My First Dream – In Memory of My Dad

I shared earlier that after my dad passed, I was hoping to dream about him because I missed him so much. My dad’s passing was very tough emotionally. I experienced different grieving phases – a roller coaster of ups and downs. It felt unbearable when I was going through the first days, weeks, and months.

Even many months after his passing I would still get very sad when I thought about him or saw him in pictures, especially the one in my living room taken during the 50th wedding anniversary of my parents. This particular picture is very dear to me, but also brought the most melancholy. It made me sad – still does – to remember that my dad only exists through memories and pictures.

Slowly things got better. Time helps. It is true. Sadness never abandoned me, but I was able to control my emotions and tears while looking at him and remembering his love through the pictures.

“While you are grieving, when you are feeling the deep pain of losing a loved one, you don’t believe that time will actually help. But time helps… It is true.” –IS

I had an obsessive desire to dream about him. I wanted to see him again. I knew I could only do that in my dreams. The desire grew stronger and stronger with time. I would think about this before going to bed. I would talk myself to sleep while thinking about my dad. Frustration grew stronger as my dream never materialized. Maybe I had dreams but those were elusive as my consciousness awoke every morning. My dad was on my thoughts all the time and I couldn’t understand how could I not dream about him? Regardless of how much my dad overwhelmed my thoughts, he was not part of my dreams. The awareness of a dream never happened. The story never changed until after eight months to the exact day of his passing.

Suddenly my excitement was overcome by tears, as my husband’s alarm clock went off. My husband got out of bed and went to the bathroom to take a shower – his normal morning routine. I stayed in bed that morning, as I was trying to get a bit more sleep and let myself drift back to the dream. Time was suddenly frozen – seconds, minutes, became eternal. My husband came back to the room to wake me up. As my consciousness awoke, I realized that I had seen him. It happened. I desperately tried to go back to sleep again, the dream was gone. I felt such happiness and sadness at the same time. I was happy to see my dad, but sad again as I realized that he was gone from my life. Tears rushed in. As I woke up, I rushed to catch the glimpses of the dream, desperately trying to put the pieces together – collecting and deciphering the tangled but delicate threads of thoughts that were populating my awakening consciousness. It worked. I was able to re-build my wonderful and only dream.

The location of the dream was hard to pinpoint. It started as a house. Maybe my parents’ house? The first person that appeared in the house was the lady who took care of my mom after my dad passed. She was dusting some shelves and I remembered being very hot – typical heat in Puerto Rico. The caretaker was wearing a light overcoat opened in the front, all buttons undone. I commented to her that there was no one else in the house so she should feel free to take the overcoat off, as it was so hot. Then the house slowly morphed into a wrought iron arbor framing a green field in front of a forest. I floated to the arbor. The caretaker was still in the house and then my sister came in the picture. I was concerned – distressed – as I was asking them about the whereabouts of my dad.

“We have been in the house for several days and I have not seen my dad,” I almost cried in desperation.

But no one else seemed to share my concern. I couldn’t understand why they were not worried about my dad, as he was missing.

Then my dad suddenly appeared in the field and walked toward the arbor. My grandpa passed by in the corner of my eye. My dad was young, maybe in his mid 30’s. His hair was black and he was as handsome as ever, with his usual perfectly trimmed mustache that he carried all his life. I recognized his clothes – maybe from memories of old pictures that I have seen growing up. His clothes matched the era – definitely the 60’s – striped loose brown pants with a loose short-sleeved buttoned shirt. Everything moved slowly, like in a dream. There was a mesmerizing calmness that permeated the air. As the picture of my dad became clearer, he stopped in the middle of the field and started throwing a baseball toward the forest. There was no one catching or returning the ball, but somehow he kept repeating his pitches – first some high balls and then some low ones. After several throws he then approached the arbor and I looked into his eyes. No words were exchanged. I was looking at him but it was like there was nobody there. His dark eyes uttered peacefulness. He sat down on one of the benches inside the arbor. Then a little brown-haired girl emerged on the bench across from my dad. She was wearing a white cotton dress with eyelets and ruffle details. As she leaned on the arbor bench she playfully looked at my dad. She shared my dad’s eyes. They were looking at each other communicating through their eyes.

