Women Moving Forward : Volume One [1 ed.] 9781443820028, 9781904303800

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Women Moving Forward

Women Moving Forward Volume One: Narratives of Identity, Migration, Resilience, and Hope

Edited by

Raúl Fernández-Calienes and Judith Barr Bachay

CAMBRIDGE SCHOLARS PRESS

Women Moving Forward, Volume One: Narratives of Identity, Migration, Resilience, and Hope, edited by Raúl Fernández-Calienes and Judith Barr Bachay This book first published 2006 by Cambridge Scholars Press 15 Angerton Gardens, Newcastle, NE5 2JA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2006 by Raúl Fernández-Calienes and Judith Barr Bachay and contributors

All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN 1904303803

TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgements........................................................................................... viii Preface ................................................................................................................ix Introduction Judith Barr Bachay............................................................................................... 1 Chapter One Claiming a Place at the Table: Multi-Ethnic Women Creating Peace Judith Barr Bachay (U.S.A.)................................................................................................................ 3 Chapter Two Isis Celia Lisset Álvarez (Cuba) ................................................................................................................ 19 Chapter Three Inner Truth Kira N. Brereton (Panamá) ............................................................................................................ 29 Chapter Four The Woman I am Today Jennie Georges (Haiti)................................................................................................................. 37 Chapter Five Interlocking Identities: Weaving Together Layers of Our Selves Kristine Molina (Nicaragua) ........................................................................................................ 43 Chapter Six Cuban Sharks Irvin Morales (Cuba) ................................................................................................................ 51

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Chapter Seven Migration Story from East to West Shanti Nair (India)................................................................................................................. 55 Chapter Eight From Puerto Rico to USA: In Search of My Cultural Identity Sandra V. Padilla (Puerto Rico)...................................................................................................... 63 Chapter Nine A Lot of History to be Discovered Elsa R. Rodríguez (Spain/Cuba) ...................................................................................................... 69 Chapter Ten “Mi couldn’ wait fi cum Merika” Erline Ruff (Jamaica) ............................................................................................................ 75 Chapter Eleven A Gift to My Children Yanet Ruíz Lacayo (Cuba) ................................................................................................................ 83 Chapter Twelve I Know Who I Am Elizabeth Valencia (U.S.A./Colombia) ............................................................................................. 91 Further Readings ................................................................................................ 95 Questions for Further Reflection........................................................................ 97 Contributors ....................................................................................................... 99 Index ................................................................................................................ 105

DEDICATION We dedicate this book to the St. Thomas University community because of its commitment to diversity and human rights for all people. We are grateful to our authors, women migrants, who exemplify the human capacity to deal with adversity and emerge stronger. We are appreciative of the vision and hope for a better world communicated by Dr. Joseph Iannone, Dean of Graduate Studies at St. Thomas University, Miami, Florida, who encourages us to seek the good, embrace the human strengths, and identify the potential in those who refuse to remain without voice. Thank you Joe, for listening to us and to the women, who have the courage to imagine the new, the better, and the limitless possibilities of true relational living.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to all those who contributed to the production of this book, including the individual authors for sharing their narratives, Robert Hudson and Ned Swanner for assistance with citation research, Amanda Millar and Andy Nercessian of CSP, and Gail Schaefer for the beautiful artwork that was commissioned especially for this book.

ABOUT THE COVER ART “Moving Forward” Mixed Media 12 in. x 18 in. April 2005 Artist: Gail Schaefer Photographer: William Farnsworth “Moving Forward” is a mixed media narrative that is visually a journey. After reading the experiences of resilient women, the symbolism in the art may be understood.

PREFACE RAÚL FERNÁNDEZ-CALIENES

The women who write the pages that follow share with us a great variety of life experiences. Women from places as diverse as the Americas, the Caribbean, Europe, and Asia, share their stories of identity, migration, adversity, struggle, and hope. From their distinct lives and contexts, each adds to a broader understanding of our common human condition. The authors explore their narratives: Beginning with themselves, their parents and grandparents, and beyond, each describes the generation in the United States they represent. Then, they tell why they or their ancestors came to the U.S. in the first place, articulating specifics of the terrible difficulties they faced – or still face – in adjusting to new and unfamiliar surroundings. They explain how their immediate or extended family practices and ethnic or cultural customs have helped or hindered their acculturation process. They explain some of the social conditions or conflicts they or their kin have experienced within U.S. culture. Finally, each discusses the value of her ethnic group and of her experiences as a person having or lacking power in relation to ethnicity, class, and family, as well as sexual, gender, and professional identity. Challenging situations are part of our daily lives; how we engage these circumstances is one of the basic elements of what makes us unique. Each of the women who write these pages opens a window into her being. This book is an invitation for you to meet and to learn from “women moving forward” in life within the matrix of a complex cultural context.

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“Women Moving Forward: Narratives of Identity, Migration, Resilience, and Hope is an excellent example of ethnographic inquiry, revealing the normative behavior of women within specific cultural boundaries, while also illuminating the individual transcendence of norms in the quest for self-realization. The stories in Women Moving Forward are each unique in their depiction of culture and mores and allow the reader to catch a glimpse of the lives of women in various parts of the globe. Despite their variety, however, the stories are united in their core as they each validate the very human need to hope for a future that is fulfilling and, at least to some extent, self-constructed rather than imposed...this book cannot be missed.” Associate Professor Beatriz González Robinson, Ph.D., LMHC Vice President for University Planning & Chief of Staff, St. Thomas University State Coordinator, Office of Women in Higher Education Fellow, American Council on Education “These are the stories that find voice in the human spirit. The simple, yet deeply moving narratives of everyday people who share an extraordinary experience – uprooting themselves from their native lands to seek the centuries-old dream of a better life in the United States. A new language, new culture, new political system. With opportunities to grow nearly offset by deep-seated prejudices that cause more than one to question the wisdom of their life-altering decision. Yet all persevere. All prevail. So, ultimately, these are the stories of everyday heroes (though none might admit to it). Pioneers, following the great American tradition that says, ‘You are welcome here, and with hard work and patience, you too will realize your dream.’ They hail from Cuba, Jamaica, and elsewhere, but each has made a new home in a strange new place without sacrificing their cherished traditions and values. And they and their adopted land are the better for it. So sit back and enjoy these twelve humble, yet beautiful tales. Raúl Fernández-Calienes and Judi Barr Bachay have given us a treasure.” Brother Herman E. Zaccarelli, C.S.C. Adjunct Professor, Barry University Former Director, Educational Conference Center, Kings College, Pennsylvania

INTRODUCTION JUDITH BARR BACHAY

“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.” Elizabeth Kubler-Ross As a psychotherapist working in multilingual multicultural community mental health, and in recent years as an academic employed by a small Catholic university whose mission included meeting the needs of the underserved, I have had the wonderful opportunity to meet many beautiful people. I am most grateful for having had myriad opportunities to listen. The words of Dr. KublerRoss underscore the significance of the struggle experienced by the women featured in this book, and in listening deeply, I began to learn about the frameworks of relationships that engender hope and healing. Raúl and I invite counselors, educators, activists, political leaders, and all agents of change to listen to these authors with a caring heart, an intentional mind, and the courage of the soul. Readers will find the seeds of clarity and beauty in the subjective voice of women who authenticate the phenomenological experience of women who are making a difference in others’ lives through the transformation of their own. The women in this book are indeed beautiful, but will never meet the Western mass-media fantasy-world criterions that are carefully crafted and highly fictionalized models of femininity. Non match the female beauty phenotype of the 5’10” blond, long legged, severely thin, pasted on breasts enjoyed by only 5% of 52% of the population. These authors defy external definitions of self and recreate themselves with strength forged through crisis and adversity. The women in the book create powerful spaces for contemporary women through their personal narratives.

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Claiming a Place at the Table: Multiethnic Women Creating Peace focuses on the ways that women learn, the ways that women lead, and the ways that women participate in conflict prevention, peace building, and post conflict civic reconstruction. By introducing the work of Women Waging Peace and United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325 on Women and Peace and Security, I explore psychological learning theory that explains the foundations of women’s agency as well as share examples and narratives of women’s activism. Fresh approaches to old problems exemplify how disenfranchised or marginalized voices can inform, instruct, and inspire new pathways for civic change. The authors reveal and define the processes and factors that contribute to their reclamation of identity – identities that are rooted in the matrix of historical struggle for life in the face of oppressive and alienating forces. They epitomize the interaction of internal strength within cultural context. Women who move forward can change a family; a family that moves forward can change a community; a community that moves forward can change the world. This book illuminates the lives of women who are redefining what it means to claim space and place in a gendered context that cherishes human dignity and equality.

