Lost Identity: Who am I?

Some people have said to me that I have Sofia Vergara’s accent and Kim Kardashian’s exotic looks. It’s easy for people to approach me, as I have a constant smile on my face, except when I’m “randomly checked” at the airports and being shoved aside like a criminal by their TSA reps. But other than that and regardless of my looks I’m someone who is a magnet to others. And I still don’t know the reason for such an unexplainable reaction.

Now, being or looking exotic have many advantages. But also many disadvantages as well. You either fit in or you don’t. My personality fits in well, but sometimes my looks or my accent doesn’t quite work well into fitting in with certain people or groups. For example, each time I visit Puerto Rico, I get asked, “What are you?” To which I’m inclined to reply, “Human of course!”, “I’m not an alient” (Pun intended)

It is so frustrating that even in your own community one is a foreigner, a total stranger. All because one may sound or look a bit different. I get asked that a lot, if I’m from Puerto Rico or Dominican. Other’s assume, rightfully so, that I’m probably Indian.

Here is the thing, I’m part Puerto Rican and part Indian and some other part of me must definitely be African, but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself in that other topic. TMI! (To much information) (*chuckles)

However, my accent is totally, utterly Spanish. I love the British accent though. If I lived in the UK I would probably be able to learn that sexy sophisticated accent. But I’m stocked with my mixture of Penelope Cruz, Sofía Vergaras nasal accent instead. That is exaclty what comes out of my mouth whenever I speak, and I can’t control it.

My brain on the other hand thinks I’m Anglo. In my mind I have this pretty nice American news anchor female accent, that is if Mariah Carey was a news Reporter .

My present concern is more of “Who am I? ” I know it deep inside. I have this reassuring inner voice that assures me everything will be alright. And that I need to stop being insecure about being Multiratial. We are on the tip of the 20th Century and people still concern themselves over such trivial issues. But they are not as trivial as they should. We made them important. Our biased humanity made ratial issues the center of the attention. Now I’m under a spotlight because of that. Someone greeted me today this way, “Hey Níggerhow you doing? Do you work in this building?” There were two odd things about it: 1. He said “nigger”. a) He was a Caucasian male. 2. I’m not black and you don’t go around calling people nigger. 2. He thought he was being friendly. He wasn’t it. That’s not nice. You are professional, a Security Guard, act like it.

I ignored the remark, simply said, “What?” He continued talking like a chatter box, repeated his question, without the insulting N word, showed his yellow teeth and complimented me on my shirt. I was surprised to such an odd behavior thowards me but somehow everything was fine. I thanked him for the compliment. And wished him a nice day too, he did the same and left with a wide smile on his face.

I felt like yelling at his back. “I’m not Nigger. I have a name and that’s not it.” Back in school I had some problems with few friends about calling me names based on my skin color. I was confused. I thought I was just a regular Puerto Rican, but for these group of children I was an Indian or someone who was part African and Dominican. If I knew for sure that that was the case it wouldn’t have affected me. But since I never met my dad nor his family, my anguish and speculations about me being half Indian, Native American, or African American made me angry. To this day I don’t know if I’m part Indian or if I’m part Black.

My husband and some of his friends have somewhat confirmed the suspicions, that I’ve kept hidden inside of me for a long time. They think I may be part African American. And there is nothing wrong with being that regardless of some of my own family members that had this terrible wrong old idea that being of color or a darker skin isn’t the ideal or the “typical Spanish beauty standard”.

And to my family, I was the exotic creature. The little Indian. Try and think Pocahontas with a suntan, or a lighter version of Halley Berry. And What does that matter? I always asked them. No logic answer. It affected how I view them and how I viewd myself. Because I began to feel the outcast. Like I was somewhat different. Not the ugly duckling but the little Swan who belonged somewhere else.

People and the media lies. They tell you what matters is the inside, and how you feel about yourself. Your confidence. Not if you are skinny or fat. Black or White. But in reality not everything is black and white. There are gray areas too. I happened to be and feel like a gray empty area.