I was the little girl and I found my dad. The peace spoke of eternity. I then slowly walked away, knowing that I finally found him and he was alright. He was not lost. He was there but also with me. His eyes told me so and I saw him with my own eyes. The memory ended.

I was so happy the day I dreamed about my dad. I smiled for days. I tried to repeat the dream but it was not meant to be. There was no need. I felt my dad’s presence. I saw that he was in a beautiful place. I know I will see him again…someday. And every time I feel sad, I can go back to the serenity of my dream.

My dad passed three years ago. As I remember him, it brings comfort to remember my dream.

“Dreams carry us through difficult times – never give up on your dreams.” — IS

Have I felt this before?

There is something magical about the art of creation. It feels so exhilarating, so fulfilling. That’s how I feel when I write. Being in touch with my emotions, expressing my deepest feelings, my true feelings, is like nothing else that I have experienced before. But is it that true? Have I felt this before?

My memories started flooding my senses as I went back in time to a place that I have not forgotten. Tears start coming down as I realize that my soul was trying to tell me something many years ago. I tried to listen, but I was still a child and my dependent self couldn’t survive by itself.

When I was a young teenager I took art as one of my elective classes. There was not much thought about taking that step. There is not much thought about anything you do when you are in middle school. I was a very good student – all As, all my life through school. As every good student, your parents and teachers want you to focus on those hard math and science classes. You are supposed to set your sight into something bigger than art, something more serious, more respectable. So I never received encouragement to pursue the happiness of creation. I probably didn’t share with my parents or my teachers how I felt when I was doing the art projects.

I never talked about the ecstasy of forming clay with my hands until the shape of an abstract sculpture takes life. I could almost feel today my fingers working the wet clay and the smoothness of the process of creation when I let myself go. Those pieces still live in the abandoned shelves of my childhood bedroom – testaments of another path that could have been.

I did not share with anyone the joy of smelling the oil pigments while working on my masterpiece in the garage. The excitement of buying the tubes of colors and the pride of creating new members of the rainbow. The awe when a new color blooms – an infinite number of possibilities as the ochre mixed with white. A fresh shade created by my senses – an original never seen before. The masterpiece no longer exists in this physical world, but it will never leave my mind.

I had similar brushes with art in college, where I again decided to take an art class as an elective. This time was different though. It was an art appreciation class where we were asked to pick an artist and study the style. I selected a Spanish artist, El Greco. I still remember vividly the painting that I chose to analyze, the long bodies extending to the sky and the challenge of trying to figure out what lied behind the intent of the artist. As a writer now I realize that it is impossible to know exactly what an artist is thinking during the moment of creation.

“Art for an artist or a book for a writer are personal expressions that escape the conscious understanding of the viewer or reader; the viewer or reader can only attempt to decipher the emotions and feelings behind the creation.” — IS

But wait…there is one more memory that is awakening. There is another time – that innocent memory of my first performance when I was in primary school and I played the organ at the Christmas show. I was so nervous, but I felt so proud. I did something that was creative. It was my first meeting with the pleasure of owning the joy of art.

I didn’t know how to interpret the deep sentiments of my experiences. I don’t even know if I understood then the meaning of the emotions – the calmness, the peacefulness, the freedom of creation. I felt something – many things – but those feelings were foreign to me and I didn’t understand their true meaning. No one around me took the time to ask. Even if they have asked, I’m not sure what I would have said.

My soul attempted to rise from the depth of my being. My soul was shouting, but the noise around me was too loud. Those around me showed me a different path. I became a scientist. The voice of my soul was put aside in a corner of my brain where memories accumulated for a later time. I left my soul behind until now. Those memories today becoming significant as I again encounter the art of creation – the reconciliation with my soul.

