The Transformative Power of Respect and Humility

The Transformative Power of Respect and Humility

I recently returned to Puerto Rico to visit my 81-year-old mother. The plane landed at night, and as I stepped into the heavy warmth of the Caribbean air, I knew—before anything else—that it would not be long before I heard the sound my soul had been longing for. The song of the coquí.
That sacred sound is more than nostalgia. It is a homecoming.

As I walked toward my sister’s door, bags in hand and heart wide open, a coquí greeted me from the shadows. I stopped. I smiled. I listened. Then I danced—just a little—emulating its call, letting its music move through me. My sister opened the door, and I fell into her arms, laughing, still echoing that song. The coquí had welcomed me home; its song was not just a sound but a living thread that connected me to my past, my present, and my future.

This is the kind of reverence we carry for our land. For its sounds. For its soul.

I was born in Puerto Rico and lived there for 41 of the 62 years I have walked this Earth. The coquí’s call is not just ambient noise from the trees—it is a rhythm etched into our bones. For those of us who now live away from the Island, it is the sound we seek as soon as we return. It signals that we are home—that we are safe, that we belong.

Puerto Rico itself is a masterpiece—one of stunning beauty and unimaginable endurance. Our lush rainforests and winding rivers are cradles of life. Our beaches gleam like a painter’s palette, kissed by waves that carry our secrets. The land is alive, breathing history through stone and soil, through roots and rain. The coquí, tiny and defiant, is its pulse.

And our people? We are light and fire, rhythm, and soul. We are the descendants of the Taíno, whose wisdom still lingers in our plants, our rituals, our stars. We are forged from African strength, shaped by Spanish colonialism, and burdened—still—by the complexities of our relationship with the United States.

This is where the story deepens. And darkens.

Puerto Rico’s history is not just beautiful—it is battered. Our lands were taken. Our autonomy stripped. We have been ruled without true representation, manipulated economically, and treated as expendable in countless ways. We were handed from one colonizer to another, our sovereignty the price of foreign convenience. Even today, our people are still burdened by external control over our economy, politics, and identity.

Yet still, we rise.

We rise through hurricanes—natural and political. We rise through diaspora, creating beauty wherever we plant ourselves. We rise with music, with protest, with prayer. And in our rising, we often extend hospitality—because our culture teaches us to welcome. To feed. To offer our best.
But hospitality is not submission. And reverence should never be mistaken for silence.

Recently, a tourist took to Reddit, seeking advice on how to kill the coquí because its song was “too loud” at night. They were staying on our land, breathing our air, enjoying our views—and yet, they were disturbed by the very song that defines this place.

This is not just an ignorant question. It is a transgression. A desecration of something sacred.
The coquí is not just a frog. It is not a nuisance. It is a symbol. A living memory. The voice of a people who have survived erasure after erasure and still find ways to sing.

To want to silence the coquí is to echo the colonial impulse—to quiet what is native, what is alive, what is inconvenient to one’s comfort.

Tourists are, by definition, guests. And guests must know: you are stepping into a space that existed long before you. A space that has a spirit, a language, and a story. You do not get to rewrite it. You do not get to silence it. You get to listen. And if you are wise, you let it change you. You are not here to conquer or control but to appreciate and learn. You are here to hear the coquí, not to silence it.

Respect is not a courtesy—it is a transformative force. And humility is not weakness—it is wisdom in motion. When you approach another culture, another land, or another history with these two values as your compass, you do not diminish what is sacred. You elevate your soul by standing in awe of what you do not yet understand. This is the path to true enlightenment and introspection.

Come to Puerto Rico, yes. But come with reverence. Come knowing that you are entering a sacred space. Come with curiosity, not conquest. Come to learn, not to dominate. Come to hear the coquí, not to silence it.

Because the coquí was singing long before you arrived.

And God willing, it will still be singing long after you leave.

And if you listen—really listen—you might just hear something more than a sound. This act of listening is not passive; it is an active engagement with the culture and history of Puerto Rico.

You might hear the heartbeat of a people.
You might hear the song of the land itself.
And you might, if you are humble enough, remember what it means to belong.