“Where are you from?”- Tales of a Latina’s Travels, Part 1

“Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn, NY!”, I respond with the pride of any New Yorker aware that they come traveling from the best city in the whole fricken world.

But as I stared into the eyes of the inquisitor I saw a look of dissatisfaction from my response.  Not an angry or annoyed look, but more of a “No, no…that’s not it” look.

And the more I was asked this question during my travels cross country this summer, the more I realized that the curiosity of where I am from is based on the assumption that I am not from here.

Tons of my ethnic friends responded in annoyance when I shared this realization with them.  But I am used to it. I have traveled my entire life, and I have been brown, and Latina, my entire life. I only picked up Spanish around the age of 9 and Italian and French came much, much later for me. People, even my own, have been curious about me, my entire life.  When I lived in the Dominican Republic, I was a “gringa”, my Spanish was horrid, and I wasn’t acclimated to the Dominican culture at all.  When I lived in Italy, I was Brazilian, my Italian, also horrid, and the lack of knowledge of what a Dominican was, caused everyone to assume that the curly hair, and brown skin was by way of the South American country.

Outside of New York City, I could be anything, African American, Indian, Brazilian, Mexican (cause what other Latino is there?) and recently, Polynesian (though I was also told I was incredibly beautiful).

Dominicans in New York will argue that I am not, in fact, “Dominican”, but rather “Americana” for the same reasons island Dominicans think so, though at this point I speak perfect Spanish, can cook a delicious Dominican anything, and know plenty about my cultural roots…but “gringos” would never assume I am actually American, because, well, look at me!

So, when I travel, and someone asks, “Where are you from?” and I realize that it is a question relating to where “my look” is from, and not where was I born, I don’t get upset…and happily talk about the Dominican Republic and why it is that I speak English so well, because, that is also a topic of great surprise.

I could get angry, I could be offended.  But, I am very aware of how I am different, and am very proud of my heritage, and take pleasure in the opportunity to share with others what I can about my culture.

But, bottom line is I am, in fact, from Brooklyn, NY.  I’ve been from Brooklyn before Brooklyn was cool.  When Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam where rocking the parachute pants, I was in Brooklyn.  When rap was something urban kids did on the stoop of their buildings, I was in Brooklyn.  When subway cars where covered in graffiti, I was in Brooklyn. I was there eating Italian ices, and slices of pizza while standing on the sidewalk after school, or fighting with the Puerto Rican girls who hated me cause I was Dominican, living in my grandparents’ brownstone, which they owned, overlooking Sunset Park.  Yeah, I was in Brooklyn. And then, I moved to the Dominican Republic.

But my family is from many places: My father, from San Pedro de Macoris in Dominican Republic.  My mother, from Carolina in Puerto Rico, as were my grandparents from her side. (To add to the confusion, I also spent a nice chunk of my childhood  living in what used to be the shanty town of La Perla, in PR, and was very influenced by my experiences there). My paternal grandfather also Dominican, his family from Haiti, their ancestors desendents of African slaves brought to the island by Spaniards to help build the colonies.  My paternal grandmother, also Dominican, had a Greek ancestry.

I speak English, so well, because it is my first language. And I am so articulate because I had great teachers and parents, who taught me well, all through Graduate School.  Oh, yes, I graduated from college too.  MBA in International Relations in fact.

You can close your mouth now.  I know I’ve rocked your world and shattered the stereotype in your head.

But that’s why I love traveling, and I love all the silly questions that only someone like me would ever get asked.  Please ask, never hesitate to, because I assure you, that when you walk away you will be filled with more knowledge and wisdom than you ever expected to receive from the one simple question, “Where are you from?” And I will never, ever make you feel bad for not knowing. We might even become friends.

A friend of mine sent me this poem which I thought perfectly described my experience.

Firebelly by Andrea Thompson

I was once
a nappy headed
Barbie wielding
cartwheel turning
little girl

deliriously playful
obliviously brown

adolescence brought
scalp burn
straightened hair initiation
skin grown fairer
with hormone change, and
less playing in the sun

brought passing accidentally
getting dates, being in
on nigger jokes told
by a soon to be embarrassed
smarty pants kid at the party
who doesn’t know my history

Mr. Man on the street
this girl will not
give you the answer
you may want to hear
when you ask:
WHERE ARE YOU FROM?

I will not
banter in Swahilli
or the long drawl of Patwa
will not enthral you
with captivating tales
of the Ivory Coast

lazy days spen’
wit muddah an sistah
singin’ folk tune
weavin’ from dah loom
while bruddah an fadah
smile, eatin’ wadahmelon
showin’ dere big white teeth
spittin’ out dah seed
getten d’ere belly ready
for dah taste of rice and curry
aftah playin’ bongo all day
undah de broad shade
of dah coconut palm

no
not this girl

this girl will tell you
that she is a woman
from the land where
the people share
a firebelly ferocity
about their belonging

a land
of strip malls
snow tires
driveways
microwaves
cottages, camping
K-Tel, Kleenex, Kool-Aid
mashed potatoes
skateboards
bacon bits
convenience stores
skating rinks, barbecues
backyards, swimming pools

of coming home
when street lights go on
of hide-and-seek after dark

if any further questions
do not insinuate exile, I will
offer clarification
a biographic explanation
will expand upon the blood
newly brewed in this nation

it’s from the land
of Buckingham
marmalade
BBV, Royal Brigade
and a little
nosh with tea
and, that the blood that is
from the rest of me
tells a tale
of North Star, railroad
underground
near escapes
bondages broken
of hundred years
working this land
headstones
marking ancestors
born on / burried in
this soil

I am slave
and slave master

but I am not
a hot chocolate
sweet ginger
butterscotch
toffee, coffee
caramel, coco
maple fudge
cappuccino
honey dipped
mocha, oreo
lightly toasted
cinnamon girl

I am not dinner
at the afro-congo
down to the bone
brown-girl-cafe

where am I from?
no, really from?
no, my parents?
no, my parent’s parents?
no, before that

Or-ige-jan-al-ee?

I come from the land
of snow job
and firebelly
where the neighbors
are Garlands

and the natives
are brown

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