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Recommended: Story of a immigrant
Never have I taken my culture into consideration, but I would more than likely classify my culture as Latino/Hispanic. For starters, I was born in a lovely place called Chihuahua, Mexico. This place is the reason I consider myself a Latino. Why is this my culture you ask? My whole daily lifestyle revolves around this Hispanic heritage.
This autobiographical essay will define my experience as a Dominican immigrant living in New York City. Being an American citizen with a Dominican background are extremely relevant to the process of political socialization. My family background is founded on the principles of democratic values, which taught to me by my mother and father. In New York City, I found a “melting pot” of different immigrants that allowed me to feel more accepted as a Dominican living in the United States. More so, these aspects of the socialization process provided a foundation for my belief in democratic values throughout my life.
There were rice plants on my left and farm animals on my right. I grew up in New York City, so you can imagine the millions of questions that were running through my head. I’d never been to the countryside of the Dominican Republic before, but when I finally did, I couldn’t be more ecstatic, despite the scorching Caribbean sun burning down on my brown skin. I hadn’t visited the Dominican Republic since I was four years old. All I had was vague memories of my grandmother’s boisterous laugh and the chickens in the backyard I loved chasing after.
I am not white, but I am not Mexican either. I am, however, a first generation Mexican American with parents from San Luis Potosi, Mexico. Perhaps I do not know what it is like to cross the border that refrains me from being Mexican, or the color of my skin that refrains me from being white, but my own personal experiences make me the Mexican American that I am today. Growing up I celebrated the Fourth of July with fireworks, and the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe with matlachines.
I grew up on a land where February is carnival month. Sunday is family day, and every day is as hot as the day before. Being the most Brazilian as someone can be, I was born surrounded the typical Brazilian stereotype and moving the U.S. at the age of 13 expanded my culture and values. Growing up in Brazil, I matured following their rituals and customs. Family is a big aspect of the Brazilian culture, so family is the most important thing to me.
As a member of a working class community, my life has been a struggle between resources and opportunities available for me. Having sparse resources has lead me to the constant push of working towards the things I’ve achieved. Social identities have become a guidance for my future goals and abilities. Being working class Latina, raised in a Catholic family has created many barriers and pathways into the future I wish to hold. Furthermore, taking all the social identities I have grew into have become the bases for my educational goals and identity.
From as early as I could remember I noticed I was not like the others kids. I had an interest for things most kids would not be interested in. I liked interacting with people, knowing about people and their life stories; I wanted to help in anyway that I could when I would hear everyone’s problems. I thought outside the box throughout my whole childhood and I wanted to make the most out of my knowledge. I told myself that I was going to dedicate my life to helping my community.
I was born in Colombia, South America and lived there until I turned seven. Before I moved to the states, I attended a public school and was on the competitive swim team for my school. I earned many awards the year and a half I swam for my school. I took pride in competing with girls three to four years older than me. I also remember how different things were there than they are here in the states.
My mother’s father had passed away and it was heartbreaking. The one man who really made my time in Ecuador good was gone. Before my trip to Ecuador I saw my myself more as an American than an Ecuadorian. I was accustomed to the U.S lifestyle such as going to baseball games or eating hamburgers. In my home, we spoke Spanish, but more often than not I spoke English.
I have never been to El Salvador, but I have tried the food a few times and every time it’s been amazing. I remember the first time I tried a pupusa. The way the cheese melted in my mouth, its one of those things I wish I can experience for the first time. Now everytime I see someone selling pupusas I HAVE to buy
I identify as a Latina. I have always considered myself as a Latina, but throughout time, I believe that I have assimilated more into a white individual because of the privilege that I hold and because I have lived in the US most of my life. I have received mostly negative messages from those who are not from my ethnicity. My peers and I were told we wouldn’t graduate high school and be laborers for the rest of our lives. With the current politics, I believe that this still holds true where some people still hold stereotypes and give oppressing messages to Latinos.
"¡Recógeme!" the child babbled, looking up at me with imploring dark eyes. I glanced apologetically at a worker standing nearby. “He wants you to pick him up,” she said in thickly accented English, and I looked down at the little boy as he reached towards me with eager hands and a beguiling smile. Spit dribbled from his mouth, his clothes were streaked with brown (hopefully dirt), and the remnants of his last meal caked tellingly on the corners of his mouth.
The most meaningful intellectual experience I had occurred the last time I had the chance to visit my home country, Venezuela. It was late July of 2010, and I was visiting the only family members that remain in Caracas. The moments I arrived I was immediately confronted by the immensely deteriorated state of the airport. The walls were peeling in places, the duty-free store was only the size of a small supply closet, and even the baggage claim carousels were dirty and undulating in weakness. The entire airport was empty, pathetic, and gray, and the people arriving were just as sad to be arriving.
I fell in love with the laid-back, accepting culture, the beautiful landscape and my amazing host family. I cherished every moment I got to spend chasing small kids around the soccer field playing pato pato ganzo or fútbol. I learned so much about myself, about Nicaraguan culture and about how true happiness in life does not revolve around material possessions. The people in La Corona, Nicaragua often had little more than a house with sheets for walls, a bucket used to bathe themselves and enough rice and beans to make gallo pinto for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but they lived the happiest lives of anyone I’ve ever known. The prosperity of the Nicaraguans I spent six weeks living with revolved around family and culture and food and religion and togetherness.
I landed right in the middle of the plains. Only a pleasant wind is blowing without any signs of people as far as my eyes can see. As the transfer formation started safely and served it’s function, my body could feel the substantial magical power that was not felt at all on earth. Gathering magical power in my right hand, an image of burning flames was imagined in my palms.