My soul-searching journey uncovers an important piece of the puzzle. It is comforting to know that the pieces are starting to come together. The memories of the past evolve into who I am today. My soul is happy to know that I am listening now. I don’t need to depend on others to show me the path. I own my destiny and I can’t wait to continue discovering the mysteries ahead.

Everything is starting to make sense!

Our House, Our Home

Today my husband and I reached a life milestone – the last payment of our home mortgage. We are so happy. This is one of those long milestones in your life that you dream about. It means so much to be able to celebrate the achievement of this goal at this stage of our life. We are overjoyed.

When you start your life together as a couple, searching for a house is usually the norm. But our life together did not follow the norm. When I met my husband, he was one week away from buying the house that we now own. The story of how we met is worth telling, but I will do that later at a future post. For now, I want to focus on the fact that we had a very narrow window to meet. When we met, we were both living at an apartment complex. Within a month or so, my husband moved out of the complex to the house that he purchased as a single man, which is the house that we now live in.

Thus, I never experienced the house hunting experience that couples usually go through. We met, we dated, we got married, and the house came up as part of the package of marrying my now husband.

The house needed a lot of work. My husband was looking for his first house. He was single. I was not in the picture when he picked the house. He used to watch home remodeling TV shows and he wanted a fixer upper project. I did not know anything about fixing a house. So after we got serious about our relationship, I realize that he did not intend to move anywhere else or find a different house together. He wanted to stay in the house and work on it.

At first, I was a little upset about this. I was dreaming about a new house – about going house hunting and searching for the house of my dreams. I felt that the right thing to do was to start over. The house my husband picked when he was single was not something that I would have go for. It was an old house. It needed a lot of work. It was not ours, but his. I did not feel any attachment to the house and it was difficult to accept that one of my dreams was not going to be realized. But I love the guy that I married and I went with it. I’m so glad I did!

Before we married – two and a half years after we met – we worked on fixing the house. I did not know anything about working on a house, but I learned very quickly. My husband has been watching remodeling TV shows, like ‘This Old House,’ for years and he could not wait to practice what he learned. I was completely lost, but little by little, I got the hang of it. Working on the house together was the beginning of our story. Slowly, the house started to grow on me. Slowly, I started to discover the gem my husband saw. Slowly, I started falling in love with the house.

The walls began to gently caress my heart and soul. The house embodied our love story. The old character was comforting and symbolic of the strength of our relationship getting stronger every day. I did not want a new house any more. I wanted to live in a place with roots and armor. A place that had defied the passing of time. A place with fortitude and dignity where our own history could develop with confidence and grace. A place where the warmth of the years past would welcome with open arms the new life ahead. A place where a house becomes a home.

The house stands today with pride, as we celebrate our life together in the place that we call home. It is an old house and we love every imperfection. It is like an old friend that welcomes us every day. We know every crevice, every plank of wood that carries our steps, every window that filters our view, every door greeting our arrival. The roof sheltering us from rain and snow. The walls quiet witnesses to our laughter and our sorrows. But more importantly, a home standing tall and strong as a reminder of our love.

In a Different Place

Yesterday I went back to work after the federal government shutdown ended. I had mixed feelings about returning to work. After more than 30 days of being furloughed (out of work), I started getting used to the idea of being home. For me, it was like a test of what retirement could be. I was not bored or missing work. I focused on my writing and that brought a lot of joy.

At home during the last month, I had a lot of time to reflect about my life. My career, and being successful at my job, has always been a big part of my life – maybe too big of a part of my life. I have always been a responsible, dedicated, and loyal employee. As a manager, I embraced the responsibility of taking care of others. Eventually, that devotion and commitment took a toll on my emotional health. I allowed my career to dominate and define my life.

