For most Puerto Ricans, being born on the island is considered something to brag about. We are “Boricua,” they say in accordance to the native name of the island, Boriken. To be perfectly honest; however, I never really saw myself as a “Proud Boricua” while growing up.
My mother would always try to keep the culture and traditions alive in our home. It was a reminder of our roots, day in day out. However, I never “looked Puerto Rican” to anyone. I was always recognized as Dominican first and foremost (my father’s side) or people would ask: “What are you?” “Bengali?” (Not even close). So it goes without saying no matter how much adobo and sazon I ate I didn’t really feel “Boricua.”
I never truly understood Nuyoricans, because being island born, I wasn’t one. Then again I never truly understood Puerto Ricans on the island either. It never seemed interesting to me. P.R. was a touristy spot or a place to get Pina Coladas, but everything else was a copy of Florida in my eyes. There were American flags everywhere.
I tried to identify with the island with every visit, but it never really stuck. I never understood where I fit into it all. I saw my extended family during funerals. Every time there were hundreds in attendance; these people were strangers. I liked the Puerto Rican flag and wore it without ever understanding the hype.
I loved Old San Juan and would ask my grandparents to take me there everyday. This was where I felt there was some connection to the culture. It was like the set of Pirates of The Caribbean. I expected to see mermaids. I loved El Morro, that wall around the city, but we could barely ever go. When I got older, I learned it was actually the Spanish soldiers who built it. Eventually all the trees around were cut so one would bake in the sun on their way up the hill.
They also added more American flags.
El Yunque, the native name to our majestic rainforest, was beautiful. Then again, it was a rainforest full of waterfalls pitfalls and fire ants. I was surprised how people could live in it, but it was the most native area on the island. The Spaniards had stuck to the beaches leaving the sacredness of Atave and Huracan unaltered. I supposed they were also wary of the giant fire ants.
With a few exceptions, what I did know about my country started to annoy me after a while.
I didn’t understand when people who would tell me how cool my island was.
It was hot. Tourist areas were way too expensive. There were mosquitos everywhere all the time. And our history was not really talked about other than the Spaniards conquered us and then so did the Americans. (Apparently we were okay with this).
Why do they care about boxing so much? Baseball is boring. I didn’t get Social Fridays…where the heck would we go? Gossip is stupid. “Que dirán” is stupid…who cares what “they would say?” Why was our island always a vacation ad? No one knew what it really looked like. It looked like Miami. What was so unique about that? Why not just go to Florida, then?
I didn’t like how my mom would always remind me: Ladies dress like this, sit like this, and act like this in P.R. They know how to cook, clean, sew, and build things in P.R. Everyone is so resourceful in P.R. I grew up the exact opposite. And Puerto Ricans never complain. They laugh everything off. Which sucked for me, “Master Drama Queen and Complainer,” who called out every injustice.
“In P.R., they laugh at that,” Mom would say. She was right. In fact, it was like the norm to carry. Nothing bad could ever bring them down. When we visited my mother’s friends on the island, conversations often went like this:
“How have you been?”
“Oh mija, I was in the hospital for weeks because my kidneys were failing and the insurance couldn’t cover it so I had to take out of my retirement fund; then the dog got sick and a storm hit so the roof got damaged and I went to the Welfare Office and need to go back today, but you know what? God has me. I can’t complain.”
These people were crazy, I decided. Houses on fire, hospital visits, and pets dying…they would always make jokes and offer coffee. They always offered coffee. I truly didn’t understand it.
And now, I realize how completely badass these people were.
My neighbors that could whether any storm, my mom who never complained, or my great-uncle who lived in a shack in the rainforest with no fear of the fire ants. They’re all survivors.
In the middle of the rainforest or in a tiny apartment in East New York, they were somehow winning at life in ways I couldn’t fathom. And now I see the news; the island is seriously in debt and corruption and you have those still calling it home and still so proud to be Puerto Rican as the island falls in shambles around them. They are probably still eating saltines and bread with coffee every morning and they can’t complain because God has them.
I don’t know if I’d call it stubborn or idealistic. The fact that they have gone through so much and still choose to stay; the fact we all go through so much and are trained to not complain. Little old people with straw hats working with the sun and young business people greeting the grind with a smile…there is dignity and honor there.
Now, I look at it and think if that is what Mom was lecturing me about. If that is what I’m supposed to be part of, then I’m not ashamed. To live daily life in the corrupt void not just now, but since always and still smile, crack jokes, and still see some good in the world and in our neighbors and offer them coffee. If THAT is being Puerto Rican, I can only hope to be that. As detached as I am sometimes, I can say I would be proud to be that. And it took me twenty years to realize that I was never really ashamed; I just never truly understood what being a “Proud Boricua” stood for. It’s an honorable title indeed.
Latina. Writing enthusiast. Educator. Perspectiv.words Content Strategist, Editor, & Contributor. Loves science and a good debate. I write about what I see in an effort to better understand the world around me. I believe there is more than one story to tell and I don’t mind exploring them all.
