In 2005 a Spanish professor at my high school by the name of Senor Luis Gomez took me on my first international trip which would be the catalyst for my insatiable desire to travel the world.
I have always been interested in my own culture, history, and past but like many other children, I knew only what I heard in my house – Fidel Castro was a murderer, Che Guevara was his accomplice, and though Cuba was my “home,” it was a home that I could never visit. A country that held my past, my family who never sought refuge in the United States, and a life that I would hear anecdotes about growing up but never be able to experience for myself.
Being 100% born and raised “American” (what is the appropriate word for someone from the United States?) is a cultural mystery to me. Who I was growing up was loosely defined by a set of anecdotes, old family tales, salsa music, my first tongue (Spanish), nine years of Catholic school, and pollo guisado con arroz, frijoles, and platanos maduros. As a baby I was not given your all-American Gerber baby food, but instead Mami would feed me her own concoctions of blended rice, beans, and whatever meat the adults were having that evening. Chef Mami will one day teach me her tricks of the trade when I have a child. My cultural identity was being defined before I even had the chance to object. This undeniable “Latina” girl would soon lose her native tongue as her parents had decided it would be better to assimilate than to endure hours of ESL courses and missing important English literature classes. Personally, I wish I knew what was happening as I could have stopped them and at least given myself some chance at being fluent in Spanish (not just colloquially but professionally) but also giving myself the opportunity to be seen as a “Latina” beyond the curly brown hair. When I went to high school at a predominantly all-white preparatory school in New Jersey, I knew nothing about what it was like to be around others of different cultural backgrounds. I had gone to a Catholic school for nine years where diversity was not something that was discussed, and we were too young to know the significance of such loaded terminology.
High school was a blur. I remember joining volleyball in the fall of 2002 and being embarrassed that I had never met a black person before so I couldn’t tell the difference between two of my now closest best friends when we first met. I had no idea that I was teetering on the edge of offensive when I would ask questions regarding their hair. All I knew was that they were my best friends and I was curious. I am grateful now that they were patient and understanding. Needless to say, my parents were not happy that I was not “assimilating” the way they had hoped. I was banned from joining any cultural groups –therefore was not a part of Umojaa like the rest of my friends were and was not allowed to join Mi Casa (the Spanish club) for my parents’ fear that I might stick out like the refugees we were. I never fully understood their view and still struggle with it these days but I know we have come to a mutual understanding between us.
I ended up having a variety of friends – my boyfriend in high school was a white football player who introduced me to his artsy friends who came from all backgrounds – Chinese, Indian, and Caucasian. I naturally spent most of my time with them towards the latter part of my high school years. Yet something always felt like it was missing. A part of me yearned for a deeper connection to my past. I started to seek it in my artwork. I was part of the International Baccalaureate (IB) program in my school and I enrolled in the IB Studio Art class; a two year class focusing on advanced techniques, studies, and research to improve the depth and quality of your work. As I scan through the pages of my old workbooks, it is obvious that culture was my missing link. I became obsessed with creating pieces of work towards the second half of my junior year and all of my senior year with different cultural artifacts after the eight-day trip Senor Gomez took me on to Costa Rica.
I painted an oversized ox-cart wheel synonymous with those found in the farmlands of Costa Rica; a way for farmers to recognize their specific ox-carts and to show off their affluence based on who had the best designs. I also painted an oversized matador and bull midway through the bullfights you’d see in Madrid as my father’s family comes from Spanish bloodline. I painted my depiction of Dia de los Muertos with acrylics on canvas – a festival in Mexico to honor and celebrate the lives of those who have passed. I sculpted a calavera, painted flamenco dancers, tango dancers, and even a samba dancer. Culture was my muse.
I never thought much about my obsession until college when I applied to live on the Latin American Residential Program in Harnwell college house (UPenn’s fancy way of saying, "dorms"). I knew I wanted to find out more about myself and much to my parents dismay, I got into the program living with two suitemates – one international student from Colombia, and another local Dominican student from NYC. I was happy to see that there were two other freshmen males living next door to us – an Argentinean student from Boca Raton and a Puerto Rican student from NYC. After seeing the pictures of who I’d be sharing my year with, my parents insisted on referring to the Puerto Rican and Dominican students as my “black” roommates. I didn’t know what to say except, “But they’re Latino…” I had never met a fellow Latino that didn’t have my pale white skin color and as funny as it sounds reading this now eight years later, I am embarrassed and horrified that I was so ignorant and therefore had no response to my parent's allegations. As I became closer with my roommates and hallmates, it was pretty obvious that I had made the right choice – I finally felt like these people understood my struggles. They knew what it was like to always have rice, beans, and platanos with every meal. They understood that a chancleta was reason to hide from your parents growing up. They knew that on Saturday nights, it was Abuela’s turn to the TV to watch her weekly dose of Don Francisco on Sabado Gigante. I had never felt more accepted and I was finally growing into my own. This family and my Onda Latina family (my dance troupe) molded my self-perception and sense of identity more than I will ever have words for. My sophomore year I knew I wanted to study culture, race, and identity in a closer depth. I enrolled in race studies classes with the best UPenn professor and advisor I could find – Dr. John Jackson. I ended up majoring in Communications with a concentration in Culture, and minored in Latin American and Latino Studies. I had learned more about the social constructions and history of race, skin color, identity, and ethnicity in one semester than I had learned growing up in a whitewashed house. Why had this been hidden from me?