CHAPTER ONE CLAIMING A PLACE AT THE TABLE: MULTI-ETHNIC WOMEN CREATING PEACE1 JUDITH BARR BACHAY (U.S.A.)

The future of civil society depends upon how human kind decides to interact with our multiple environments. We are sustainable only to the extent to which we, as a human community commit to the preservation of human dignity. Women are succeeding in their leadership roles because of their gendered characteristics, not in spite of those characteristics. These fresh approaches seek the humanity in every person. In this paper, I present an argument for gendered perspectives in the world arena, by focusing on the ways that women learn, the ways that women lead, and the ways that women participate in nation building. By introducing the work of Women Waging Peace and United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325 on Women and Peace and Security,2 I explore psychological learning theory that explains the foundations of women’s agency as well as share examples and narratives of women’s activism.

Gendered Leadership Informal and formal leadership success used to be defined in the work place as women who followed the rules of conduct for men. However, that practice has changed and women are leading in ways that promote win-win and egalitarian relations. They are achieving success through new paradigms urging 1

This chapter originally was presented as a paper at the Seventh International Seminar “Democracy and Human Rights in Multiethnic Societies,” of the Institute for Strengthening Democracy in Bosnia and Herzegovina, in Konjic, Bosnia Herzegovina, in July 2004. 2 Retrieved 2004, at http://www.peacewomen.org/un/sc/ABC1325.html

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a spirit of cooperation, consensus building, and shared power. Adler’s study of 25 global women leaders found that while there were too small a number and it was too early to determine definitive patterns, some approaches to global leadership are consistent with previous research that compared the leadership styles of women and men.3 Of the 370 studies in the meta-analysis, 92% of the women adopted a more participatory or democratic method, in comparison to men who adopted more autocratic and directive approaches.4 Adler’s research indicated that of the 25 global women leaders, “some also appear to use more democratic approaches, including attempting to minimize hierarchy, using more inclusive processes to build consensus, and actively seeking international and national unity.5 To better understand the ways in which women lead, it is important to understand the ways that women learn and interpret their experiences in the world.

Women as Learners Belenky, Clinchy, Goldberger, and Tarule’s study of 135 diverse women provides an ethos for the understanding of the way women specifically or more commonly acquire knowledge, what they value in both life and learning, and factors that influence their world views.6 Through an analysis of extensive interviews, five areas emerged that comprise the way diverse women learn. Belenky, et al., propose five helpful categories: (1) silence, or the experience of women as being intellectually incompetent and powerless with respect to the whims of external authority; (2) received knowledge, a position in which women perceive themselves as incapable of creating knowledge but competent to receive knowledge from the extremely expert external source; (3) subjective knowledge, or that which is attained intuitively on a private and personal basis; (4) procedural knowledge, when a woman is invested in learning and applying objective procedures for attaining and conveying knowledge; and (5) constructed knowledge, which is defined as a position in which knowledge is 3 Nancy J. Adler, Societal Leadership: The Wisdom of Peace (San Francisco: The New Lexington Press, 1998); Nancy J. Adler, “Global Women Political Leaders: An Invisible History, An Increasingly Important Future,” Leadership Quarterly 7,1 (1996), pp. 133161; and Nancy J. Adler, “Competitive Frontiers: Cross-Cultural Management in the 21st Century,” International Journal of Intercultural Relations 19,4 (1995). 4 A. H. Eagly & Johnson, “Gender and leadership style: A meta-analysis,” Psychological Bulletin 108,2 (1990), pp. 233-256, as cited in S. Vinnicombe, and Nina L. Colwill, The Essence of Women in Management (New York: Prentice Hall, 1995), p. 32. 5 Ibid., p. 152. 6 M. F. Belenky, B. M. Clinchy, N. R. Goldberger, and J. M. Tarule, Women’s Ways of Knowing: The Development of Self, Voice, and Mind (New York: Basic Books, 1986).

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viewed as contextual, in which learners “experience themselves as creators of knowledge, and value both subjective and objective strategies for knowing.”7 These categories illuminate the progression towards emotional and intellectual emancipation.

Silence Experiencing one’s intellectual competence or power and expressing a personal voice within a safe, supportive learning community is the antithesis of silence. In extreme situations and under extreme conditions, silenced women are disconnected from their own inner selves as well as basic human relationships. They lack assertion, are obedient or, furthermore, are unable to learn from their own experiences or those of others. Life is viewed in terms of polarities and personal authority is surrendered without question. As such, the silenced woman is isolated from both inner and outer worlds and left without the confidence to mediate either.

Received Knowledge Women who listen as a way of knowing are extremely aware of the transforming power of words and are able to take in the words of those they consider to have expert power by virtue of their knowledge. They do not credit themselves with having the ability to access internal truths. As such, women develop the belief that truth is owned by others so their inner voices become hushed, unheeded and unheard. Women become adept at listening and lack both the skills and the self-assurance to speak their own ideas and to learn without anxiety. Help is received when these women give to others and become empowered through the experience of learning that what they know is important and has value to others. They do this by listening, teaching, and sharing wisdom. This begins the process of the journey inward, which is paradoxically displayed through increased communication and connections with others. Therefore, communication that cultivates cooperation, care and trust engages women’s inner voices and truths. Women create spaces for this through group work that is formal or informal.

7

Ibid., p. 15.

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Subjective Knowledge Belenky describes the movement from the passive silence and the externally defined perspective on knowledge and truth to an active, although protesting, acknowledgement of an inner source of knowledge.8 This subjective voice, however, remains dualistic. Rather than mediating the external, the subjective voice still clings to the notion that there are right answers, which may negate external sources of knowledge and truth. Listening to the subjective voice is a significant and transformative event, because women report that strength accompanies this recognition as well as an increasing ability to depend on self and trust this inner source of knowledge and truth. For women, this move is liberating and represents a developmental progression towards autonomy and independence.

Procedural Knowledge Procedural knowledge involves not only active inquiry and listening in new ways that promote critical thinking, but active intervention, often provided by a teacher. The teacher challenges the learner to interpret, analyze, evaluate, make predictions, deliberate, substantiate and integrate using an increased knowledge base that includes data rather than the exclusive subjective voice alone. The process by which women attain this new voice of reason is not a direct route. A woman’s move toward procedural knowledge differs according to whether women were experiencing what Gilligan termed the separate or connected ways of knowing.9 In general, separate knowers use an impersonal reasoning that separates the self and lends itself towards a morality of justice based on impersonal procedures or critical thinking. The dialectic of debate and argument is comfortable for these women because they challenge and doubt all ideas as absolutes, and they feel confident in the arena of adversarial intellectual games; furthermore, they find power in using these skills. The counter epistemology of connected knowing cultivates a moral culture of care that builds on subjectivism but also takes into account other’s experiences. These women realize that they cannot fully know another’s experience but they try to learn about the worldview of the other and may imagine how the other person makes meaning. They find it easy to enter the perceptual fields of those who are like them, but it takes a great deal of skill to procedurally enter into a connected way of knowing without resorting to using only subjectivism. 8

Belenky, et al., op. cit. C. Gilligan, In a Different Voice: Psychological Theory and Women’s Development (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 1982).

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Constructed Knowledge Internal truths change over time and construed knowledge is uniquely tied to the harmony of the inner voice with a core self that remains authentic, regardless of context and place. Context becomes critical and previously accepted authorities of truth are subjected to criteria that include room for the construction of multiple mental models. The attribution of expert status is held to a different status that requires the expert source of knowledge to be constantly evaluated, asking who is asking the question, why the question is being posed, and in what particular context. Constructed learning is the connected way of knowing in which the learner is aware of self as capable of intelligent thought. This kind of knowing promotes the experience of the potentialities of being fully human through which the learner has open spaces in which the community of truth can be practiced.10

Relationships The adoption of the perspective of the self as a competent learner thus becomes an important piece of women’s identity development. This appears to be a prerequisite to creating learning spaces for women that will facilitate and promote the acquisition of knowledge, awareness and skills—three components necessary for leadership. Although most developmental theories emphasize the disconnection from early relationships as the trajectory from which a healthy identity is formed, Turner argues that individuals should not be required to separate and individuate away from relationships in order to develop a healthy persona.11 Therefore, rather than separating from family of origin relationships, women move through relationships, adding on and redefining these primary relationships in age-appropriate and growth-promoting ways. If the development of women is grounded in primary relationships, and the way that women make meaning of their experiences evolves through these relationships, then a criterion for gendered leadership mandates that all people should challenge cultural constraints so that women can be full participants in every aspect of civil society. Hall recognizes that “all of us, in ways great or small,” are victims of unjust systems, uncaring societies, and imperfect

10

Parker J. Palmer, The Courage to Teach: Exploring the Inner Landscape of a Teacher’s Life (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers, 1998). 11 Clevonne W. Turner, “Clinical Applications of the Stone Center Theoretical Approach to Minority Women,” in Women’s Growth in Diversity: More Writings from the Stone Center, ed. by Judith V. Jordan (New York: Guilford Press, 1997), pp. 74-90.

