I. A Love for Language
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 struggled 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
part of my spoken language—I even have a hard time spelling it—so I’ll bring
appetizers to the party!
Over time, Spanish became the language of family and church,
while English was the language of school and the outside world. This division
made it harder for me to combine my thoughts and write about my life and
experiences, as these worlds were so intertwined but compartmentalized. Not
until I went to high school in Puerto Rico did these two language worlds
finally mesh.
This idea might seem a little abstract, but for those who’ve
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 it’s sometimes hard to express a memory or idea
that has always existed in Spanish.
Now for the nitty-gritty. The main reason for this blog.
II. Writing, Family History, and Lore.
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 anything of great
substance or accuracy.
I started researching the family tree before COVID hit, and
a couple of years ago I took ancestry DNA tests from both 23andMe and Ancestry.
I took two because I was curious to see if there would be any differences. They
were consistent with only minor variations, but the results held surprises.
They clarified some aspects of my family history and opened up new questions.
The part that struck me the most was learning 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 an enslaved African.
This discovery sent me down a rabbit hole, trying to understand the story of
Caribbean slavery and what those enslaved people endured during their journey
from Africa to the islands. One book that made a lasting impression was
*Slavery at Sea: Terror, Sex, and Sickness in the Middle Passage* by Sowande’
M. Mustakeem.
After reading that book and other essays about the Middle
Passage, I felt bitterness toward the other part of my ancestry: the slave
traders. It’s a strange position to be in. I owe my existence to the brutality
of the slave trade. Part of me carries the DNA of both the abuser and the
abused. What were these people like? Who was the first ancestor kidnapped from
Africa? Who were the traders and colonists who justified their actions by
convincing themselves that enslaved people were less than human?
I don’t believe in moral relativism when it comes to owning
people. They knew it was wrong. Bartolomé de las Casas was a contemporary of
the time who spoke against the inhumanity of slavery. They knew and understood
the brutality but justified it, anyway.
It took some time for me to think about this part of my
existence without getting upset. A co-worker had warned me about going down
this path when I first began my research. He’s African American, born and
raised in North Carolina, and he told me, “We can’t control how we came to be.”
That stuck with me. I realized that what I *can* control is how I live my life
and how I process and work through my history.
III. Growing Up in Cidra.
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, along
with ancestry findings and some fiction for those of you who’d like to read a
story from a different perspective. I’ll try to make it as entertaining as possible,
but 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 a tropical version of a holler.
My grandfather inherited the land from his aunt, who, from
my understanding, had no children. He passed away in 2006 at age 91 (my
grandmother had died in ’94). All my aunts and uncles built their homes there,
and many of my cousins and their relatives still live there. We moved to the
States right before I turned four, so my memories of that time are more like
snapshots of major events or small daily moments that, for whatever reason,
became imprinted in my mind.
We lived just up the road from my grandparents’ house. Even
though my grandmother had a kitchen, she also had a small shack behind the
house where she cooked over an open fire. I remember the smell of the burning
wood and how smoky it would get, with the smoke wafting toward the kitchen.
We played outside most of the time. Warm sunshine fills most
of my earliest memories. My mom didn’t let me go outside at night, though, for
fear of “el sereno.” For the longest time, I thought it was some creature that
came out at night. Later, I found out it was just the evening dew. My mom was
old school and believed you could get sick by going out at night if you got too
much dew on you. I also feared “el cuco.” I have one clear memory of standing
by our screen door, looking out into the dark front yard and whispering, “el
cuco, el cuco,” in fear. My mom must have told me not to go outside because *el
cuco* would get me. It must have been right after Topo Gigio’s evening song,
telling us it was time for bed.
One of my stranger memories is of playing in an empty
inflatable pool. Since I’d had whooping cough earlier that year, my mom was
very protective. I have a vague memory of being in the hospital, 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. Before my cousins arrived, my mom let me sit in the pool—empty—and enjoy a
few minutes of pretending. It must have worked because I happily hung out later
while the older 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. A Glimpse of What’s to Come
This post is a bit of a sampler of what’s coming: stories
about language, heritage, and my journey through writing. I’ll try to keep
future posts more focused, but I wanted to introduce you to the mix of topics
I’m excited about exploring.
A lot of writing these posts is for me, but if you’d like to
come along for the ride, you’re more than welcome to subscribe. Feel free to
share comments, thoughts, or experiences these posts inspire. When I can, I’ll
include pictures—my dad was an avid photographer, and I hope to dig up some of
his gems.
Thank you for reading! I’m looking forward to sharing more
soon.