When Did Celebrating America Become Controversial?

By Elena Ramirez, Sports Culture Correspondent

SANTA CLARA, Calif. — The roar of the crowd at Levi’s Stadium is months away, but already the 2026 Super Bowl is a flashpoint in America’s cultural wars. Last month, the NFL unveiled Puerto Rican superstar Bad Bunny as the headliner for Super Bowl LX’s halftime show, set for February 8 at this gleaming Bay Area arena. What should have been a moment of musical triumph has instead ignited a firestorm of backlash, with conservative fans decrying the choice as a “slap in the face” to American traditions. Petitions demanding a swap for country music icon George Strait have surged past 10,000 signatures, turning a pop culture staple into a referendum on patriotism, identity, and what it means to “celebrate America” on football’s grandest stage.

The controversy erupted shortly after the announcement on September 15, when NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell and Roc Nation—Jay-Z’s entertainment company, which has curated the halftime show since 2019—revealed Bad Bunny as the solo act. The 31-year-old reggaeton and Latin trap sensation, born Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio, boasts over 80 million monthly Spotify streams and a global fanbase that spans generations. His inclusion marks a bold pivot toward multiculturalism, building on past shows featuring Shakira, J Balvin, and Bad Bunny himself as a guest in 2020 alongside Jennifer Lopez and Shakira. Yet for many, it’s a bridge too far.

“When did celebrating America become controversial?” That’s the rhetorical question echoing across social media and talk radio, where detractors frame Bad Bunny’s selection as an affront to the heartland values the Super Bowl ostensibly embodies. Leading the charge is a Change.org petition titled “Replace Bad Bunny with George Strait for the 2026 Super Bowl Halftime Show,” launched by Texas resident Kar Shell on October 10. It accuses the NFL of turning the event into a “political stunt” and lambasts Bad Bunny’s “drag performances and style” as antithetical to family-friendly entertainment. “The Super Bowl halftime show should unite our country, honor American culture, and remain family-friendly,” the petition reads, garnering over 11,000 signatures by mid-week. Supporters hail Strait, the 73-year-old “King of Country” with more than 60 No. 1 hits, as the antidote: a symbol of “unity, tradition, and timeless American music.”

The outrage isn’t organic—it’s amplified by a chorus of right-wing voices. Former President Donald Trump, fresh off his reelection bid, took to Truth Social to blast the decision, claiming Goodell had “blamed some promoter” for the pick and calling it “absolutely ridiculous.” Turning Point USA, the conservative youth organization, announced plans for a rival “All-American Halftime Show” event, positioning it as a wholesome alternative to what they deride as Bad Bunny’s “vulgar trends.” Even Elon Musk has waded in, with unverified rumors swirling of a threatened $40 million sponsorship pullout over the booking. On X (formerly Twitter), hashtags like #StraitForSuperBowl and #BoycottBadBunny trended, with users posting AI-generated images of Strait crooning “Amarillo by Morning” amid pyrotechnics and cheerleaders.

At its core, the furor taps into Bad Bunny’s outspoken activism. The artist has long criticized U.S. immigration policies, refusing concerts in states with strict enforcement and dedicating songs to Puerto Rican sovereignty. His 2022 track “El Apagón” addressed blackouts on the island, and he’s been vocal against ICE raids—a stance that rankles in an era of heightened border debates. Critics, including MAGA-aligned influencers, paint him as un-American, ignoring his Puerto Rican roots as U.S. citizenship. “This isn’t about music; it’s about loyalty,” fumed one petitioner from rural Oklahoma. “Why platform someone who disrespects our flag?”

Yet this backlash reveals deeper fissures in the NFL’s evolving identity. The halftime show, once a modest affair with marching bands and Up with People choruses in the 1970s, ballooned into a global spectacle under MTV’s 1991 partnership. Icons like Michael Jackson (1993), Aerosmith (2001), and Prince (2007) redefined it as pop’s pinnacle. More recently, it’s mirrored America’s diversification: Beyoncé’s Black Panther-inspired 2016 performance sparked “boycott” calls from the right, while The Weeknd’s 2021 solo amid COVID restrictions drew ire for its dystopian vibe.

The 2017 kneeling protests by Colin Kaepernick supercharged the politicization, turning the league into a proxy for national debates on race and justice. Now, with Bad Bunny, the script flips: conservatives cry foul over perceived slights to “traditional” Americana. Strait, a Texas rancher with a low-key persona, represents an idealized past—neigh country anthems evoking barbecues, pickup trucks, and unadulterated patriotism. His 2024 record-breaking concert at Kyle Field drew 110,905 fans, proving his enduring draw. “George wouldn’t divide us,” one fan tweeted. “He’d heal us.”

Not everyone sees it that way. Bad Bunny’s defenders, including Latino advocacy groups like UnidosUS, decry the petitions as xenophobic. “Puerto Ricans are Americans—full stop,” said Maria Torres, a San Francisco-based organizer. “This is erasure of our contributions to the culture that built the NFL’s fanbase.” Roc Nation has stayed mum, but sources close to the production hint at a spectacle blending Bad Bunny’s high-energy hits like “Tití Me Preguntó” with guest appearances to broaden appeal. The NFL, in a statement, reaffirmed its commitment to “reflecting the diversity of our fans.”

As petitions multiply—one now at 1,400 signatures specifically for Strait—the question lingers: Can the Super Bowl still “celebrate America” without alienating half the country? The event draws over 100 million viewers annually, a mirror to our fractured union. In an age where patriotism feels like a zero-sum game, Bad Bunny’s beats versus Strait’s ballads underscore a painful truth: What unites us may no longer be enough.

For now, the league holds firm, unlikely to bow to online clamor as it did in past dust-ups. But the din serves as a stark reminder—football’s biggest night isn’t just about touchdowns anymore. It’s a battleground where the soul of the nation collides with spectacle.