The beginning of my life story is similar to the story of other Hispanics in this country. Both of my parents immigrated to the United States. As a result, when people ask me where I am from, they usually just wonder where my heritage is from instead of my actual home.
Ultimately, it confused me. I eventually resorted to telling people that I was from California and had moved to Michigan, and they did not need to know further details. The more I said this, the more I began to become distant from the heritage that I was blessed with. In fact, I had little feelings of empathy toward my Mexican and Dominican roots; I was just more proud of the fact that I was American. You see, my parents have a command of the English language that is comparable to college graduates. Their Spanish is also impeccable. Knowledge of both languages along with the environment at home let me see the world from a greater viewpoint.
Let me explain an aspect of this home environment in terms of food. If you go to my house, you won’t be treated with just Dominican and Mexican food. You will also be served Indian, Thai, Cuban and European delights. See, my parents, the ones who have ventured from the borders of their countries, have only seen that this world is smaller than we think. It is a place full of amazing opportunities mixed with misconceptions about life. My parents endeavor to realize that they identify as children of God. With that layer of understanding, they recognize that everyone is a creation of His.
It took me 21 years to realize that. It wasn’t until my ethnic group was marginalized in a way that affected me that I came to an uncomfortable crossroads. It was up to me to choose whether I would uphold my heritage or abandon it. Recent events have further reinforced my appreciation of my heritage. I now have added to my identity: an American of Mexican and Dominican origin, son of God. Too bad it took me 21 years to figure that out.