The last few years have been tough, especially after my dad passed in 2016. Besides the grief and emotional strain of losing my dad, I also started reflecting on my career. I observed organizational issues that bothered me and spent a lot of energy deciphering the best way to address the issues. These have been difficult times. In addition to management concerns, I was having a very tough time confronting the open disdain for minorities and Hispanics in this country, which compounded the pain. As a Hispanic in this country, I felt attacked and disrespected. The messages coming from the highest levels of the new Administration revealed a tone that made me feel uncomfortable. I was a government employee and the political rhetoric around minority issues impacted me at a personal level. My self-confidence was shaken.

During the recent shutdown and my stay at home, I found relaxation and peace. I feared going back to work and getting back to a place that would trigger sadness and distress. But I feel that I changed. I am in a different place. The start of my blog and the freedom to focus on my writing has changed my perspective about work.

I did a lot of self-reflection while I was out of work. In a way, the shutdown contributed to my journey of self-discovery, including bringing light and clarification on my life priorities. I realize that it is not right to allow my job to have such power over my life and happiness. I no longer want my job and career to determine my identity. My soul is so much bigger and richer than my job.

My career has been and will always be part of my life. But the key is to remind myself that it is a small part compared to my life’s full purpose and all the things I want to accomplish. There are a million things that I want to do, write, to feed my soul. Realizing the dream of writing is where I want to spend my emotional energy. It doesn’t mean that I cannot continue to be committed to my career. I still have a few years until retirement. I don’t intend to abandon my job responsibilities. However, having clarity on the goals that my soul wants to pursue means that I will be setting boundaries to ensure that my career doesn’t control my life.

My new perspective brings comfort. I have already started practicing a different outlook during my first day back at work. The renewed attitude aligns with who I want to be – with my soul. From now on, I want my soul to guide my life. The road ahead is not all clear, but I have started a journey and I am confident that my soul will lead me to the right place – a different place where I can pursue and nurture my passion for writing.

The Finish Line

I was just talking with a friend today and mentioned that I can’t wait for the finish line. I was referring to retirement. I was sharing with my friend that I can’t wait to retire and focus on my writing. His reply made me think about the term ‘the finish line.’

We have many ‘finish lines’ during our lifetimes. I have had many literal finish lines to cross during running races. In reality, they are milestones – goals that we set for ourselves. Thus, there are many finish lines or milestones that we create.

I have a good job, a good-paying job. But as I grow older, I have realized that my calling, my purpose, my passion, is not my job, but writing – writing about my life journey and discovering my soul along the quest is what I want to do. Creating this blog was part of following my passion and my dream.

As I grow older, I feel an enormous urgency to follow my passion and purpose in life. I feel that I need to be true to myself and become the person that I want to be.

“There is a very satisfying feeling that comes with being honest with yourself – a sense of freedom and peace.” — IS

I have questioned many times during this journey if I’m going through mid-life crisis. Maybe I am. Maybe as we grow older we question our purpose in life. We crave for answers of what we want to be and what we want to do with our lives.

“There is a need to check in with our soul to ensure that we are aligned with a purpose that brings joy to our life.” — IS

I sure feel that way. If this is mid-life crisis, then I’m glad I’m going through this abstract and transcendental phase. I’m glad that I’m questioning my purpose. I’m glad that I have the courage to search for my true soul.

Retirement is not a finish line. It is a transition to a world where I can exist in sync with my soul – a time where I dream of a world of endless opportunities in which my soul could live without boundaries. I yearn for the calm and peacefulness that comes with following my passion. I aspire to a time where I can give my soul the liberty and abandonment of full expression, with a voice that speaks the truth about who I am. Like Hamilton, I feel that I have a MILLION THINGS TO DO!

Thus, I dream about the symbolic transformation of my life after retirement, as I call it the ‘finish line.’ Almost there…JUST YOU WAIT!

But my friend reminded me that I don’t have to wait – that I can pursue my passion today. I realize that I have started following my dream. I realize that by starting this blog I have taken the first step in the rest of my life.

