Personal Narrative: Where Are You From?
“Where are you from?” a question which to normal teenagers may claim one, possibly two answers that all but define who they are. Be it morally, religiously, or sewn into their traits and personalities, society widely considers a person’s home to be at the center of who they are, yet what is it like for a child who cannot relate to one home, two, or even three, but instead ten different locations before the age of eighteen? This is the answer to that question, the story of who I am. Setting off from our homeland of Cuba during my fifth year, my family’s journey began and all too soon the years and locations passed in a blur while following my father, a migrant worker, at every opportunity. Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, the Virgin Islands and more, each held significant lessons for me. None of those teachings truly preyed on my mind until, after 6 years, we finally returned to our original home, Havana itself. Our plane circled above, creating a cascade of joyful tears bringing
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Familiar and beloved still, they were simultaneously strange and unknown. In retrospect, this and the astonished look worn by my aunt in light of my grandfather’s car rental served as precursors for the revelations to come. Staying with my family during the visit, the lucid honesty of all I took for granted came crashing through my body true as the blood coursing amidst my veins. Warm water, toilet paper, electricity: small nuances and seeming necessities in the U.S. stood as the highest scarcities in my country. Among other things, these discrepancies in lifestyle left me with a certain disillusioned epiphany: though my heart would always remain with my family and childhood home, I was no longer from one place but a conglomerate of all those I had or would someday
Familiar and beloved still, they were simultaneously strange and unknown. In retrospect, this and the astonished look worn by my aunt in light of my grandfather’s car rental served as precursors for the revelations to come. Staying with my family during the visit, the lucid honesty of all I took for granted came crashing through my body true as the blood coursing amidst my veins. Warm water, toilet paper, electricity: small nuances and seeming necessities in the U.S. stood as the highest scarcities in my country. Among other things, these discrepancies in lifestyle left me with a certain disillusioned epiphany: though my heart would always remain with my family and childhood home, I was no longer from one place but a conglomerate of all those I had or would someday