, the thought landed: If not me, then who? I didn’t want to be a star or an influencer. I just wanted to dance, to travel, to meet people who cared about the music the way I did. That was enough reason to start building.
I began recording myself — one song at the end of every practice. Then came a 100-Day Challenge, posting every single day. What started as accountability became the early spark of Tres Golpes.
Building Tres Golpes
This wasn’t my first brand. Years earlier, I’d lost 75 pounds in nine months through keto and created a page called Keto’s The Worst. It taught me two things: separate the brand from the personal, and don’t be afraid to flip a narrative on its head.
So when it came time to name this project, I thought the same way. At first it was Bailando con los Tres Golpes — a nod to bachata, merengue, and dembow, the three genres that shape Dominican flow. If you knew all three, you knew how to move Dominican.
But over time, Tres Golpes became something bigger. It wasn’t just about genres anymore. It became a metaphor: three hits of culture, connection, and community — the pillars of everything we do.
When I designed the logo, I borrowed from the Dominican coat of arms. I swapped the cross and bible for instruments — guitar, bongos, and later a güira — and placed the words Cultura, Conexión, Comunidad around the circle. It became a crest for community, not a country.
And then there’s the food. There’s nothing more Dominican than mangú con los tres golpes — salchichón, queso frito, huevo frito. The name felt right because both are unmistakably Dominican. If you hear bachata, if you see that plate, you know where it comes from.
Vision & Next Steps
Tres Golpes has never been about choreography or routines. It’s about creating rooms where people dance with each other, not for each other. A space for beginners, not performers.
My background is sports, so I teach like a coach. Practice is where you build skills; socials are the game. Fundamentals, drills, and play all translate directly to the floor. The goal is simple: walk into a social and feel at home in the music.
It hasn’t been easy. I’m Dominican, but not a fluent Spanish speaker. In non-Dominican spaces, some DJs don’t know the older songs. Many dancers are trained to chase big body rolls instead of playful musicality. And even when I train students well, they sometimes hit disconnects when their partners learned a different style.
That’s part of why building more spaces matters. For years, I had to search for events specifically labeled “Dominican” or “Traditional.” If it wasn’t spelled out, it was usually something else. In a city like New York, that mismatch shouldn’t exist.
The goal isn’t to gatekeep. It’s to flip the default. We are bachata. The other styles can keep their qualifiers.
I want more nights where the floor feels like a family room. Where people walk in, smile, and feel like they belong. I want to keep traveling, meeting new people, and dancing in spaces that celebrate the roots.
I’m not trying to be famous. I’m trying to be useful. To live the thing I’m inviting people into. If people enjoy dancing with me, if they feel at ease in my classes and socials — that’s all the marketing I’ll ever need.
Tres Golpes will keep growing: classes, socials, community hubs. But always rooted in the same idea: Bachata Dominicana, respected and alive.
Closing
This is where it started, and this is where we’re going. Tres Golpes is my way of giving back to the culture that raised me and building something bigger than myself.
It isn’t about being perfect. It’s about walking into a room, hearing the music, and thinking: This is what bachata should feel like.