Suddenly the significance of the retirement ‘finish line’ loses its glory. Retirement is only one step of many during my lifetime. The odyssey of self-discovery have started. I’m already on my way to the most significant goal – I’m writing and enjoying the ride.

I’M NOT THROWING AWAY MY SHOT!

The Calm after the Hurricane

Yesterday I wrote about the difficult topic of encountering racism in the United States through my own experience and the experiences that others have shared with me. I purposely didn’t give any details of my experience.

I didn’t want to focus on the details, as what was important to me was to share that I, as many other fellow minorities, have been exposed to the evil tentacles of racism. My purpose was to bring attention to this topic and to let the reader know that it hurts.

Someone made disrespectful comments because of my Hispanic accent. At the time, I was discussing an issue with someone over the phone. The subject was complicated and I was asking questions and debating the issues at hand. Out of nowhere, the other person belittled me by implying that I was not understanding the subject due to my Hispanic origin. With a disrespectful and racially-minded tone, the individual asked me in a mockingly way if I needed for him to explain the matter in Spanish, as it looked like I was not understanding or following the discussion because I was debating the issue with him. I was shocked. I honestly can’t remember a lot of the details of what happened after the hurtful comments. I probably hanged up. This experience occurred at work and it was a work-related discussion. After retreating in pain, I eventually confronted the person and reported the incident to his management. I received a call from his manager, a woman, who apologized to me on his behalf and explained that the individual was officially reprimanded and ordered to take diversity training.

My experience happened many years ago, but it changed me forever. Going back is usually needed to move forward, so sharing the story helps me. Maybe you as the reader can also relate or can learn something about it. Maybe we should all reflect about not judging people based on their group identity. Maybe we should not put labels on people, but allow ourselves to discover people as individuals, as human beings – not as men or women, or Hispanics, or Americans, or members of a specific ethnicity or group. We are all different and we are all unique.

“Don’t judge. Be open minded when you interact with someone and allow yourself to discover that person, not as a member of a group or a stereotype, but as an individual.” — IS

The pain and the many questions that came to my mind after the experience ultimately contributed to where I am today – writing my blog and my story.

“Finding something positive about a negative experience is usually a healthy way of dealing with life’s unexpected turns – a way to survive and learn.” — IS

When something really awful happens, it might not be obvious immediately that there is something to be learned or that there could be a positive element that could arise later. When you are in that tumultuous hurricane, you feel like you are spinning out of control and it is hard to get free of the turbulence while you are disappointed or hurt. But I survived the hurricane. There was so much confusion and so much pain…but I survived.

I never knew then, where I will be today. I probably never thought about the positives then. As they say, hindsight is 20-20, and it is true. It is ok to be reminded of where I have been. Everything becomes clearer after the storm.

“It is easier to recognize the ‘positives’ after you look back.” — IS

There are scars, but I’m stronger and wiser. I am excited about this new path that I am carving as I go. There are probably many more mysteries ahead of me – the journey of self-discovery that hopefully will lead to a better place. It brings me happiness to be discovering new things about myself, life, and everything around me. To be in this journey is overwhelming at times, but also very comforting.

I turned a corner in my life and I am proud of myself to make the turn. Some time ago, when the hurricane hit, I was a wreck. Today I stand tall with my Puerto Rican coqui soul.

My Initial Encounter with Diversity and Racism

I left Puerto Rico more than 34 years ago, when I went to Michigan to pursue graduate studies. As a 21-year old heading toward graduate school, I really did not think much about the significance of that moment – my life changed forever.

I enjoyed graduate school immensely. I attended the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. The world became my backyard, as I met friends from all over the globe. I was like a sponge, taking in all the experiences as part of the journey. My exposure to diversity enriched my knowledge of people and cultures. But there was also a different perspective that was thrown into the picture – one that I have not previously experienced. In the United States, diversity began to take a different connotation focused on race and ethnicity.

