The Thing About Family

I was born and raised in Cuba, in a tight-knit family of eight, where nourishing love was more present than the burning sun. My grandparents fed me and bathed me with their wise and aging hands. Mom and dad taught me to how walk and talk—like a princess, no less. My older sister, my best friend, my better half, showed me how to laugh, put my foot behind my head, and love with all I've got. The thing about family is that it does not stop where our veins do, nor at the foot of our front doors, so I will try this again: 

I was born and raised in Cuba, in a tight-knit family of a whole street, el barrio. We gathered once a week for neighborhood watch and cooked caldosa in an open fire. We also gathered when the whole block experienced complete blackouts. The adults shared oil for lanterns, candles, batteries for hand-crank radios, cigarettes to keep busy in the dead of heated silence. The kids, we shared our best hiding spots, the last drops of cold water, fireflies, an unpaved street, and endless summer nights. People ask me if I came to this country with my family. And because family here is often simplified, the word loses the meaning I long ago learned. “Yes, I did,” I lie and smile as I am congratulated and labeled “lucky.” Coming here did not take luck, it took thousands of dollars, years of patiently awaiting approval, judgment from a people skeptical about the outside world, and the constant support of a whole street, my family. The thing about family is that it is constantly changing, so I will try this again: 

I was born and raised in Cuba, but I grew up in the United States. Here, I learned that the word “Hey” is more commonly used than “Hello,” that the American government does not force kids to read one hundred books each school year, and that If You Give a Pig a Pancake, you better be ready for a hectic day. In America, only ninety short miles away from my Cuba, my family, I learned what it means to be lonely. My parents said to give it a year, that it was a simple equation, first-grade stuff: more English equals more friends. “Es simple” became the biggest lie my parents ever told me. It was not simple until Freshman year when another Cuban girl dared to say “Hello” because she had not watched back-to-back episodes of Disney Channel shows. “Aquí, they say ‘Hey,’ not ‘Hello.’” It was not simple until my English teacher told me I write in my own voice, reassuring me that I have the power of words in this foreign language. It was not simple until I stepped off the airplane that returned me to my first family, a place untouched by time. It was not simple until I realized it does not have to be. And that it never will be because simplicity would be an insult to my life here. And here, aquí, we sit, we wait for the next person who will walk into our lives and teach us a word or two, the next person to join our support system, our list of trusted allies, our communities, our families. 

So, yes, I am lucky because I have recently realized that the thing about family is that it does not stop at the foot of our front doors, and the world is only an open push away.