I wish I could find my true self, know the whole truth about my paternal family. But taking an online DNA test for those sites that tells you have such and such percentages of many races, mostly Eastern European, is not the solution for me. My mother is no longer in this world. So I may die one day still questioning “Who am I?”

I can truly relate with the adopted and homeless children who have no idea of who they really are. A lot of these then have probably a particular way of defining themselves. And they are happy with that, with no issues or problemas about their racial background. But I’m not. Because I am an answer seeker. And I had enough. I had to speak up about. It’s something that I should’ve dealt with years ago. But recently the fact and fear that I may become sort of an “allien” in my own country, without fully knowing the truth about my existence and past is completely hunting me. Maybe one day I may find closure. But I’m not there yet.

Creative Curious Piñatas

My sister has created and design amazing piñatas and they are so great, durable and also pretty that I want to share with everyone how amazing they are.

Here is few of them.

 

If you like these pinatas and would like to order some they range from $30 to $50 because of their large size. But if you email me at evelyn_rdz@hotmail.com and mention you saw my blog you get $5 off your pinata first order. WE SHIP TO: (US & PUERTO RICO. HABLAMOS ESPANOL! )

Dear Uncle P.

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The story I’m about to share is based on a real story, said my uncle Peter as I sat on the cold floor of his recently waxed terrace. I laid down over the white and black, cookies and cream ice cream tile floor and crossed my hands under my head, with my left foot crossed over my right one, and looked straight at my uncle. I stared hungrily at dear uncle Peter. “Yes, please tell me more stories Uncle P. I really love hearing them.” “Pay attention India so one day you can tell the same stories to your children and grandchildren.” I smiled ear to ear and paid very close attention.

I used my little winning voice with my favorite aunts and uncles, and from time to time, that little winning voice resurface again each time I ask someone for something that I really want. My uncle nodded and began telling me about the time hurricane St. Patricio flooded a whole town and it was barely visible even months after the hurricane was gone to other lands and the waters has stopped flooding the streets, towns, and villas.

To this day a town named Guajataka was so overflown that its lake swallowed half of the town during the non stopping rains. It is said that the town’s first church and buildings surrounding it are to this day hidden inside the lake. And when there’s low tides, or during the very dry summer days if you go closer to the lake Guajataka you can see from the distance a cross and the roof of that church peering through, right at the center of the lake. People still gather to this day on the shore of that lake to pray for their loved ones and for the relatives they lost. So I knew Uncle Pete had a very good story to tell me, just like other amazing stories I heard from him since I was 4 years old and moved with my divorced mother and sibling into a 4 bedroom wood bungalow near my great aunt and uncles. We had no tv at home nor running water or inside toilette, not much food either. My aunts sort of adopted me. They taught me lady like things that I were going to need one day when I became a woman, just like them. My uncles and my cousins also took me under their wings and taught me things a hard working Spanish girl should know. They taught me to pick coffee beans from its own tree and laid them under the sun to dry up to later on be sold, among many other fruits and vegetables at the Weekend Fresh Market.

But during the time my uncle was resting in his old brown hammock that was tied up to his terrace beams with strong farming ropes, the same one he used to tie his cows with, he would lower his strong loud voice to almost a whisper as if he was talking to himself and began his stories. “You see that mango tree by your aunt Lucy’s house over there on that hill?” “Yes I play hide and seek there with my friends there after school.” “Once, many years ago, even when your Aunt’s home wasn’t built yet, right over there, a helicopter  passing by, looking for some bad people, got fire, and it exploded in the air falling down over that tree.” “Wow uncle. But how that happened?” “No one really knows. But big pieces of it feel all over the streets, the tree, and over a neighbor’s roof top.” “That’s and amazing story. Can’t wait to tell my friends.”