I never saw myself as a member of a racial group before I came to the United States. I was Puerto Rican. In Puerto Rico, there is a kaleidoscope of skin colors – a mosaic that transcends a singular defined race. The road of racial differentiation started when I had to fill the application to attend graduate school. The form asked about race and ethnicity. Hispanic was in the list, so I checked the box. That was the first time that I distinguished myself as Hispanic. This event seemed trivial, but eventually impacted my views about diversity and my life experiences. From that point on, I was in a ‘box’ – the Hispanic box – and labeled a minority.

The minority seed germinated in my psyche, developing and growing as I was being assimilated into the American culture. I wondered about the inquiring questions of the application. Why did it matter? As it turned out, I got into graduate school with a minority scholarship, so I adopted the Hispanic classification with pride and moved on. I would have never being able to attend graduate school if it was not for that scholarship. Being a minority gave me the opportunity to go to graduate school. I did not think much about the full meaning of my new label.

Living in the United States I found out that the minority label never leaves you. The color of my skin and my accent always gave away the fact that I was different. Everywhere I went, I would be asked about my origins. Eventually I also discovered that the undertones of being a minority were not always positive. I learned that minorities also experience discrimination – a reality that was uncomfortable to bear.

As I entered the workforce, I participated in diversity awareness seminars and found out that employers were focusing on training employees to respect differences and prevent discrimination. I ended up in a leadership role for the diversity training in my workplace. It was assumed that because I was a minority I should be able to help train employees. However, I have never experienced discrimination and I was actually learning myself from the experiences of other minorities. I was proud to be Puerto Rican – and Hispanic. But I was also an American citizen, so I didn’t quite understood the necessity for racial differentiation. I ended up meeting some fellow co-workers that had experienced discrimination and I joined in the cause to illuminate others about diversity.

Eventually, as life would have it, I also ended up experiencing discrimination. I then understood the pain that other fellow minorities have experienced in the United States. The discriminatory experience resulted in a scar to my soul that still generates pain when touched. The scar is a reminder of the awful reality of racism.

I will never forget my first encounter with racism. It has never be easy for me to open up about my first experience with discrimination or about being a racial minority in this country. Living in the United States opened my eyes in ways that sadden me. I have been touched by the dark tentacles of racial discrimination. I’m no longer ‘virgin’ to the terrible impacts of its darkness. I now can relate to other racial minorities.

Today I gathered the courage to write about this. Bringing awareness to this tough topic is important and relevant to the times that we live in today. Many in this country are experiencing difficult times while the news relate the hate expressed to minorities in many fronts. The openness of this hate is hurtful.

When racism against minorities is expressed openly it hurts. It impacts my daily life. I can’t rip off my skin to show a different color or magically get rid of my Hispanic accent. The pain saddens my soul.

I decided to write this today because my sister had a recent negative experience related to this topic that inspired me. I also decided to write about this today because these type of experiences define our souls. Despite the pain, I believe it is important for me to confront these emotions, as they are part of my soul-searching journey and who I am today.

The Mirror Talks Back

“If you were looking at yourself in a mirror, what would the person in the mirror say?” — IS

(The following is a piece I wrote for my writing class where we were asked to write about what would the mirror say if we were looking at ourselves? To me it was a conversation with my soul, with my reflection in the mirror looking back at me and telling me what she saw – my self-reflection. I think it’s good to stop once in a while and reflect on what we see in the mirror.)

I know you have been thinking a lot about your identity lately. I can see you. I can see your face and your eyes looking at me. I know there is so much more to you than what I see. Have you thought about that? Who are you? What’s inside you? What do you represent? What do you believe in? There is so much more than what is on the surface… your purpose in life, your family, your upbringing, your life yesterday, your life today, and your dreams for the future.

