April 9, 2025
There are moments when the weight of the news goes beyond headlines. When it reaches something deeper. When the pain crosses borders, language, and distance — and suddenly it feels personal.
That’s exactly how I’ve felt in the days following the tragedy at Jet Set in Santo Domingo. A roof collapsed during what was meant to be a night of celebration. A merengue concert, a space known for its joy and music — now marked by unimaginable loss.
More than 100 lives gone. Families broken. A community shaken.
Among the victims was Rubby Pérez — a legend. A voice that filled living rooms and dance floors across generations. A rhythm that so many of us carry with us — whether you grew up en el Caribe, in Queens, or anywhere our cultura traveled. Losing Rubby feels like losing a piece of our collective soundtrack. One that connected us across time, place, and memory.
Even if I wasn’t there, even if I didn’t know anyone personally, I felt it. We felt it. Because places like Jet Set represent more than nightlife. They’re sacred in their own way. They are spaces where people gather to remember who they are — and forget their problems, even just for a song or two. Where laughter, rhythm, and connection become survival.
To see that joy — that sanctuary — turn into a site of grief is gutting.
And yet… the love we have for the Dominican community runs deeper than one night or one headline. I’ve always admired their spirit. The way they move through the world with sabor and strength. The way they turn language into poetry, rhythm into resistance, food into family. The way they celebrate. The way they mourn.
In moments like this, I come back to what I know: storytelling is a form of honoring. Writing is a form of resistance. Community — even through a screen — is a form of love.
So this post is not just a reaction. It’s a reflection. A digital velorio. A place to say: We see you. We feel this with you. We mourn with you.
My heart is with every family that’s lost someone. With every friend waiting for news. With every Dominican around the world holding this pain quietly and loudly.
And as always — los abrazo desde el alma.
— José
José Martínez 