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families.12 Yet, the wars and violence that threaten the sustainability of life on the planet call for a commitment to the highest ideals of truth seeking and humane problem solving within an atmosphere of freedom that acknowledges the interdependency of multiple identities. Rather than using abstract notions, a more expansive model is needed to break the barriers that have created the “other” and shift to expanded discourses that tell the stories from disparate perspectives. Women must be full and engaged participants in the creation of new narratives that help all of us examine multiple and diverse perspectives. Marginalization is the archenemy of gender equality, and disenfranchised despair predominates when power and control oppresses human voices and attacks dignity. Working with immigrants who survived the atrocities of war, and faced multiple losses that challenged their very psychological core, I learned about resilience and the “in spite of ‘‘ability that enables human beings to transcend victimization and claim their place at the proverbial table. My spirit of inquiry and quest for understanding change that transforms was impacted by core membership in Women Waging Peace, a network of female peacemakers from conflict areas around the world. Women who had survived genocide, or centuries of armed conflict are influencing the arena of women’s rights and experiencing their liberating power. Women who had been ignored are finding spaces and building coalitions that empower and enhance them as they begin to construct a profound conversation of possibility. Walker notes that history books make us assume that power is merely a function of military might, economic strength, or political influence.13 I am convinced that the global empowerment of women depends, in part, on the engagement of women in every aspect of the peace process. This engagement is rooted in the building of community and the prevention of conflict that attacks human dignity, the active participation in peace negotiation and conflict resolution, and the dynamic involvement of women in post conflict reconciliation and civic reconstruction. Women are connecting in ways that create spaces for gendered, fresh solutions in political, economic, and educational spheres and equally important, in peace building and post-conflict areas of violent armed conflict. Despite historic neglect, women are playing more public roles in the quest for peace worldwide. The centrality of men’s meaning making regarding war

12 Gerard Hall, “Ultimate Questions,” in Recognising Religion: A Study of Religion for Senior Secondary Students, ed. by Maurice Ryan & Peta Goldberg (Katoomba, NSW: Social Science Press, 2001), cited in “The Human Quest,” retrieved January 2006 from http://dlibrary.acu.edu.au/staffhome/gehall/Human_Quest.htm 13 M. Walker, Power: Envisioning an Alternate Paradigm, Stone Center Working Paper No. 94 (Wellesley, MA: Wellesley Centers for Women, 2004).

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and peace is being challenged by a kaleidoscope of new and gendered patterns, creating possibility and hope for the future.

Power Scholarship about the emerging role of women in the prevention, resolution and reconstruction of civic society in conflict zones calls for an important next step that does more than describe, but provides for women’s interpretation of their experience. The components that promote women’s ability to garner power, transform policy, and create and sustain peace through both informal and formal processes, are predicated upon a fresh definition of power as the “capacity to produce change” or a fundamental energy of everyday living.14 This definition provides a profound shift by no longer viewing power as a commodity that is used to make people who own this power somehow more valuable than those who don’t. This conceptual shift is vital given that many may view it to be normal to treat those with less power either destructively or through systematic policies that promote the myth of meritocracy, or offering the idea that the playing fields and the rules for all are equal and fair.15 Nina Colwill relates that in 15 years of business seminars in which she asked thousands of men and women to describe the most powerful person they know, the descriptions varied but the typical response identified a man as the most powerful person.16 When asked if they either liked the person or would they like to be like the most powerful person they knew, more than half said no to both questions. To be powerful in the workplace is usually to be male and disliked. Vinnicombe & Colwill’s categorization of power as personal power (the belief that one is powerful), interpersonal power (the ability to influence others) and organizational power, (the ability to mobilize resources) suggests that power can be had through a process of individual effort, but attaining and engaging in political power differs in fundamental ways.17 In the analysis of political leadership, R.C. Tucker instructs that the three necessary components of diagnosing, prescribing the course of actions, and mobilizing the people involved in following through on the action, provide political leadership with the

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Baker, in ibid. Peggy McIntosh, “White Privilege and Male Privilege: A Personal Account of Coming to See Correspondences through Work in Women's Studies,” Working Paper 189 (Wellesley, MA: Wellesley College Center for Research on Women, 1988), cited in Independent School (Winter 1990). 16 Nina Colwill, in S. Vinnicombe and Nina L. Colwill, The Essence of Women in Management (London: Prentice Hall, 1995). 17 Vinnicombe and Colwill, ibid. 15

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main purpose of activities.18 Power may then be viewed as leadership, or a special form of power. Leadership is always more than analysis and decisionmaking; it is as much about the follower as it is the leaders. Moral leadership involves coming together, locating each other’s strengths and bringing out the best in each other. Principled and ethical leadership depends on shared and transparent power. Historically, this kind of leadership has been elusive. Dr. Joyce E. Braak, President of the Institute for Research on Women’s Health, notes that “in her life time of experience, power is not surrendered with grace, but must be wrested.”19 Walker contends that issues of power are difficult to grapple with because it connotes “ collective struggle, interpersonal discomfort and political risk,” yet people have found ways to define alternative methods of power that are closer to loving and caring, even in situations that are inhumane and barbaric.20

Civic Engagement The current status of women was reported at the October 2003 United Nation’s Third Committee (Social, Humanitarian and Cultural).21 Gender equality and violence against women presented continuing challenges to the international community, according to Angela King, Assistant Secretary-General and Special Advisor on Gender Issues and Advancement of Women. She does not relegate these challenges as problems that should be addressed by women but emphasized that gender equality was the responsibility of everyone. She stated that the international community must promote the advancement of women in political, economic and social spheres. She reported that more efforts were also needed to change the situation in other critical areas, especially the inclusion of women in decision-making and in the peace process. More women were needed in decision-making processes and were still severely underrepresented in higher-level positions of power. There were only 10 women Heads of State and Government, five vice-presidents and four women leaders of main opposition parties in their countries. Women in the world’s Parliaments accounted for only 15.3 per cent. Within the United Nations, there were fewer women heads of organizations. Only the United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF) and United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA) were headed by women. Within the United Nations system, women professionals remained at 18

R. C. Tucker, Politics as Leadership (Columbia, SC: University of Missouri Press, 1981). 19 Joyce E. Braak, retrieved 2004, at http://womenwagingpeace.net 20 Walker, op. cit. 21 United Nation’s Third Committee (Social, Humanitarian and Cultural), October 2003.

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approximately 35 per cent. For the United Nations, this figure had remained the same over a five-year period, indicating that recruitments were barely replacing retirements and resignations. She charged the international community with the responsibility for the establishment of programs to support women’s sustainable livelihoods and economic independence, the elimination of discriminatory legislation, protection of women from sexual violence, the adoption of measures to increase women’s participation in public life and decision-making and improved access to health care. King’s recognition that initiating change involves seeing it through towards successful outcomes points to the enactment of equitable power and leadership that is borderless in scope.

Women Waging Peace Since 1999 Women Waging Peace has identified women who are building peace around the world, and have brought them together to share their strategies and solutions to violent conflict. The work of Women Waging Peace is grounded in the philosophy that “sustainable peace requires the full participation of women at all stages of the peace process—yet they have been largely excluded from efforts to develop or implement fresh, workable solutions to seemingly intractable struggles. Women Waging Peace brings together women from diverse areas of conflict around the world to share peace-building strategies, sharpen skills, and shape public policy (Womenwagingpeace.net).22 Women Waging Peace is led by Swannee Hunt, a visionary leader who transforms the women she gathers by valuing their diverse approaches to conflict prevention, conflict management, and post-war civic reconstruction and reconciliation. She has created an unparalleled space for the gendered praxis of peacemaking that informs and inspires. Furthermore, her work helps generate new research paradigms, new policy initiatives and new relationships that bridge incalculable divides. Women Waging Peace identifies the efficacy of collaboration, consensus, and compromise as strategies for change through the following examples: x In several instances during the Northern Irish talks that led to the Good Friday Agreement, male negotiators walked out of negotiation sessions, leaving a small number of women, like Monica McWilliams, at the table. These women focused on mutual concerns and shared vision, enabling the dialogue to continue and trust to be rekindled.

