Improvisation, Rhythm, and Caribbean Joy
 

Why I see Dominican bachata as freedom, connection, and roots all in one

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From CDs to iPods

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Someone once wrote: “The thing I love most about Dominicans is that they don’t take anything too seriously. The thing I hate most… is the same thing.”

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That line stuck with me. Because it’s true — our strength and our flaw are the same coin. We laugh through everything, even when maybe we shouldn’t. That playful, un-serious spirit? It runs right through Dominican bachata.

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Growing up, bachata was everywhere. My father had a tower of CDs — Bachata Volume 1, Éxitos, Merengue mixes stacked high. I had my first iPod by 2004, scrolling through Aventura, Prince Royce, mid-2000s playlists. Back then, that’s what “modern vs. traditional” meant to me: CDs vs. iPods. My bachata vs. my parents’. Old vs. new. That was the only line I knew.

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When the Floor Felt Foreign

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In my 20s, I was out at clubs all the time, dancing without thinking twice. After COVID, in my 30s, I wanted more of that energy — so I found bachata socials.

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For the first time, I walked into a room and felt like I didn’t know what I was doing. The music was bachata, but the dancing? I didn’t recognize it. Body rolls. Pendulums. Combos that didn’t match what I grew up with.

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It felt like I didn’t belong.

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So I signed up for classes. At the first school, I tried both salsa and bachata. Salsa felt good: structured, universal, something you could dance anywhere in the world. Bachata class? I dreaded it. Nervous every week, coming from work, like the room wasn’t safe for me. Eventually I stopped going.

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But I didn’t quit. I looked for another school.

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The second school was teaching what I now know as Modern bachata. More salsa-influenced, syncopated, combo-driven. At the time it felt fine — like, this must just be how dancers do bachata.

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Then I found a third school with a class labeled “Dominican Bachata.” That’s where I stayed. Same songs I knew. Same energy I recognized. Even though they still taught combos, at least the flow felt right. That’s when I finally realized: there isn’t one bachata. There are different styles.

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Finding the Flow

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There was one night that really opened my eyes. I was sitting on the sidelines, watching the floor. Four different couples, dancing with different partners — all hit the same move, in sync, at the same moment. Not because the song called for it, but because that was all they knew. A routine, repeated.

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That’s when it hit me: this isn’t connection. This is copy-paste.

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Dominican bachata wasn’t new to me — it was what I’d always known. But now I had words for it.

What sets it apart, at least for me, is musicality and connection. Other styles feel salsa-based: lead-driven, framed, showing off what you can do with another body. Dominican is different. As a lead, you follow your follow. They set the tone, they set the timing, and your job is to ground them and make them shine. That freedom isn’t easy to give, but that’s where the magic lives.

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And the music — it hits different. The bass grounds your hips. The güira drives the beat forward. The bongó sneaks in syncopation. And when the guitar cries (la guitarra llorando), it cuts straight into the soul.

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That’s the flow I wanted. Not fusion rooms. Not routines on repeat. Just connection, improvisation, and freedom.

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The Freedom to Have Fun

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What I realized is that Dominican bachata doesn’t promise a “level-up” for piling on more moves. Once you’ve got the fundamentals, you’re already good enough.

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You can dance tiny, you can dance big. You can keep it simple, you can layer it up. As long as you’re on beat, you belong. The best dancer isn’t the one with the longest combo list — it’s the one having the most fun.

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That’s how I teach, too. Sometimes messy. Because stumbling is part of it. You polish fundamentals so you can be free — just like discipline in life gives you freedom to move how you want. Partner first, song first. The music tells you where to go if you’re listening.

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The truth Dominican bachata gave me is simple: to get better is just to have more fun.

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That’s what makes it unique. Playful, improvisational, grounded. A Caribbean spirit that laughs, even when life is heavy. And if we don’t keep that alive — the improvisation, the crying guitar, the laughter — we lose the heart of bachata itself.

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