I.
I’m a language nerd.
Language is fascinating to me. We tell each other stories and connect (or
disconnect) with other humans with our words. Sounds that have changed and developed over time convey ideas and
feelings. We’re the only species that
can communicate this way.
Part of my fascination with language comes from the fact that English is NOT my first language. The language I was born into was Spanish. I learned English by watching Sesame Street and being my mom’s little translator (more on that in a future post). For a long time, even until recently, I had a hard time with certain words in English because the only time I ever saw them was in written form. I didn’t grow up with hors d'oeuvres as a part of my spoken language–I have a hard time spelling it–so I'll bring appetizers to the party!
Over time, Spanish was the language
of family and church, and English was the language of school and the outside
world. This makes it a little harder for
me to combine my thoughts and write about my life and experiences, since these worlds
are intertwined. For most of my life,
they were compartmentalized. Not until I
went to High School in Puerto Rico did these two language worlds mesh.
This idea may seem a little
abstract, but for those that have grown up with two languages, it probably
makes sense. Now that I’m returning to my writing and taking it a little more
seriously, I’ll do my best to combine the two, understanding that
sometimes it’s hard to express a memory or idea that has always been in
Spanish.
Now for the nitty-gritty. The main reason for this blog.
II.
As I’ve entered middle age, yes 47 is middle age, I’ve started working on my writing again with a focus on family history and lore. Most of what I plan on writing is a fictionalized account of my family. I don’t know enough details about my family’s history to write about anything of substance and detail.
I started researching the family tree before Covid hit and a couple of years back; I took a couple of ancestry DNA tests. One from 23 and Me and the other from Ancestry. I took two since I was curious to see what kinds of differences would show up. They were consistent with some minor differences. The tests both had some surprises. They cleared some of my understanding into my family history and opened questions. The part that struck me the most saw that I probably have zero African ancestry on my mom’s side, but that my grandmother on my dad’s side was most likely a direct descendant of a slave from Africa. That sent me down a rabbit hole to understand the story of Caribbean slaves and what they must have gone through during their trip from Africa to the islands Slavery at Sea: Terror,Sex and Sickness in the Middle Passage by Sowande' M. Mustakeem.
After reading that book and other essays
about that experience, I felt bitterness towards the other part of my ancestry,
the slave traders. It’s a curious position to be in. I owe my existence to the brutality of the
slave trade. Part of me has the DNA of
the abuser and the abused. What were
these people like? Who were the first ancestors from Africa that were kidnapped from
their country? Who were the traders and colonists that brought them here? I don’t believe in relativism in owning people. They knew it was wrong
and justified their actions by convincing themselves that the slaves were less
than human. Bartolomé de las Casas was a contemporary that spoke against the
inhumanity of that time. They knew and understood the brutality.
It took some time to get to a point where I can think about a part of my reason for existence and not get upset. A co-worker had warned me about going down that path when I started my research. He’s African American, born and raised in North Carolina. He said we can’t control how we came to be. I understood that what I can control is how I live my life and work through my own personal history.
III.
I didn’t realize how unique my upbringing was until I was an adult and moved to suburbia.
I plan on sharing some of my childhood stories here, intermixed with ancestry findings and some fiction for those of you that want to read a story from a different perspective. I’ll try to make it as entertaining as possible. Please let me know when I miss the mark.
Some of my earliest memories are from living in Cidra, Puerto Rico. It’s my second home and where most of my mom’s family still lives. I compare it to the tropical version of a holler[i].
My grandfather inherited the land from his aunt, that from my understanding, had no children. He passed away in 2006 at age 91 (my grandmother died in ’94). All my aunts and uncles built their homes there and many of my cousins and their relatives live there as well. We moved to the states right before I turned four, so my memories of that time are more pictures of major events and passing daily moments that for whatever reason became imprinted in my memory.
We lived just up the road from my grandparents’ house. Even though my grandmother had a kitchen, she had a small shack behind the house where she’d cook over an open fire. I remember the smell of the burning wood and how smokey it would get in the shack with the smoke wafting towards the kitchen.
We played outside most of the time. Warm sunshine is in most of my earliest memories. Mom didn't let me go outside at night, though, for fear of “el sereno”. For a long time, I thought it was some creature that came out at night, then later I found out it was just the evening dew. My mom was old school and believed that you could get sick by going out at night if you got too much dew on you. I also feared “el cuco”[ii] and I have one clear memory of standing by our screen door and looking out into the dark front yard, whispering, “el cuco, el cuco” repeatedly in fear. My mom must have told me not to go out because el cuco would get me. It must have been right after Topo Gigio did his evening song, telling us it was time for bed. There was another daily bedtime song in my childhood, but that came later.
One of the stranger memories that I have from that time is playing in an empty inflatable pool. Since I had whooping cough earlier that year, my mom was very protective of me from getting sick. I have a vague memory of being in the hospital from that, so it must have been bad. My cousins were coming to visit, and I was crying because I wanted to play in the pool. The anticipation built as I watched them inflate it. So, before my cousins arrived, my mom allowed me to sit and enjoy a few minutes in the empty pool. It must have helped. I just hung out later as the big kids splashed and played.
Not a picture of me in the pool, but of "the pool day". The happy smile of someone that just sat in an empty pool.
IV.
Hopping from topic to topic will probably NOT be the norm here. I’ll try to keep posts to one topic at a time–unlike this post, which is a smorgasbord of what’s coming.
A lot about writing these posts and sharing is for myself, but if you want to come along for the ride, you’re more than welcome to subscribe to my page for notifications on new posts. Please post comments, thoughts, ideas, or anything you’d like to share from your experiences and memories that these posts generate.
When appropriate and available, I’ll also share pictures. My dad loved to take pictures and there are plenty out there. Unfortunately, I’ve lost some because of so many of my moves. Hopefully, I can find the gems. Thanks for reading!