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Retrieved 2004, at http://womenwagingpeace.net

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x In spite of ongoing violence in the Middle East, Israeli and Palestinian women worked through Jerusalem Link, an umbrella group of women’s centers on both sides of the conflict, to affect public opinion and convey a joint vision for a just peace. x In Sudan, women organized the Wunlit tribal summit to bring an end to hostilities between the Dinka and Nuer peoples. The resulting covenant guaranteed peace between the tribes, who agreed to share rights to water, fishing, and grazing land, which had been key points of disagreement. York contends that the ecofeminist argument (or the idea that destructive relationships of humans with the environment must be replaced with a more life affirming culture) provides legitimate reasons for women’s involvement in peace processes.23 The costs of war are born by women from the standpoints of economics, families, refugees and war casualties. Peace is a women’s issue because they pay the primary price in its absence. Women Waging Peace notes that women “frequently out number men, particularly after a conflict, and they often drive the on-the-ground implementation of any peace agreement. Women are often at the center of non-governmental organizations, popular protests, electoral referendums, and other citizen-empowering movements whose influence has grown with the global spread of democracy.” Yet, how often are representative women’s groups consulted about who, what, where, why, how and when reconstruction should take place? Through her analysis of post-Cold war sexual politics, Enloe points out that during the process of post war social reconstruction “someone will be making calculations about how masculinity and femininity can best serve national security. This someone may be casual, confused, or ambivalent, but he or she will be making those decisions. This is a post war period crowded with gendered decisions.”24 Women Waging Peace cites five examples in which women shape post reconstruction peacemaking efforts, take control of their lives, refuse to be victimized and demonstrate leadership behaviors: x Martha Segura, executive director of the Colombian Confederation of Non-Governmental Organizations, has 23

J. York, “The Truth about Women and Peace,” in The Women and War Reader, ed. by Lois A. Lorentzen and Jennifer Turpin (New York: New York University Press, 1998), pp. 19-25. 24 C. Enloe, The Morning After: Sexual Politics after the Cold War (Berkeley, CA.: University of California Press, 1993), p. 261, cited in the Women and War Reader, p. 356.

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represented the NGO community in peace talks, most significantly as a promoter of the Programmatic Agreement for Peace, signed by the 1200 members of the Confederation, international agencies, and the government.25 As the minister of gender and social affairs in Rwanda, Aloisea Inyumba created programs to bury the dead, find homes for more than 300,000 orphaned children, and resettle refugees after the genocide of 1994. She also served as executive secretary of the National Unity and Reconciliation Commission in Rwanda, which organizes national public debates promoting reconciliation between Hutus and Tutsis, and she currently serves as governor of the Kigali Ngali Province. Nanda Pok is leading efforts to promote women’s participation in the political process as Cambodia recovers from the killing fields of Pol Pot. Her organization, Women for Prosperity, has trained over 5,000 women to hold political office, including 64 percent of the women elected recently to local commune councils. At the Union of Committees of Soldiers’ Mothers of Russia, Ida Kuklina demands military reform based on the establishment of professional military service for soldiers rather than involuntary conscription.26 This powerful NGO defends the human rights of soldiers, confronting Russian judges, generals, and presidents with the deaths of 3,0005,000 soldiers who perished not because of war, but because of abuse by their commanders and peers during peacetime. Visaka Dharmadasa, co-founder of Parents of Servicemen Missing-In-Action, lobbied her government to reciprocate the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam’s (LTTE) releasing of soldiers and civilians, resulting in the release of ten LTTE suspects. She created a support network for women from each side of the conflict to share their grievances, stories, and strategies.

Retrieved 2004, at http://womenwagingpeace.net/content/articles/0188a.html Retrieved 2004, at http://ucsmr.ru; http://womenwagingpeace.net/content/ conflict_areas/russia.asp#kuklina 26

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Revisioning inclusive security models involves the revelation of the stories of people who may be characterized as marginalized and disempowered but who are, in effect, paving alternative pathways to a more inclusive power paradigm. The narratives of Nanda, Martha, and other activists weave together a multinational and multihued tapestry of gendered hopefulness. The following story illustrates the underpinnings of equality and global empowerment through the lens of a woman actively involved in developing new strategies and providing voice and agency in an area that experienced almost unimaginable violent conflict. Rose Kabuye was raised in a Ugandan refugee camp following her parents’ flight from Rwanda because of Hutu-Tutsi violence. Upon finishing her university studies in 1985, she joined the fighting forces of the Rwandan Patriotic Front, an opposition movement and guerrilla army. She was appointed mayor of Kigali after the 1994 genocide and later served as a member of Parliament for two years, chairing the Security and Defense Committee. In charge of supplies and stores in the Rwandan army, Lieutenant Colonel Kabuye is also the chair of the Political and Judicial Commission of the Rwandan Leadership Conference, a domestic spinoff of the Women as Partners for Peace in Africa program. This initiative of the US Department of State brought together women from Angola, Burundi, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Rwanda, South Africa, 27 Uganda, Zambia, and Zimbabwe in pursuit of peace and regional stability.

Rose’s work helps us move past the antiquated idea that men make war and women make peace, but describes and defines needs and solutions for women in post conflict reconstruction and reconciliation. The work of Rose and all women involved in peacemaking is undergirded by the historic statement that for the first time officially recognized and effectively called for the inclusion and active participation of women. United Nations Security Council Resolution 1325, an unprecedented historic statement that recognizes the link between equality, development and peace was passed unanimously on October 31, 2000. This resolution calls for the full participation of women in the prevention of violence, peace negotiation, and security processes of all member nations. Political space is created with considerable implications in terms of the extent to which women navigate pathways that engender their participation as peace builders, peacemakers or peacekeepers. This document can be heralded as profoundly transformational. However, if it is not implemented it is rendered virtually ineffective especially in its four primary interrelated areas: 1) participation of women in decision making and peace processes; 2) gender perspectives and 27

Retrieved 2004, at http:///womenwagingpeace.net/content/conflict_areas/uganda.asp #kabuye

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training in peace keeping; 3) the protection of women and 4) gender mainstreaming in United Nations reporting systems and programmatic implementation mechanisms. In response to the adoption of Resolution 1325, the Peace Women Project was created by the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, a United Nations office created for the purpose of monitoring and working towards rapid implementation. They provide a vehicle for information sharing and maintain the momentum and visibility of 1325 by hosting the website, http://www.peacewomen.org, and providing translations of 1325 to increase both awareness and accessibility. This website also hosted an electronic discussion that was moderated by Kara Piccirilli and effectively united disparate voices that illuminated the experiences of women around the world with regards to women, peace and security issues. This electronic connection has established an empowering space where activists, academics, formal and informal women leaders can engage in dialogue with women whose lives have been shaped by violent conflict and have responded with praxis of negotiated leadership in the peace arena. These stories were told from the unique worldview of each person who chose to participate and reveal the significance of interdependency and identities with the lived experience as the criterion of meaning. Knowledge generated by women who can give testimony to lived experience in which change and peace has been possible can contribute to the development of new and interdisciplinary international approaches to facilitate the global empowerment of women. The dialogue within the discussion is generative rather than deficit-based, and intended for solutions that promote egalitarian dialogue and enduring change. The electronic discussion provided the opportunity that Manchanda identified as a much needed space for women, who have been historically excluded from formal political space, to negotiate the ambiguities of ethnic and national identities, and to strategize together to create mutual futures in which peace is possible.28

A Moral Compass Sanam Naraghi Anderlini deconstructs UN Resolution 1325, by providing a road map with specific strategies for implementation, and identifying factors that were left out of the resolution.29 The call for action in the area of increased participation of women in decision making and peace processes, however, may 28 R. Manchanda, Women, War and Peace in South Asia: Beyond Victimhood to Agency (London: Sage, 2001). 29 Sanam Naraghi Anderlini, retrieved 2004, at http:www.peacewomen.org/un/sc/ ABC1325.html