“It is funny how we think that we know someone by the way they look, or their name, or what they say. In reality, we are all so much more complex than that.” — IS

I can see through your eyes, your determination, and your steadiness. I can see that you never give up, that you always get up again, that you search for me when you need a friend. I’m here to listen and I’m here to have as many conversations as we need so you can feel better, so you can explore yourself, so you can reflect on your life, so you can discover your soul, so you can find answers to your questions, so you can get to know yourself.

The road can be bumpy, long, and painful at times. But I assure you that it will be worth it. Talk back to me and we can share your self-discovery. I’m your soul and will always be with you.

The Duality of Language – A Glimpse to My Identity Journey

When I went to my first writing class, I had an encounter with one of the biggest dualities that I live with as a Puerto Rican in the United States. The example I will be sharing portrays a reality that I have lived with for many years, but that has been difficult to explain to myself. The situation is real and exemplifies many other situations throughout my life as a Puerto Rican in the United States.

I purposely decided to go to class early, as I have missed the first class and wanted to have a chance to meet the instructor. I had contacted the instructor by email after I registered for the writing class, but this was my first time in class. I entered the classroom and selected a desk. The instructor was in the room and recognized that I was new.

“Are you Ines?” the instructor asked.

“Yes,” I said.

The instructor then said, “Mucho gusto.”

(‘Mucho gusto’ means something like ‘nice to meet you’ in Spanish)

It is funny how this introduction reflected on many of the things that I have been thinking about before signing up for the class. I have sent the introductory homework piece to the instructor ahead of time, the title of which was ‘I’m Still Puerto Rican.’ Knowing about my piece, the instructor probably assumed that I spoke Spanish so she was trying to connect with me in my native language. What’s funny is that when I was confronted with the Spanish greeting, I naturally responded to her in English. I was not in a Spanish environment (I was in Michigan), so I didn’t think in Spanish. She proceeded to tell me that she knew a little Spanish.

In my head, I thought,

“That’s good, but I’m not speaking Spanish.”

What my head was thinking was brought up by the duality that lives inside me: Spanish vs. English; Puerto Rican vs. American. Of course, I didn’t say what my brain thought. That would have been rude or impossible for her to understand. I just nodded my head.

The instructor went on to tell me that the topic of duality that I shared in my introductory piece (‘I’m Still Puerto Rican’) was a good topic to explore. (The link to my introductory piece, I’m Still Puerto Rican, is included at the end of this post) The instructor’s comment brought a lot of hope and encouragement, as I have been thinking about this topic, and how to better understand it, for a while.

The duality of language – the way my brain works and reacts around both languages – was indeed an interesting topic to explore. I have debated a lot of questions about this topic throughout the years.

How I move from one language to the other. How it feels foreign and strange to think in Spanish while I’m here in Michigan. How I think in English every day of my life in Michigan. How I feel emotions in English. How it is easier for me to express my feelings in English. How I struggle in Puerto Rico trying to come up with Spanish words. How I have an accent in both languages. Yes, I have an accent in Spanish and English.

It should not be surprising that I think in English, as I have been in the States for over 34 years. I live and work in Michigan and my daily life happens in English, not Spanish. I only speak Spanish over the phone when I call my mom, or when I visit Puerto Rico. But even in Puerto Rico, it is hard for me to speak Spanish all the time, as my husband is not Puerto Rican and I don’t like to exclude him from what’s going on in a conversation. But sometimes I feel pressure to speak Spanish in Puerto Rico because that’s my native language and Puerto Rico is my native country.

Even with my sister, it is usually a mix of English and Spanish. We go back and forth, but English usually wins as we are expressing our feelings and emotions. My sister lives in Massachusetts and she has also been in the States for many years.

