Reclaiming Ethnic Identity

Recently, I have been feeling called to the beauty in the traditions of my hispanic ancestors, but it is a mixed feeling. I grew up as what is commonly referred to as a ‘No Sabo’ kid, which means I did not grow up speaking spanish and without a throughline of hispanic traditions in the household. Trying to embrace it now, I feel like a fake. I am desperately trying to learn Spanish via app and read about traditions, but being 26, I feel like I am too late. It is embarrassing when people speak to me in Spanish, assuming I must know because of how I look. It’s strange because seeing some things online, I can remember having similar experiences. For example, I was told I would catch a cold if I walked around with wet hair or walked on non-carpet flooring without socks. I still wear socks whenever I’m inside. I was told if I had a cold, it was best to put Vicks Vapor Rub on my chest and soles of my feet. I can recall having a tummy ache and my great-grandmother rubbing my stomach and reciting “Sana, sana, colita de rana”. 

My mother is Puerto Rican and Cuban. She spoke Spanish because she spent many summer vacations with her grandparents in Aguadilla, a small town on the western coast of Puerto Rico. There she would climb fruit trees, play with neighborhood kids, and be cared for by the whole town. But this was not her home. Her home was in southern New Jersey in the 80’s. It was notably homogeneous in race. At the time, microaggressions toward people of different ethnicities were common. All teenagers want to fit in, make friends. For my mother to do this, it meant abandoning the things that made her unique, little pieces of her identity that made her a target of children' s cruelty. Assimilation is as necessary as it is destructive. 

So, she began copying her classmates' style and mannerisms. She straightened her curls and the harsh winters allowed her skin tone to pale. Without the obstacle of sticking out, she could finally survive. Further, she wanted to protect her children from ridicule, to set them up for success. For my brother and I, being hispanic was a thought in the very back of our minds. It was most present when we went to our great-grandparents’ house, where we would play dominos on the dining table with our grandmother while our grandfather told us stories of all the jobs he had from being a sugar cane farmer in Puerto Rico to being a chef in a New Jersey casino. 

My brother and I were much luckier than my mother. We grew up in the early 2000’s with more movements toward tolerance and appreciation for all cultures. We also grew up in south Florida, where there was a large influence of different cultures from the Caribbean. My graduating class of over 600 students was a mix of different races, ethnicities, and religions. Many of my friends spoke Spanish in their household. I wore my curly hair loose or my mom would braid it for me, hoping I would come to love my hair in a way she didn’t. My brother and I looked very average compared to the rest of the population, but still, being hispanic was just something I told people when they asked “What are you? Like, where are your parents from?”

I’ve been going to therapy for about 2 years now and one of the first things we worked on was identity work. I had to identify what things about myself I identified with, like ‘wife’, ‘scientist’, ‘daughter’, ‘athlete’, etc. Ethnicity, religion, and culture were not things that I had even considered. Because I didn’t have any culture, I would argue, I was just white. 

Around the same time, my mom stopped getting her hair chemically straightened and let it grow out. Her beautiful curls soon began thriving. She started dressing in bright colors that suited the warm undertones in her skin. All of a sudden she seemed to glow from within and look more like herself.

For our annual Christmas vacation. We decided to go to Puerto Rico. My brother and I were so excited, it would be our first time there. I was excited to share this experience with my husband, my family, and my grandparents. My husband and I learned enough Spanish so we could get by. Embarrassingly enough, my Irish husband was a bit better than I was at understanding.  It was gorgeous. The beaches and heat reminded me of Florida, which was home to me. The vast jungles and lush vegetation provided home for the coquis, whose soft chorus guided us to sleep every night. The people were unapologetically Puerto Rican and so kind. Everyone seemed happy, living in their own slice of paradise. My father was amazed by the beauty of nature and the tranquility of the island that it became a real possibility for retirement. 

Since coming back, I have been continuing my Spanish practice, listening to lots of Bad Bunny, and researching customs, mythologies, and stories from Puerto Rico and natives from the Caribbean. I still feel like a ‘No Sabo’ kid. I feel a little like an imposter. But I think I’ve come to the conclusion that I’d rather try to keep these traditions and customs alive. I would like to tell my children “Sana, sana, colita de rana,” when they scrape their knees. I would rather be a little uncomfortable than let these traditions end with me and die out. It will take work and effort but I’d like to reclaim some ancestral history that we had to hide for so long to survive.