G
BRAIDED ESSAY
rowing up, for
me, was about
learning how to
be American at
school, and Dominican at
home. In my home, the
ancient radio would play
old school Bachata and
Merengue. The aroma of my
mother’s famous arroz con
pollo would linger in the air.
Our home was just like our
culture: lively, decorated,
and family orientated. Five
people in a one-bedroom
apartment, yet it did not
seem crowded to us. My
sisters and I would create
imaginary worlds where
we were princesses and
lived in enormous castles.
After ballet practice,
we would rehearse our
pirouettes while our
parents recorded us on
their hulky camcorder. We
would laugh and fight. We
would dance and create the
best memories in that tiny
one-bedroom apartment
we called our home. Yet I
found comfort in the black
ink on the white pages
inside my reading books.
Their words were so
instilled in my brain by my
mother who made me read
every Stop sign that passed
our way. As I became older
I was able to see the power
of those words, because I
could feel them as if they
were engraved into my
skin. Home was both.
…
T h e D o m i n i c a n ra c e
originates from Spaniard,
French, African, and Taíno
roots. My mother is a dark
mocha with silky black hair
she always keeps tied up in
a bun. My mother is your
typical Hispanic woman:
strong, opinionated, and
very maternal—even
though my sisters and I
call her the “man of the
house”, something that
offends my father greatly,
because it demeans his
masculinity. My father is
a deep-tanned man with
short, rough textured hair,
and a long pointy nose;
though he never lies. He is
the sensitive kind, despite
the fact that I have never
seen him cry. Growing up,
his father was an alcoholic
who did not show him any
affection and did not regard
him as his own. My father’s
father always said that my
father’s mom was by nature
a promiscuous woman who
fell hopelessly at the feet
of temptation. Therefore
there was a slim chance
that my father was actually