The answer to that question is one that I am appalled to admit – I asked my mother one day why they insisted on shielding my culture and identity from me and my siblings (all of whom have not really found their place as “Latinos” in this world and who only loosely identify with the term). Her answer frustrated me – “I wanted to raise you white. I didn’t want you to go through the same struggles I went through growing up as a Cuban in Newark not knowing English.” Years later, I can see as a parent why she would want to shelter her children and based on her own experiences, why she felt this was the best way. But it wasn’t enough for me.
I met many people in college from all over the world – sparking my interest and eye in world travel. After Costa Rica, I was afforded the once-in-a-lifetime chance to travel to Colombia with my roommate. We lived abroad for two months. One of the best experiences of my life; and one day I will be back to see the family that housed us as part of our homestay, relive my nostalgia on top of Monserrate, La Calera, go for a run in Simon Bolivar Parque, and finally experience Andres Carne de Res.
Living abroad or even changing locations is daunting for many, but I find it liberating in a way. Naturally I have always been a social person, so building relationships with those around me has never been a challenge thus far. But moving to a new location affords you the ability to fully detach yourself from your previous abode and create a new persona. As Jhumpa Lahiri writes in her novel, “The Namesake”, it is that uncanny ability to “both fit in perfectly yet remain slightly novel.” “Reinventing [your]self, without misgivings, without guilt.”
For the last four years since graduation, I have been reinventing myself with every trip and experience I have abroad. I have travelled to eight different countries so far at the ripe age of twenty-six. More than many at my age, but still not enough for me. I find myself constantly yearning for a new cultural experience to expand my horizons, challenge my viewpoints, and push me outside of my comfort zones. I strive to find comfort in uncomfortable places – in relationships, business, or cultural exploration. Over a year ago I started to date a man from Trinidad and I fully embraced his culture and identity. More than a year after we have stopped dating, I have still adopted parts of the culture as my own – in particular the music and food. So much so that I have gotten asked the question “Are you Trini?” more than once.
I am a true cultural mutt. In 2013 I made my longest international trip so far to the United Arab Emirates. As I disembarked from the plane after a fifteen and a half hour flight, I landed in a space that was decidedly foreign. The men in their thawbs and keffiyehs frightened my Western mind as I had only seen images of men covered in white on the news and media in negative portrayals. The men came across as intimidating and I could not help but look away as the man in customs asked me questions regarding my trip. It took me less than a few hours to realize I that I needed to get over myself and push my limits of comfort. As I took the subway from our hotel to the Mall of the Emirates by myself, I was confronted with new cultural experiences – a train which separated men from women, the public recitation of the Qu’ran during holy moments of prayer, prayer rooms within the mall, no trace of pork anywhere, and everything coming to a halt during the time of salat. It was so much for me to take in and absorb. I had never seen so many women dressed in abayas, niqab, and hijabs before. It has been a year since I pushed the bubble of my lived world, and after reading ten different books about Islam and the Middle East, I still thirst for more. I am mesmerized by the rhythmic chanting of the Qu’ran and the level of respect I have for the religion and Allah is on par with my level of respect for Jehovah. But then again, I believe they are one in the same. One day I will venture the courage to ask a woman covered in hijab about her place of worship here in Miami and I will ask to attend with her. I would like to worship my Lord in every way possible; why not give Him the joy to see me revere Him in every religion?
People like to categorize and ask me if my move to Miami was part of me placing myself back into a cultural identity with which I could associate – the life of a refugee and growing up in a country that was not our own. Miami is undoubtedly the city of Cuban-American nostalgia and hope. But when I quickly rebuke their statement, they are surprised to find out I actually disassociate myself with Miami Cuban-Americans for that exact reason. It is not what I grew up with, nor do I have a deep seeded desire to belong to their exclusive cult-like clique. Miami Cubans are very far from what I consider my own identity. I do not enjoy speaking Spanish as my primary language and I definitely do not ascribe to their narcissistic perception of self. The way they reproach other cultures, races, and people nauseates me. I would much rather associate myself with a mixed cultural identity – a bit of Cuban, Middle Eastern, Colombian, Trini, Dominican, American, African-American, etc. I continue to adopt and accept new customs and traditions into my own life with every journey to a foreign country and with every person I encounter. It keeps me fresh, renewed, and constantly challenged and changing. The plasticity of my identity allows me to reinvent the whitewashed customs I grew up with and color them brilliantly - just as the ox cart wheels I encountered in Costa Rica and later painted my own adaptation through my own mixed cultural gaze. I cannot and will not be classified; a fact that gives me ambiguity, elusiveness, and allows me to retain my own variance in a world that is too concerned with classification.