My husband is amazed that I can go from one language to the other. It might seem easy, but it is very difficult sometimes, especially when I’m trying to remember words in Spanish. Mostly, my language choice is determined by the environment where I am. If I’m in Michigan or anywhere in the States, there is no Spanish at all that comes to mind. When I’m in Puerto Rico around my mom and family, I speak Spanish. But there is an internal struggle that I try to hide as best as I can, although it becomes obvious to others when I’m forgetting words. Some friends in Puerto Rico brought to my attention that I have an English accent when I speak Spanish. That was quite a surprise to me. I know I have a Spanish accent when I talk in English, but now it happens both ways – English and Spanish.

Having an accent in both Spanish and English makes me think a lot about not belonging to either Puerto Rico or the United States. Sometimes I feel like a stranger in both places, which I will be exploring a lot more in this blog. This duality goes a lot deeper than just the language. The language duality triggers a lots of feelings (many I can’t explain). The language dichotomy awakens in me spurs of anxiety and uneasiness. I also realize that there is a confidence issue that comes up during the language struggles. For some strange reason my mind goes to a lot of places when I meet someone in the States and they quickly ask me where I am from. I have always assumed that they are asking me the question because they detect an accent. They don’t ask that question to my husband when we are together.

My usual response – and I have gotten better at it with time – is: “I’m from Michigan, but I’m originally from Puerto Rico.”

I always feel the urge to explain and clarify the situation. I have gotten pretty good at my answer. My husband usually observes with curiosity. He knows what’s going on in my head. He knows that the ‘question’ bothers me because it triggers a lot of weird emotions in my head. This is one of the reasons why I’m going through this soul searching journey.

Being a Puerto Rican in the United States, with an accent I should add, creates some complicated reactions in my head. My brain tells me that when I’m being asked the ‘question’ somehow it pinpoints the fact that I’m different – I have an accent, I have brown skin, I look different from other people in the room (most of the time). Being different brings awareness about being a Hispanic minority in the States. Somehow I feel like an outcast.

I know that the language issue and my reactions to the question of ‘where am I from’ exemplify the tangle of emotions that arise with my search for identity. My soul feels pulled by two different forces that clash. Am I Puerto Rican? Am I American? Theoretically, I’m both because as a native Puerto Rican, I’m also an American citizen. But sometimes I feel that I’m neither. I think the key is that I’m actually a combination of both identities, and maybe a lot of other things that I identify with.

My soul searching journey will explore many of the identity contradictions that I live with. I’m sure the journey will be long, but it will be worth it. Maybe there will not be an end to it. Maybe there doesn’t need to be an end, but an acknowledgement of the journey itself will be enough to find comfort and peace. Life is a journey. My coqui soul project is also a journey.

I’m happy to be in this journey with you, the reader. Maybe you can also discover something about yourself along this journey.

I’m Still Puerto Rican

Inspired by a Dream – The Track

(This is an essay that I wrote for my writing class. The short essay is inspired by a dream. Not a dream I had but one that I imagined. I was thinking about my dad when I wrote the essay. I wanted desperately to dream about my dad after he passed. I desperately wanted to see him again, even if only through a dream. The dreams didn’t come for many months after his passing. But maybe I dreamed about him, but don’t remember? I wanted this dream to be true, so I imagined it. Today, as I think about my dad, I decided to share this essay about my dad that brings comfort to my soul.)

She was running toward the track to meet him. She knew he was waiting for her and her heart started pounding faster and faster as she approached the track.

She saw a group of men walking in the track and one of them was wearing the very familiar outfit that she immediately recognized.

She ran faster and faster but the track kept moving away from her. Suddenly the track disappeared and everything turned white. She felt saddened as she wanted to run with him as they did every day.

She waited for what seemed an eternity and then decided to run back home. She started running so fast that it felt like flying. Soon she was among the clouds. She felt weightless and was flying as fast as the birds above her.

“I’m flying. I’m really flying,” she said, and she felt a joy that filled her heart.

As she was flying she realized that her dad was carrying her. They looked at each other as they were flying and, suddenly, all the colors came back. The clouds gave way to multi-colored houses sprinkled throughout the green rolling hills.

She knew she had found her way back home!