Burned by the Melting Pot

“Are you proud to be Puerto Rican?”

My tiny grandmother gazed up at me intently, her long, white hair lifting slightly in the August breeze. We stood outside my parent’s house in upstate NY, and the trees danced with warm summer wind. I blanched slightly, caught off guard.

“What? Of course I am! What makes you ask?” She let out a sigh and her gaze slid from mine.

“I don’t know. I just… want to make sure. I hope so. And you know, I’m just… I’m sorry we didn’t teach you Spanish. We just…” I took her small, soft hand in mine.

“I know, Granny. You don’t have to apologize to me. You were just doing what you thought was best for your family.” She gave me a watery smile and patted my hand.

My grandmother died less than a year later. None of us knew a malicious cancer brewed in her belly until it was too late. I remember her daily, my namesake, with her strong hands, her expressive eyebrows, and how much this small exchange changed my life forever.

Are you proud to be Puerto Rican?

As a kid, I was ecstatic about it. I loved florecitas and coconut candy my titi would send us from Puerto Rico. We visited Puerto Rico and I remember Titi used a machete to open a coconut from her backyard, so my sister and I could taste fresh coconut water. We travelled all over the island seeing family, visiting El Morro Castle and the incredible Ceiba tree in Ponce, with is gnarled roots, hundreds and hundreds of years old. I spend most of my childhood in England as a military kid, so the beaches in Puerto Rico were the first sandy beaches I’d ever experienced. I could not believe the incredible softness of the sand and the clearness of warm water. I didn’t want to leave.

But as you grow older, everything becomes more complicated. After a largely blissful childhood spend in the military community in England, I was thrust into a much different life in suburban America– a place that thrives on classifying its citizens into neat, little labeled boxes.

You don’t speak Spanish? Your last name is Rogers? Only your mom is Puerto Rican? You don’t know what this dish is? You don’t fulfill every stereotype there is about Puerto Ricans? Then: You. don’t. count.

As an introverted, culture-shocked, and sensitive kid, these words seeped into my very soul. They blotted away at my identity— disregarding the blatant fact that this identity lived in my DNA. I felt like I didn’t have enough proof that I was Puerto Rican. I didn’t check enough boxes. I didn’t have the right to claim my heritage.

And that’s the real American Dream, right? Historically, americanizing Puerto Ricans has been priority number one since the day in 1898 that the US snatched up the island as a spoil of war. And of course, this doesn’t just pertain to Puerto Ricans. America’s ‘melting pot’ supposedly represents the beauty of all cultures coming together, but it’s really just a pretty lie.

Think about what happens in a real melting pot. If you put seven different types of cheeses in a melting pot and heat it up. What happens? Each of the cheeses breaks down, losing it’s individual texture and flavor. The American cultural ‘melting pot’ does the exact same to us– it burns away the cultural identity of BIPOC cultures, practically demanding assimilation to the ‘American’ way, in order to achieve success and that oh so idealized ‘American Dream’. I grew up thinking I wanted that dream, too, but thankfully, I’ve come to realize it’s not the dream for me.

I dream of my grandmother, and think of her daily. I meant it wholeheartedly when I told my grandmother didn’t have to apologize. She never owed me an apology. She did not deserve to be weighed down by guilt for a decision she made out of survival, and to give her children a better life than she had. She came to the states as a girl, and started school not knowing a word of English. I can only imagine how much she despised sticking out, facing the jeers day in and day out. It only makes sense that when she had her own daughters, she vowed it would be different for them. She taught them English so they wouldn’t have an accent; so they wouldn’t be targets just for being Puerto Rican, like she was.

Less than a year after my grandmother and I had this conversation, her question rang in my head, as I held her hand on her deathbed. The same hand that I grabbed to reassure her she owed me no apology. All too soon, this delicate hand and the beautiful, strong woman it belonged to, would be no more. My last real connection to the island, and to our family heritage. What would happen when she was gone?

So, am I proud to be Puerto Rican?

Yes. A resounding, enthusiastic, unapologetic yes. I refuse to let that pride and heritage die with my grandmother. Nor will it die with me.

But what does that mean?

It means learning the language of my grandmother, on my own despite my own internalized shame and embarrassment about my lack of Spanish proficiency. It means learning the true history of Puerto Rico, despite the pain and grief that comes with that knowledge. It means learning how to cook authentic Puerto Rican food (your girl loves some pastelon and pastelillos), and listening to Puerto Rican music. It means facing my imposter syndrome head on and reminding myself that I am doing this for myself and my family, and I am entitled to reclaim my heritage because it’s literally in my DNA. It means understanding that this journey of healing from my wounds from the metaphorical melting pot is one that is never truly over.