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be impeded by the lack of actual quotas, benchmarks and timelines for the building of a critical mass of women in positions relating to peace and security. She advises NGOs to monitor the United Nations and governments to press for action, for governments to pressure the UN to increase the number of senior women, and recommends that governments and NGOs contribute names of women to the roster. The resolution pledges that UN missions will consult and include women’s groups in all aspects of conflict resolution including the implementation mechanisms of peace agreements. Not only is there an unprecedented call for all actors, both governmental and non-governmental, to address the needs of women and girls during repatriation, resettlement, reintegration and post-conflict civic reconstruction, but women from all strata of society are also included in the development and implementation of the processes. Anderlini advises NGOs in conflict zones to bring this to the attention of negotiators and that governments, multi-lateral bodies, and UN agencies should be held accountable for assuring that local civil society groups are included in all levels of conflict prevention, management, and resolution. The council also demands that member states provide gender training for peacekeepers and civilian personnel in peace support operations and she advises NGOs to lobby their governments for funding towards this end, to offer to provide the training, and to monitor and document military and peacekeeping deployments with regard to their actions toward women and girls. The resolution calls for all actors in all avenues of peace processes to protect and respect the human rights of women and girls. This includes incorporating gendered perspectives in the areas of disarmament, demobilization, and reintegration process, addressing the special needs of women and girls in refugee camps, and to protect women and girls from gender based violence, especially rape. Anderlini warns that violations will continue unless effective monitoring is initiated, timelines for reports are established, consultation with NGOs becomes routinized, a system of “carrots and sticks” is devised to encourage the compliance with refugee protection laws, and a lack of compliance is penalized. The last area addressed by the Security Council through Resolution 1325 calls for the gender mainstreaming in United Nations reporting and implementation mechanism. The Security General is mandated to provide a report about the impact of armed conflict on women and girls, the role of women in peace building, and the mainstreaming of gender perspectives in all peace processes. Anderlini contends that despite the attention that women in war zones are receiving, the lack of timelines for the report may threaten effective and timely follow up to the resolution. In all four areas, Anderlini identifies the absence of accountability mechanisms as gaps and weaknesses that must be addressed for

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the effective implementation of this significant and potentially transformational document that can be considered, in effect, an international rule of law. At the outset of this paper, the ways that women learn was introduced. Within this progressive or stage model, I explored how women who were silenced and disconnected from their own source of wisdom moved on to constructed knowledge, a place in which knowledge is viewed as contextual, and in which learners experience themselves as creators of knowledge, and value both subjective and objective sources of knowledge. These categories illustrate the progression towards emotional and intellectual emancipation, prerequisites to gendered peacemaking. Narratives from women active in conflict prevention, peace building, and social reconstruction revealed leadership skills that included the intentional sharing of power, information sharing, and participatory interactions that respected the dignity of the human being. United Nations Resolution 1325 was introduced as a source of hope; Anderlini’s sober analysis of that resolution was a reality check that provides a much needed compass that will chart the course for the full implementation of the resolution. The electronic discussion provides additional hope for the creation of new spaces that enhances and promotes the involvement of women in every aspect of a free and peaceful, civil society. It is clear that women are moving beyond victimhood to becoming agents of change. Through the continued and active participation of women currently inside as well as outside of the axes of power, change has become a viable possibility. Women need to further engage themselves and support each other in the dual project of peacemaking and peacekeeping. By telling their stories and by laying these narratives down, one next to another next to another, perhaps bridges may emerge where once there were only chasms.

CHAPTER TWO ISIS CELIA LISSET ÁLVAREZ (CUBA)

Cathy’s world spun around her in bands of yellow-green and slate gray. Faster, faster! Her hair blinded her. It was happening. It was really going to happen. She felt her bare feet shifting on the dry grass. She held her breath. And fell. Gasping on her back, her long blond hair tangled around her shoulders and in greasy clumps between her fingers, Cathy felt her bare stomach. Nothing. “Did I change?” she said. Beside her, her two best friends, Natty and Sylvia, lay on their backs too, coughing and wheezing. “No, you stupid idiot,” Laura said, towering above the three girls, hands on her hips. She looked tall to Cathy, and a little bit scary, distorted like a funhouse mirror image that changed as she sat up on her elbows. Laura’s hip-hugger bellbottoms flapped in the wind. Her ankles looked dark and skinny. “How many times do I have to tell you? Wonder Woman doesn’t really exist.” “Yes she does!” Cathy said, squinting her eyes at her huge cousin. The three girls exchanged looks. We just didn’t spin fast enough. They stood up, slapping dirt from their bottoms as they walked away. “Nenita, Laura said Wonder Woman doesn’t really exist. Can I be Wonder Woman for Halloween?” Cathy asked, hanging on to her grandmother by the holes on the blue crocheted shawl she wore even in the hot Miami October. Cathy watched Natty and Sylvia looking at her and then following Laura. ¿“Quién”? Nenita asked, squinting behind her huge glasses. “Wonder Woman, Mama,” Cathy’s father said, making a spinning motion with his fingers. “From the show.”

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“Ah,” Nenita said. “Yes, mi hija, of course, you can be anything you want to be. But wouldn’t you rather be the Sleeping Beauty? Or la cenicienta?” “No,” Cathy said, “I don’t want to be Cinderella anymore.” She had been fairy-tale characters for two years in a row. It’s not that she really believed Wonder Woman existed; she was too old for that. But maybe, just maybe, who knew what might happen if she just spun round hard enough? “I will sew any costume for you you want, okay?” Nenita said. “Go play with your cousins.” “Mama, you are getting too old to sew,” Cathy’s father said. “It’s ruining your eyes.” Cathy watched Nenita smile. She was the only old lady Cathy had ever seen with perfect white teeth. She kept them in a glass bowl by the side of her bed soaking in baking soda and water so they stayed bright. Cathy liked to get in the bed beside her and fall asleep watching them glow in the moonlight like the cat from Alice in Wonderland. Moonlight was the only light Nenita could stand when she was falling asleep. When Cathy told her about the cat and the teeth, Nenita hadn’t known what she was talking about. She always got all the fairy tales wrong. Her version of Snow White didn’t even have an apple in it. It was really a lot scarier than the one Cathy knew, with a poisoned comb that got stuck in Snow White’s head. Sometimes Cathy got bored and wished for her mother. She knew that if only she were there, she would know how all the fairy tales went, like all the other mothers Cathy knew. But she had died in Cuba and Cathy had never met her. Cathy left Nenita’s side and went over to Natty and Sylvia, who were doing something with Laura and Mario. It was Laura’s tenth birthday and the back yard of Tía Estela’s house looked like a cupcake had exploded over it, sprinkling yellow, brown, and orange in streamers over the jacaranda and cherimoya. The drought-thirsty grass bloomed everywhere with translucent candy wrappers from the piñata Laura had just beat to death. It had been shaped like a giant star, and now pieces of silver tinsel and foil confetti covered the picnic table and fold-up chairs Tía Estela had rented like snow. Cathy ran her hand over one of the chairs and stared as her palm glinted in the sunlight. She had seen a woman with skin like that in her father’s office one night. She was all dressed up in high heels and one of her teeth had bled allover her chin and her father was fixing it. Cathy had asked to touch the glitter on her shoulders and the woman had just laughed at her. “Shh,” Mario said when Cathy came close. Tío Paco was curled up under one of the jacaranda trees, with a little transistor radio held close to his ear, listening to a baseball game. His eyes were closed and a mosquito was crawling on his cheek. .

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“Okay, this one’s mine,” Mario said, taking his twig and slowly, slowly, then quickly swinging at the bug. The five of them – Cathy, Sylvia, Natty, Laura, and Mario – held their breath. Tío Paco did not stir. “Whew,” Mario whistled. “That’s three.” “It is not,” Laura said. “It’s two. Right, girls?” Sylvia and Natty nodded yes. They had never played the game before, but all day they had been doing what Laura told them to. They had even stopped playing Wonder Woman because she said it was stupid. Cathy was sorry she had invited them. It was Laura’s turn. She waited for a mosquito to settle on Tío Paco’s forehead, then quickly reached out and swung at it with her stick. Tío Paco smacked his lips and tucked his hands under his head, letting the radio drop, but he didn’t open his eyes. Natty and Sylvia giggled. “Gimme five!” Laura said, slapping palms. “You want to play?” Mario asked. Cathy found a twig. She waited, and brushed one off his left elbow. Natty and Sylvia took turns, beating out Laura four and five to three. Tío Paco began to snore. “This is boring,’“ Laura said, and left to talk to some older girls she had invited that had just gotten there. After a while, Natty and Sylvia went after her. Cathy and Mario were nine for nine. If Cathy succeeded on her next turn, she would win. She swatted one away from his chest. “I win!” she whispered, holding up her stick triumphantly. “That doesn’t count,” Mario said. “It has to touch his skin.” It was the same thing every Sunday after church, even when there wasn’t a party and Cathy came over to play with her cousins. Mario would always try to change the rules so that he could win. “But his shirt was open!” Cathy argued. “It doesn’t matter,” Mario said. “You have to do it again.” Cathy waited for the next mosquito to settle down. When it finally did it was the hardest place, the arm, where the little hairs were so sensitive. Cathy waited a long time to be sure that the mosquito was standing still, sucking at the skin. Then she whacked it. Mario and Cathy stood a little back and watched Tío Paco, ready to run. Tío Paco lifted his arm and scratched at it, but kept right on sleeping. Cathy smiled. Mario looked at her and broke his twig over his knee. Cathy watched him as he stomped up to the screen door at the back of the house, then she turned to look at Tío Paco’s closed eyes. Just as she was about to go look for Natty and Sylvia, he winked. Cathy smiled again, and saw Tía Estela sitting on one of the folding chairs talking to Nenita.

