Returning to my roots taught me a lot about what it means to belong
A quick thought of a recent visit to the motherland, Puerto Rico
Only four hours into a weekend trip to Puerto Rico, and I found myself mumbling under my breath, “This feels like home…”
The warmth of the stunning sun, the salty smell of the waves, and the calming pace in which the palms swayed were pieces of an innate, deep sense of familiarity that was new to me. It was as if they were signals in the tide gently guiding me back to my motherland, as the ocean tends to do with sea turtles - preparing them for a life-long journey.
The familiarity was not because of my previous visits to the island but because of an unlocked, newly founded appreciation of my heritage. If you read my article, The Results are in…I’m Afro-Latina, you understand heritage has always been a complex subject for me, leaving me with little understanding of how far my roots stretch. But, despite my layers of entangled ethnicity, one thing has always been certain - my family’s direct line to the island as an origin for my people. In a way, I claim Puerto Rico as my home, too.
I was born and raised on the mainland, where familiarity is only but a mask we wear to blend in. It is one we use to assimilate into a culture that sincerely wants nothing to do with us but receives us as part of their unwanted labor force, foot troops during times of war, and as a vessel to gain access to more resources. Familiarity is nothing more than an illusion, created to give us hope for better times and opportunities yet failing.
But on the island, familiarity was the sound of bendiciones from abuelas and tias waving to their families; the smiles on faces unfamiliar to me yet somehow holding a story I was dying to hear; the movement of horses trotting along a paved path with no sense of worry; the iconic mating calls of the coqui that loudly whispered for desperate love; and the sense of belonging through a shared common obsession with relleno de papas and empanadas on the way down from El Yunque.
Familiarity was the island’s lush landscape, its shades of green, with hibiscus flowers kissing each lookout point's edge; the cheering sound of people singing along to the island’s infamous Salsa music, but mostly, familiarity was the simple sense of belonging.
On the mainland, these familiarities are hidden. They are tucked into the crevices of cities and towns, so small they are overlooked - so small they are labeled inferior. If lucky, they can be found while waiting in line at small bodegas and panaderías, while grabbing a morning dose of culture. On the mainland, these familiarities are considered disruptors, breaking into a space of exclusivity and dominance.
Oh…but the familiarity most felt on the island is a sigh of relief.
There’s no need to explain where I learned to speak Spanish or even justify my ethnicity - leaving behind my staple, “I know, I know…I don’t look Puerto Rican” comment when asked where I’m from; no need to explain why my hair does what it does - as I found myself smiling at other women with hair like mine, feeling empowered by their nods of recognition like “Girl, I see you;” or explain why I navigate the world with uncertainty because on the island certainty was a stance of pride and acknowledgment for all that came before us.
Familiarity is an instant group hug given by family that you only communicate via apps and Facebook; a warm embrace of food made from a combination of the land and the sea; a towering energy of vibrancy in bursts of colors and art; and a kiss on the cheek from your abuela’s aunt who tells stories of days that have passed and memories that will carry on.
Worlds collide when you are born and raised on the mainland, while your roots are embedded into the textures and fibers of familiarity with the island. Both weighing heavy on perspective and self, returning to my roots taught me a lot about what it means to belong.