“That’s not all”, said my uncle smiling this time. He rarely smiled. But he continued with his story ignoring my questioning little eyes, opened wide as cow eyes. “They said that the Pilot was such a Christian man, and did so many good things for the people he knew, that he prayed for his own life with so much faith that he came out of it unharmed.”Did he grow wings uncle P?” “Not quite. People ran to his rescue and found him hanging from a tree branch with his parachute wrapped around his arms and shoulders, but he was barely hurt by the accident. In a way he grew wings.” “Yes, he did for sure.”

“This means that the pilot was really a man of God. Because he believed even when things were going so terrible for him. You see, he almost died on his helicopter accident but he was not angry at God. He believed God intended to save him and prayed for that. And God in return protected him from the fire and his fatal fall. The pilot, whom no one ever knew his true name, was saved.” “Great story. That’s why I always pray when I’m scared, specially at night. I’m afraid of the dark.” My uncle touched my hair and messed my bangs a little smiling again. He looked happy then. “You will never need to be afraid because I’m here to protect you, and God is up there also watching after you. Just like you grandma and my mother are. They are your guardian angels. Pray to them. And always pray to God, because he listens to his children, specially to such a pretty and sweet girl like you.”

Uncle P. is my guardian angel now, and last night as I closed my eyes to sleep, he told me, “Remember my stories, India? Well it is time to share them. Is your time to pass them along to your children and grandchildren, and other people’s children and grandchildren too. They’ll need this stories as you needed them when you were a kid. This will help them to know that not everything is bad. That their is still hope in this world.” “Thank you Uncle, I needed to hear your words once again. I will SHARE these stories and many more from now on.” I really miss talking to you, and listening to your great stories, my dear Uncle P.

Good Morning from Starbucks!

What can I say?

I woke up with a bad pain on my left neck
and temples. I knew I needed my medicine, coffee. Sometimes is impossible to live or function without it.

So I rushed to a nearby Starbucks and got myself a Grande Cafe Latte, my usual lemon cake, and an egg bacon sandwich taken out a frozen plastic bag and heated up to justify it’s price tag of $3.45, so very typical of the Starbucks brand. But regardless of my disdain for it, I’m also addicted to their lemon cakes.

That frosting that seems to melt inside your mouth leaving your tongue and lips tingling with a rush off tangy flavor and sweetness. The soft almost smoochie cake texture that I like to squeeze between my fingers when it crumbles and the coffee itself bold and strong, almost like Spanish coffee strong but with many different distinct and delicate aromas. However $4.99 a cup, when for a $1.50 I had a huge Grande cup of Cafe con Leche back in my hometown Moca, Puerto Rico.

Yes. I’m whining again. I do that a lot lately.  So boring! But I wanted to share that drinking that strong Colombian bean freshly scented coffee while sunbathing over one of these outdoors chairs previously blessed by beautiful love birds or whatever those tiny white marks were, probably left by the colorful birds my crumbs from the ground…

That coffee was the medicine I needed to start my day. “La medicina ideal para mis dolores”. That could be a great sales slogan for Starbucks’ coffee, “The ideal medicine for all your pains.” It made me chuckle thinking of a tv add announcer saying that “slogan”. I was definitively born a Sales woman. Everything I say or do has a sales ring to it. Well, back to my latte, lemon cake, and sandwich before they get cold. Darn! to late. going for my refill.

Till my next post.

***Like, Comment, & Share if I drew a smile on your face this morning!

Poema- Yo Soy Jesucristo

(Basado en las palabras de un joven en un sueño, que no era nada de Dios por cierto, y que era un desconocido que va se sienta en mi mesa, y me mira bien serio y me dice: )

Soy Jesucristo enamorado de un chico
(Un joven así como tú)
Te voy a contar esta historia
Si no me sale
es que no estaba el decirlo.

Yo soy Jesucristo.
Y amo a todos mis hijos!
Y quiero estar con el mundo
Pero el mundo se me aleja.
No quiere estar conmigo
Por eso no puedo estar contigo.

Por qué tu me niegas?
Yo Soy Jesucristo
Yo soy Jesús!
Y te amo.
Como amo a todos mis niños.