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Tía Estela was the most beautiful woman Cathy had ever seen, almost as beautiful as Wonder Woman. When she had gotten there that morning, Laura had been sleeping, and Tía Estela had taken her into her bedroom while she dressed for the party. She had been wearing a long white robe down to her ankles and purple curlers in her hair when she had opened the door, but she went into the bathroom, and when she came back she was wearing a lace bra and shiny lilac pants that twisted like skirts over her long-heeled shoes. Cathy sat on the edge of the quilted bedspread and watched as she took a little bottle of white cream from the dresser and put some of it on her fingertip, making five swirled dots like icing on her cheeks, nose, forehead, and chin. Then she smoothed them allover her face and did the same thing over again with a gold-colored cream. Cathy saw how she sharpened pencils and drew her eyes, then smacked her lips around on a tissue paper, covering it with candy-apple kisses. She took a big puff and covered her face in powder like a movie star, then brushed her eyelashes with a little brush so small it was smaller than the pink plastic brushes that came with Cathy’s Barbies. Then she took an even bigger puff and sprinkled the glittery powder over her shoulders. That was how Cathy had found out about the secret of the bleeding woman’s skin in her father’s office. Tía Estela turned around and picked up a white blouse from where it lay on top of the bed beside Cathy. She took it off the plastic hanger and put it on, tucking it into the pants. She turned around again and took out the curlers in her hair, bending over until her head was upside down and shaking out the curls. “Well, what do you think?” she said, straightening up and facing Cathy. She took a bottle of perfume and sprayed her wrists and behind her ears, hesitated, and sprayed once between her breasts. Caramel wafted through the air like that green smell Cathy liked after the rain. Cathy didn’t say anything. “Come here,” Tía Estela said, holding out her hand. Cathy stood in front of the dresser. She could just see down to her shoulders in the mirror. “Go like this,” Tía Estela said, puckering her lips as if she were blowing a kiss. Cathy did. Tía Estela dabbed her lips with a pinkie, leaving behind a cherryflavored gloss the color of pink candy hearts. Cathy looked at herself and Tía Estela in the mirror, wishing she could be Laura so that Tía Estela would be her mother. But now Tía Estela was crying. Cathy saw her father come over and put an arm around her aunt. “Margarita won’t let me talk to her, Servio,” Cathy heard her say. * Cathy woke up next weekend and watched the Saturday morning cartoons. She didn’t like Shazam! much, because it was meant for boys, but she really liked Isis and sat cross-legged in front of the television in the living room to see

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it. Nenita brought her breakfast right there, Sugar Smacks and hot milk with vanilla in it. Saturdays were the busiest day for her father, and she could hear him from the office in the front of the house, talking to patients. She put her hands over her ears when he ran the drill, remembering the time Nenita had said her father would have to make holes in her mouth to put false teeth in if she didn’t brush them before going to bed. She had forgotten to three nights in a row, mostly because Nenita didn’t remind her. Nenita was busy sewing her Halloween costume. Cathy wasn’t supposed to know it, but she had sneaked out of her room after Nenita had tucked her in and had caught her at it. “Good night,” Nenita had said as usual, “if you’ve been good you’ll know because you’ll dream of angels.” She’d smoothed out the blanket for her and given her a kiss, but the light from the study where the sewing machine was wouldn’t let her sleep. Cathy had crawled out of the bed and seen Nenita, smoking puff after puff as she sewed red, white, and blue fabric. When the clock in the hall struck midnight, Nenita had looked out the window to the porch and sighed. Cathy went back to bed and heard her get up to make cafe a little while later, the bittersweet smell reaching her room and tickling her nose. Halloween was on Monday, and Cathy would get to wear her costume to school. Natty and Sylvia were going to be Wonder Women too, and they were going to try the experiment again, this time turning the other way to see if they changed back into their normal clothes. Then Tía Estela had promised to take her and Mario trick-or-treating. Laura had decided she was too old to go with them, and was going to go to a party at a friend’s house instead. Nenita came up behind Cathy and pulled her earlobes. “You like that show, eh?” she asked. Cathy nodded. “Did you dream with angels last night?” Nenita asked. “Yes,” Cathy lied, craning her neck up at her grandmother. It wasn’t such a big stretch. Nenita was so bent over from looking at people’s teeth when she had been a dentist in Cuba, sewing, cooking, and taking care of babies, that she was almost shorter than Laura. But Cathy didn’t want to look in her eyes. Nenita could always tell when she was lying, and Cathy knew she hadn’t been good, although she hadn’t meant to. The second night she had gotten up at midnight to check on the progress of her costume, she had found one of her father’s medical books open on the couch in the study. She had wanted to see what kind of holes false teeth needed, and had flipped through the pages. Her father had specifically told her never to play with his books, and she felt a tingling sensation in her fingertips as she touched the crisp white pages, as if she were touching the television screen. There were clear pictures in the middle that changed color when you put them one over the other. Cathy liked these so much she looked through the rest of the book, hoping for more. She stopped on

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every page that had a colored picture. There was one of a woman with no clothes on that reminded her of Tía Estela. Then there was another of a naked man which she couldn’t take her eyes off of. She knew boys peed different, because Mario had said he could pee anywhere he wanted, standing up. She had seen him do it, with his back turned to her, in the park, the pee coming out in a bright yellow arc like a sunbeam. That’s why boys and girls had separate bathrooms in school. But this. Is that what it looked like up close? She put her nose against the paper, as if she could see around it. Then she heard Nenita coming down the hall whipping up the foam for the cafe. She slammed the book shut and shoved it underneath the couch, running to her room. The next night when she went back, she didn’t even look for the costume, but went straight for the book to stare at the naked man until she heard Nenita coming. “Well, then you must have been a good little girl.” Nenita turned and walked back to the kitchen, muttering something about how good little girls always had their wishes come true. * Halloween was a big disappointment. When Cathy woke up, her costume was laid out at the foot of the bed: red tights and a white dress with a blue embroidered collar, a gold medallion with a red stone in it the size of an eye, and a gold foil tiara to match. It wasn’t Wonder Woman at all, but Isis. Nenita had been watching her from a crack in the bedroom door. When she saw Cathy spread out the costume and start crying, she came in and asked her what was wrong. “I have to be Wonder Woman like Sylvia and Natty,” Cathy tried to explain. “You don’t like the costume?” Nenita asked. “Ay, Mamá,” Cathy’s father said, puffing out one cheek and looking at the costume. He stood by the door as Nenita had done, his face covered in foam and the razor still in his hand. “That’s not Wonder Woman.” “No?” Nenita took the dress by the shoulders with the tips of her fingers and shook it out before her. “But it’s exactly like the one in the show.” “The wrong show,” Cathy’s father said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Cathy,” Nenita said. She looked so disappointed it made Cathy want to cry even more. She wanted to like the costume, but she had wanted to be Wonder Woman more than anything. “It’s okay, Nenita,” she said, and started crying again. “Well, you don’t have to go to school,” Nenita said, smiling. “You can stay here and play with me.” “Oh no she can’t,” her father yelled from the bathroom down the hall. Cathy put on the costume and Nenita walked her to school. She saw Sylvia and Natty in the distance and kissed Nenita goodbye right there.

