By Grace Acosta

“Juntos en Concierto: Chayanne, Alejandro Fernandez y Marc Anthony!” Translated, this means: “Together in Concert: world-renowned Puerto Rican pop singer, Mexican superstar, and Jennifer Lopez’ husband!”

I attended this concert at Shoreline in August. In fact, this wasn’t even the first time I had seen Chayanne in concert; my niece is a dancer in his tour. Chayanne is kind of an aging Backstreet Boy singing in Spanish. His tunes are pop; his fans are screaming women. Marc Anthony is smooth and sophisticated like an old-time crooner, but he kicks it up with the joy and rhythms of passionate Latino music. The man is a natural at performing live.

But I was born and raised in East L.A., so the singer I immediately hooked into was Alejandro Fernandez. He and his band reminded me of the mariachi guys who often walked my former neighborhood on their way to gigs, outfitted in ultra-tight, studded pants and huge sombreros. His was the style of music that wafted through my neighborhood, blasting out of cars and trumpeting out of the local discoteria.

Back then, I hated mariachi music. To me, it sounded naively cheerful, or mournfully melodramatic. I used to call it bad polka music, as if polka had some leg up on mariachi. When our neighbors threw parties, the blaring music would keep my family awake until the early morning. I’d ask my father if I should request they turn down the volume, and he’d say no because he feared finding the tires of our car slashed the next day as a consequence.

Needless to say, I harbored negative impressions of Mexican music. But sitting amongst the rabid Fernandez concertgoers - some waving Mexican flags, others standing in the aisles, stomping to the beat with hands on hips or thumbs looped in belts - the music became a different experience for me. I was still an outsider, but this time, I was able to respect the pleasure the music gave to those around me, and the fierce nationalist pride Fernandez himself inspired in the audience.

The cheesy elements remained: a fleshy torso stuffed into pants that were a couple of sizes too small, a flash of chest for the benefit of female audience members, emotionally overwrought renditions of a few songs. Que macho! But I didn’t feel the need to tsk, tsk, tsk, and shake my head as I did when I was a young girl growing up in the barrio. Somewhere along the road that has taken me far away from the rhythms and culture of that place, I discovered the ability to accept the music just as it stands.

I felt like I was the suburban mom version of Linda Rondstadt when, late in her career, she recorded the album, “Canciones de Mi Papa,” as a tribute to her roots, the music her father loved. My own musical tastes are neither mariachi nor polka; I love old Earth, Wind, and Fire songs and Al Jarreau. But, the older I get, the more comfortable I am being in my own skin, and that just makes it easier to let everyone else be comfortable in theirs. Vive le difference!