In 2011, members of Nuestro Tambó and the community gathered at La Casita de Don Pedro y Doña Lolita in Chicago’s Humboldt Park, determined to record something more than just a song. We wanted to create a living tribute—a sonic monument to Ramón López, our elder who spent decades chronicling and advocating for the Puerto Rican experience in Puerto Rico and Chicago.
La Casita itself was the perfect studio for this act of remembrance. The little wooden structure, which was erected by the hands and sweat of the people in our community in 1997. Surrounded by vibrant Puerto Rican colors and adorned with portraits of our Patriotas and history, it wasn’t merely an architectural replica of the island’s rural homes or the New York-inspired versions decades before. It was a community archive, a space of memory. It was where our community gathered to teach and learn about the struggle for self-determination. It seemed only fitting to fill its walls with the sounds of Bomba and Plena and honor Ramón and his contributions to the Migration story of Chicago’s Puerto Rican community.
On the day of the recording, the community came together early in the morning, and the smells of café con leche and fresh pan sobao from Café Colao serenaded us. We set up simple recording equipment inside the Casita. There were no fancy soundproof walls or mixing boards—just our voices, panderos, congas, guiro, and the joy of remembering our elders and ancestors in a spirit of “Bambula”.
Before recording, we shared stories about Ramón. Someone recalled his love and commitment to the telling of the lived experience of Boricuas on Paseo Boricua and Division Street. Another remembered his endless lectures on why Puerto Ricans left the island and how they made a home in Chicago. We talked about the migration of the 1950s and 60s—the jobs that brought people north to Chicago, the racism our elders faced, the dislocation by urban renewal and gentrification, and the fierce pride that refused to disappear with assimilation, and how our love for culture and a Free Puerto Rico fueled our desire to “Plantar Bandera” where every we went.
That conversation shaped how we performed. When we started the first take of “La Bandera Más Grande,” the lead singer’s voice cracked with emotion on the opening lines:
“La bandera más grande Paseo Boricua, se me llena la mente, mi gente mi familia…”
We were singing not just about a flag but about dignity—the dignity of our first migrants to Chicago and the dignity Ramón insisted our community deserved. The Panderos thundered as we fell into time with the words of the song. The chorus answered with conviction, which made the walls of La Casita vibrate. We could almost hear Ramón’s voice, always so deliberate, so full of clarity, explaining what the flags on Division Street meant.
We recorded multiple takes, though it was the first that held the most rawness. We weren’t sure if that version was the best but we knew that we had Ramón’s blessing and the community’s support. We laughed, hugging each other, knowing we’d done something important.
“La Bandera Más Grande” was never meant to be just a song. It was—and is—a testimony, a retelling of our story, and a statement that is made from literally “Plantando Bandera!” In that tiny Casita de Don Pedro y Doña Lolita in 2011, we used music to tell a migration story that is still unfolding. We honored Ramón López not just by remembering him but by continuing his work: making sure our community’s voice, history, and struggle are impossible to ignore.
By Rubén Gerena