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“Who are you?” Sylvia said. Her parents were rich and had bought her a real Wonder Woman costume, not the package kind that Natty wore. She had real red boots and real satin tights and a plastic tiara that looked like real gold. “Isis,” Cathy said. “Who?” Sylvia scrunched up her face; she was wearing grown-up makeup, with silver on her eyelids. “Icy? Cathy says she’s the Queen of Ice, Natty.” “Queen of Ice,” Natty said, like a fat parrot. She didn’t look like Wonder Woman at all, with red knee socks and black shoes over navy-blue tights and a plastic mask with a mean-looking grimace. “My bracelets are made of feminim,” Sylvia said, holding out her wrists. “Don’t you have bracelets?” Cathy followed them silently the rest of the way to school. No one came to pick Cathy up at three-thirty. When everyone else had left, Cathy decided to walk home on her own. It was only three blocks, and she knew the way, but her heart was beating very fast when she opened the screen door on the porch and went inside the house. She could hear Tía Estela crying from the direction of the kitchen. Laura and Mario sat with their lunch boxes on their laps in the living-room sofa, Mario’s legs dangling over the edge. Laura was too old to dress up for Halloween to go to school, so all she had was the Charlie’s Angels lunchbox. Mario had on a Spiderman costume. His face was covered in red paint. “My own sister!” Tía Estela was saying. “She said I was a traitor to the Revolution.” “Come here,” Laura whispered. Cathy obeyed and sat beside her and Mario on the sofa. She held her Superheroes lunchbox on her lap just like them. It was the same as Mario’s, but less beat up. “We didn’t get to go to school today,” Mario said angrily. Halloween was the only day of the year Mario actually liked going to school. “What happened?” Cathy asked Laura, ignoring him. “Our grandmother died,” Laura said, very solemnly. Cathy’s heart skipped a beat. Then she heard Nenita’s voice. “Didn’t you talk to the operator?” “She had been instructed not to accept any calls from my phone number. Margarita told me later,” Tía Estela cried. “She told them to keep telling me it was busy, and then it was too late.” Cathy thought maybe Tío Paco’s mother had died. She wondered if they would still go trick- or-treating that night. Cathy pushed Laura away and went into the kitchen. “She wouldn’t let me talk to her one last time,” Tía Estela said. She was sitting by the kitchen table, her head leaning on Nenita’s stomach. “Are we still going trick-or-treating?” Cathy interrupted.

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Tia Estela cried. ¡”Niña, cállate”! Nenita snapped. “How would you like it if someone wanted to go tricoteando on the day your mother died?” Cathy ran back and hid her face in the comer of the sofa. Tía Estela followed her. Cathy heard her kneel in front of her and felt her stroke her back, gathering her hair away from her temples. “Don’t cry,” she said, “don’t cry. I know you didn’t mean it. Nenita didn’t mean it either.” “Why isn’t Nenita your mother anymore?” Cathy said, turning. “Of course she still is,” Tía Estela said, hugging her. “But your Papi and I are just cousins. Nenita raised me and my sister just like she’s raising you. Our parents divorced when we were very little. Do you know what that is?” Cathy nodded. Sylvia’s parents were getting divorced. “Nenita is my Papi’s sister,” Tía Estela said. “Okay?” Cathy nodded again and held on to Tía Estela’s neck. She hadn’t even known she had another aunt in Cuba, and she didn’t care. She loved the smell of Tía Estela’s hair. It smelled like doughnuts. They went trick-or-treating anyway, Tía Estela leading her and Mario from house to house carrying their pumpkin pails. Some people gave her candy too, and she put it in the pocket of her dark blue jeans with a smile and a thank you Cathy tried to imitate. Cathy was proud of her new costume. Her father had gotten home just as they were about to leave, carrying the crinkly package from K-Mart. It was a costume just like Natty’s, only it looked much better on Cathy, who was tall and lean. Cathy looked down at her paper feminim bracelets and smiled as Nenita fastened them on. Tío Paco met up with them about three houses from Cathy’s. They had circled the whole block and were almost ready to go home and sort the candy with Tía Estela, who had promised to tell them which ones they could eat and which ones they should throwaway in case they had razor blades in them. Tío Paco came up looking tired and with his eyes pink as a bunny’s and hugged Tía Estela. They hugged for a long time. “She wouldn’t let me talk to her,” Tía Estela told him. “You don’t know how it is, Estela,” Tío Paco said. “You got away. Sometimes you have to do things like that just to show where you stand.” “I knew you would say that!” Tía Estela screamed through her teeth, pushing Tío Paco away. “This is your fault! Your fault!” she yelled, punching his chest with her fists. Tío Paco held her arms and she squirmed away, running with her face in her hands to the house. Mario started to cry. Tío Paco followed Tía Estela with his eyes, then started to walk home. Cathy grabbed Mario’s arm and pulled him along. They didn’t stop at the other two houses. *

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On All Souls’ Day Tía Estela wanted to go to church. Instead, Nenita insisted they go to the beach. She said that if she was going to mourn her dead, she wanted to be as close to them as possible. Cathy rode in the back seat of her father’s car on Tía Estela’s lap, with Laura and Mario beside her and Nenita and Tío Paco in the front beside her father. For the forty-five minutes it took to drive to Miami Beach, she took in Tía Estela’s doughy smell and pretended she was her mother as Tía Estela held her with her arms around her waist and occasionally kissed the top of her head. Cathy looked out the window and pretended Laura and Mario weren’t even there. For the longest time, whenever she thought of Cuba she thought of Miami Beach, with its tall hotels and dollhouse colors. Cathy stayed behind on the sidewalk holding on to Tía Estela’s hand as the others walked out onto the sand. They were all dressed in black and looked like bulky pigeons as they grew further away. Cathy watched as Nenita kneeled close to the ocean and Laura and Mario chased each other in the surf. Her father just stood there, looking out to sea with his hands in his pockets. Tía Estela kneeled and took off Cathy’s shoes, placing them in a line on the sidewalk next to Laura’s and Mario’s and some other people’s. Then she sat on the red sidewalk and took off her own, putting them next to hers. They were all black, heavy winter shoes. They looked like telephones next to the strappy sandals and rubber jellies left there by other people. Cathy was surprised to see how ugly Tía Estela’s feet were, full of red calluses. They walked onto the sandpapery beach, toes sinking in the warm sand as they walked. Cathy enjoyed the feeling, dragging behind Tía Estela. She stood close to the water and watched as her aunt stood by her father, shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the ocean. Ever since she had heard about how Tia Estela had been raised by Nenita just like her, with no mother, she had felt as if she could understand her aunt better than anyone else in the world, better even than Laura. Cathy turned around to face the ocean and let the water wash over her feet, feeling them sink into the soft sand. Up and down the shore, dead jellyfish washed in with the waves and stayed stuck in the heaped-up brown seaweed like candy wrappers. She let her feet sink down to her ankles. She looked out at the ocean, trying to see if she could see as far as Cuba. The water seemed to stretch out to the end of the world, and Cathy imagined Cuba on the other side, like those cartoons where you dug a hole deep enough you wound up in China. Sucking her feet out from the sand, she spread her arms out wide and turned, imagining how she would become Wonder Woman, leap over the sea, and land in Cuba. She turned and turned and turned, until she lost all sense of direction in a haze of blue and gray and couldn’t tell the ocean from the sky.

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* “Isis” is highly autobiographical and grew out of a desire to reconstruct my memories of the 1970s in Miami. I chose to tell the story from the point of view of a small girl in order to better capture the elusive sense that, growing up as an immigrant child, your experiences are not quite right, always a little off from what you then perceive as “normal” and later – sometimes – grow to understand as simply normative. Cathy’s frustration at her inability to embody seamlessly the cultural icon who was Wonder Woman at that time, to me, epitomizes that desire to fit in and the frustration of not being able to. I was also drawn to Wonder Woman (aside from the fact that I adored her at Cathy’s age) as a vehicle for Cathy’s angst because she seemed to provide so many of the metaphors for my generation’s early experiences of exile that I was searching for: duplicitous feminism, transformative power, and unabashed enthusiasm for “the old red, white, and blue.” Isis, on the other hand, continues to be an elusive figure and therefore open to misinterpretation and misrepresentation. For Cathy and the other girls in the story, Isis is all that they can’t understand: the points of view of their parents’ and grandparents’ generations, their desires, and their identities. Cathy intuits that there’s something valuable and special about the Isis costume. Nenita sews her, but, to her, the cheaper, manufactured Wonder Woman costume from K-Mart is, at this point, easier to understand and, therefore, more coveted.

