The first sign was the “White House Fiesta Latina” listing in the TV section of The Boston Globe. Nearby, I noticed a documentary listing: “The Latino List” on HBO, a look at prominent Hispanic Americans. Hispanic-related news items popped up everywhere on my daily online wanderings. And Jennifer Lopez and Eva Longoria showed up on even more hair commercials than usual. Then, it hit me: National Hispanic Heritage Month, September 15th – October 15th, was in full rumba mode.
Sometimes I forget my background, an indication of how assimilated I’ve become after moving here at the age of six from Cuba. But there are always reminders that I’m a little different from the majority. Some reminders are wonderful and some, not so much.
A while back I was at a friend’s baby shower and happened to sit next to her mother-in-law while the mom-to-be opened gifts. While I made small talk with the older woman, she asked if I knew of her daughter-in-law’s plans for a nanny. She was concerned, she confided to me, that my friend would “pick the wrong kind of nanny. You know, the Latin American kind,” she said, her mouth twisting in disgust. “The Japanese and Nordic nannies are so much more like us when it comes to hygiene.” Before I could react, another friend, sitting to my left and well within listening range suddenly grabbed my arm in a kind of death-grip and begged me with a silent look to swallow the insult, for the sake of our friend, the baby, and world peace. This is what comes, I thought, of being a light-skinned Cuban during New England winters. If this had been August, the old racist would have known to keep her beliefs nicely tucked away. I sipped my tea and smiled at all the booties and blankets piling up at my friend’s feet, but inside I seethed—at myself, mostly, for forgetting how some people still see us and for letting ignorance hurt so much.
Fortunately, those kinds of moments have been rare during the last 44 years. Much more frequent are the moments when I remember with wonder and gratitude my Hispanic roots and the welcoming nation where we have been accepted. Usually, this happens when I read or hear about a new immigrant’s plight and recall our own, when we arrived in the US in 1967 with so little in the way of material wealth—thanks to the Cuban government’s policies, just a suitcase with the clothes for the five of us. To call my uncle in Miami that day, my mother had to ask a stranger for a dime. We worked hard and made our way, but also had the great fortune of arriving in the US in the middle of an economic boom and with the label of “political refugees” to help us ease into the population. We settled in New Hampshire and faced that first snow and flu season almost certain we’d perish from viral pneumonia or some other northern malady. But we made it and thrived. My generation, with our college degrees, is now able to help our hard-working elders in their retirement. And we can stare into a February ice storm as placidly as Canada geese.
This year’s Hispanic Heritage Month theme is: Renewing the American Dream. To that, I can only say: ¡Sí señor!