I remember, the first time I came to the United States in 1996

Host:
The rain had just stopped in Miami, leaving the streets slick and glimmering beneath the yellow streetlights. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and night-blooming jasmine, and from a nearby bar, the faint hum of a guitar slipped into the air — low, rhythmic, pulsing with a kind of joy that felt earned.

Jack and Jeeny sat at a small table by the open window of a quiet café, their cups of coffee cooling untouched. Outside, cars rolled slowly past palm-lined streets, their headlights stretching into watery streaks. Inside, the radio murmured softly — a Spanish song, warm and tender, like a memory half-sung and half-lived.

Jack leaned back in his chair, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes tired but reflective. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair pulled back, her hands cupping the mug as though holding warmth itself.

Jeeny:
“Juanes once said,” she began softly, her accent dipping gracefully into the name, “‘I remember, the first time I came to the United States in 1996, I didn’t speak a word of English at the beginning. I am very thankful for this country and the opportunity music has given me... My three kids were born here in Miami; they speak Spanish at home, but English with all their friends.’”

Jack:
He smiled faintly. “That’s beautiful. Gratitude sounds different when it comes from someone who’s had to rebuild their voice in another language.”

Jeeny:
She nodded, tracing a small circle on the table. “It’s more than gratitude. It’s belonging and exile all at once — the way your heart splits between what you left and what you found.”

Host:
Outside, the wind carried the faint laughter of passersby, mingling with the sound of distant waves. The city itself seemed to hum with two languages at once — the heartbeat of an immigrant city, fluent in contradiction and hope.

Jack:
“You ever think about how brave that is?” he asked. “To start over in a language you don’t understand? To sing to people who might not even know what you’re saying — but still find a way to reach them?”

Jeeny:
Her eyes lifted toward him — warm, luminous, like dusk after rain. “That’s the thing about music,” she said. “It speaks where language fails. You can’t mistranslate a melody.”

Jack:
“Still,” he said quietly, “to not know the words — that’s a special kind of loneliness.”

Jeeny:
“Or a special kind of freedom,” she countered. “When you don’t have the words, you have to learn how to feel your way through everything. It’s raw. It’s terrifying. But it’s real.”

Host:
A flicker of lightning flashed far out over the ocean, illuminating the silhouettes of the palm trees like paper cutouts. The café filled for a moment with the scent of wet earth and salt — the aroma of rebirth.

Jack:
“You know,” he said, “I think that’s what makes his story powerful. It’s not just about music. It’s about translation — not just of words, but of self. You come to a new place, and every day, you’re rewriting who you are.”

Jeeny:
“And yet,” she said, “you never really stop speaking the first language — the one that lives in your bones. You carry it with you, like a second heartbeat.”

Jack:
He looked at her thoughtfully. “You mean the language of home?”

Jeeny:
“No,” she said gently. “The language of memory.”

Host:
Her voice fell into the rhythm of the rain beginning again — soft, deliberate, as if each drop was punctuating her thought.

Jack:
“I think about that sometimes,” he said. “How immigrants must live between two worlds — never fully leaving one, never fully belonging to the other.”

Jeeny:
“They don’t live between worlds,” she said. “They create a new one. A bridge world. A place where both languages coexist — where your past and your present learn to dance instead of collide.”

Jack:
“Like his kids,” he said, nodding. “Spanish at home, English with their friends. Two tongues, one soul.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s not division. That’s expansion. That’s how the human heart grows.”

Host:
The radio changed songs — a soft guitar riff began, familiar and tender. The melody hung in the air like a thread, connecting the two of them to something bigger — to every person who had ever packed a suitcase filled with silence and dreams.

Jack:
“Do you ever envy people who have roots that don’t move?” he asked suddenly.

Jeeny:
She smiled, her eyes glinting like water in lamplight. “No,” she said. “Roots don’t just grow down, Jack. They grow across. The ones who move carry their soil with them.”

Jack:
He exhaled, almost laughing. “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny:
“It’s not easy,” she said. “It’s love disguised as endurance.”

Host:
He looked out the window. The rain had turned the street into a mirror. In the reflection, the neon sign of the café — La Voz de Luna — shimmered upside down, glowing twice.

Jack:
“You know what I love about Juanes’ story?” he said. “He doesn’t talk about success. He talks about gratitude. About being thankful — not for fame, but for the chance to belong. That’s rare.”

Jeeny:
She nodded. “Because belonging isn’t something you’re given. It’s something you build — one word, one song, one kindness at a time.”

Jack:
“And that’s what music does,” he said. “It builds a home you can carry in your voice.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly,” she said. “Every note is a brick. Every audience — a room you fill with your soul.”

Host:
The rain slowed. The café lights flickered warmer, softer. The world outside gleamed like glass, reflecting both the past and the present in a single surface.

Jeeny:
“You ever wonder,” she asked, “if maybe the purpose of travel — of immigration — isn’t to find a new home, but to remember how to make one?”

Jack:
He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe home isn’t a place. Maybe it’s a language — and gratitude is how we speak it.”

Host:
Her smile deepened — small, luminous, filled with quiet truth.

Jeeny:
“Then tonight,” she said softly, “we’re fluent.”

Host:
They both laughed, quietly, their voices rising just enough to blend with the fading music on the radio. The melody was in Spanish now, the lyrics tender and simple — words about family, memory, and the strange grace of belonging nowhere and everywhere at once.

Host:
And as the lights dimmed and the rain softened into mist, Juanes’ words seemed to echo through the night like a prayer carried by rhythm and time:

“I remember, the first time I came to the United States in 1996, I didn’t speak a word of English at the beginning. I am very thankful for this country and the opportunity music has given me... My three kids were born here in Miami; they speak Spanish at home, but English with all their friends.”

Because gratitude isn’t the end of longing —
it’s the song we learn to sing while walking between worlds.
It’s how we turn distance into melody,
and exile into home.

Host:
And as the night deepened, Jack and Jeeny sat together in that quiet café,
two wanderers fluent in silence,
listening to the rain translate
the sound of belonging.