CHAPTER THREE INNER TRUTH KIRA N. BRERETON (PANAMÁ)

The members of my family are Afro Latinos from the Isthmus of Panamá. There are two major types of Black Heritage in Panamá: The Coloniales and the Afro-Antillanos. The Coloniales are the descendants of enslaved persons who were brought to the Isthmus during the transatlantic slave trade to work primarily on Panamá’s banana plantations. The Antillanos are the descendants of West Indians who came to the Isthmus after the abolition of slavery in search of jobs on one of the various new construction projects that were announced to them by their governments. My ancestors are Afro-Antillanos who came to Panamá in the late 1800s to early 1900s. My great, great grandparents on my father’s side of the family came to Panamá from Barbados and worked as builders on the American Panamá Canal Project. My great, great grandparents on my mother’s side came to Panamá from Grenada, Jamaica, and St. Lucia. Those from Jamaica and Grenada came to work on the Canal Zone at the time the French were building the canal, and those from St. Lucia came to teach in schools that were established for children of the diggers of the canal during the American Panamá Canal Project. With the culmination of the Panamá Canal Project came an additional means of access to the Pacific Ocean from the Atlantic Ocean. This passageway is the only waterway from Canada down to Brazil that extends from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean. At the commencement of the American Panamá Canal Project, the area of construction became a U.S. military base known as the Canal Zone. The canal created a waterway through the narrowest part of the Isthmus, which meant the only means of access between one part of Panamá and the other was La Punta de las Americas, a bridge that provided access through a part of the Canal Zone to the interior – the rural provinces of Panamá. Prior to

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the year 2000, the Canal Zone was solely under the control of the U.S. government. Thus, at the instigation of U.S. officials, La Punta de Las Americas could be closed down at any time, effectively barring access for all persons from one part of the nation to another. My great, great grandparents on my mother’s side lived on the Canal Zone and taught the children of the West Indians. As a result, their children were able to go to school on the zone. The oldest of the children was my bisabuela (my great grandmother). She was born in St. Lucia, and lived and worked as a teacher on the Canal Zone. She also worked as a cook and a nurse’s aide, and eventually had her own store in Panamá City. Abuela (my grandmother) was the only child of my bisabuela. Abuela lived with my great, great grandparents and their children. She was the second youngest in a family of seven children. For the first few years, my abuela went to school on the Canal Zone, but when it was discovered that she was not really a child of a worker but rather a grandchild – and thus not eligible to attend school on the Canal Zone – she was sent to school in the city. Eventually, my abuela finished high school and went to beauty school. Shortly, after, she met her husband – my grandfather. He was one of the most prominent Black men in Panamá. He was the first Black dentist in the city and was very well known. Together, my grandparents had four children. My mother was the oldest. Growing up, my mother describes her community as being very much like a family. Everybody knew everybody else’s parents, and all the kids played together. Both my grandparents were bilingual, but all of their children grew up speaking only Spanish. My mother was always fascinated with the way my grandfather spoke to his friends when they came to visit. He would always answer the door “a who dat.” The culture and language of the Afro-Antillanos would be something that would remain with her for the rest of her life. By the time my mother was eight, my grandfather had died and my grandmother was left to raise four children on her own. My aunt was sent to live with one of my great grand aunts in the United States, and the rest of my family lived in Panamá until my mother finished high school. It was during my mother’s last year of high school that she met my father. He had gone back to school after embarking on a very successful career as a radio disc jockey. Originally, his family was from Barbados and, as a result of the presence of the large Caribbean community in Panamá, his parents never really learned Spanish, even though all of their children spoke Spanish. Nonetheless, the Spanish culture in Panamá was very prominent. It was so influential that when my father’s parents went to go register their children’s births, the personnel at the birth registry switched the English names given to them by their parents to their Spanish equivalents.

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During his youth, my father lived with his grandparents on the Canal Zone, but later moved to the city to live with his parents. Soon after finishing secondary school, he began to work at the radio station as a disc jockey. He later decided to go back to secondary school to take additional credits so he could register in the science faculty at the university. My parents met and dated in Panamá for that year. However, the following year, my grandmother decided to move to the United States, and my mother went with her. My uncle went to the United States, before the rest of the family, and my grandmother, uncle, and mother followed him shortly thereafter. My grandmother worked as a secretary when she first moved to the United States. Meanwhile, my mother worked for the phone company and took some college courses for a year in New York City, while she was applying to university for the following fall. My grandmother also decided she was going to pursue her undergraduate degree. At the end of that year, my mother decided to attend university in Canada at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. It was there that she met some of the world’s future leaders from Africa, the Caribbean, Latin America, Asia, and Europe. By the time my mother finished her undergraduate degree, my father decided he was going to move to the United States to be with her. My parents got married after my mother finished her first Master’s degree. Later, when she finished the coursework for her doctorate in socio-linguistics (the study of how culture creates and influences languages), I was born. I was the oldest of three children. My parents’ very close connection to their roots instilled a deep foundation in me of my own cultural heritage. My house had a constant influx of family and friends for the occasional visits as well as the regular social events and gatherings that my parents hosted or in which they participated. I was part of a folkloric dance troupe and learned the dances of the pollera (the Panamanian traditional national dress). I was also blessed to have so much of my family living in close proximity. Both my mother’s and father’s families lived nearby, and I was able to have them in my everyday life. My father was an accountant who also doubled as a Master of Ceremonies, and, as a result, we went to many events in the Panamanian community. My mother had settled into a career as an educator, which was wonderful for us because she had vacation at the same time that we had vacation from school. During the summers in my early years, we visited Panamá every year with a group my mother cofounded called Panameños Pro Juventud. I got to spend time with my family who never left Panamá and also to explore the city and its outskirts. All of these positive experiences in my early years are part of the reason I say “Panamá” with pride when people ask me where I am from. These experiences prevent me from denying my cultural heritage, which has never been an option for me. I cannot fathom denying who I am.

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When I was ten years old, my bisabuela came to live with us. By that time, there were seven of us in our house: my parents, my two siblings, my grandmother, and great grandmother, and of course myself. When I think back on it, it truly is amazing to have four generations of women living in one house – especially when the three generations ahead of me had accomplished so much and had not only shown me how to persevere, but also made it that much easier for me to persevere. Their hard work and dedication made my passage through life much smoother. They provided the prime example of what I needed to be a positive force in this world. One year after my great-grandmother came to live with us, the United States invaded Panamá in search of General Manuel Noriega. For a few years after the invasion, we stayed away from Panamá. Our family heard what was going on from our family members who were still living in Panamá as well as from the news reporting about the events. I remember talking to a classmate who was also of Panamanian parentage and discussing how unfair I thought it was that the United States was entering Panamá and how unreasonable I thought it was to create that level of devastation in a country in search of only one man. By the third year of being forced to stay away from Panamá, my parents decided it was safe to return. I remember my first year back was scary. I remember thinking that for someone as dangerous a man as Noriega had been while in office, it was weird that the country actually felt more unsafe after he was removed from power than it had when he was in power. I remember being scared to go anywhere without my parents because there were persons with torso-sized weapons standing guard in supermarkets and stores, and on the streets. By the time we took our next trip, which was two years later, I was not as scared; there were less militia on the streets, and I had settled back into my old routine of my visits when I was younger. By this time, my mother was completing her doctoral thesis on Panamanian English (the language of the AfroAntillanos), and I was able to shadow her and to listen to her investigate the language and the people. She would interview people and listen to them speak in order to characterize and document the specific nature of Panamanian English. It was then that I was able to further understand and pull together the multitude of voices that I had heard all of my life from the people who make up and are part of my cultural heritage. In addition, I was able to accompany my mother when she was doing the academic research for her thesis. Through this process, I was able to understand the plight of the Afro-Antillanos in Panamá. What I found to be the most interesting part of her research was the dual payroll system that was implemented on the Canal Zone. The United States was not used to the idea of racial integration; as a result, a dual payroll system that mirrored the conditions of the segregated southern United States was

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implemented on the Canal Zone. Those who lived and worked on the zone were divided into two payrolls: the gold and silver rolls. Those on the Gold Roll were paid in gold, and those on the Silver Roll were paid in silver. The Gold Roll was primarily comprised of White American employees or workers. The Silver Roll was primarily comprised of non-whites, mostly Afro-Antillanos. The Zone was very much like the southern U.S. in the early 1900s; there were separate water fountains and entrances to buildings. There were separate schools and different wages. There were even different types of meals served at the cafeterias for workers. From time to time, they went around to houses of workers of the silver row, and if they found they were living too luxuriously, they would dock their pay, as they did with my great, great grandfather when they found his family had enough money to afford an icebox. When the Civil Rights Movement in the United States started to come alive, the segregated conditions on the zone also began to dissipate. All of this was significant not only because I was learning about my own cultural heritage, but also because I was observing firsthand the research that would lead to the first time Panamanian English was being documented anywhere by anyone, and I was proud to know it was being accomplished by my own mother. My mother’s profound interest in language and culture and the resulting emphasis she put on it in our interactions is what made me so attuned to recognizing and appreciating, and so dedicated to understanding the similarities and differences, between peoples of different cultures globally as well as of the context of the culture I was growing up in, namely American culture. Around the time I entered junior high school, I started to become more independent from my family. However, in retrospect, I now realize many of the choices I made and the persons with whom I remain friends to this day are a reflection of my experiences in my early years. I attended a school for the ‘gifted and talented.’ Everyone had to take an entrance examination before being admitted, and everyone had to wear a uniform, which at the time was the bane of my existence. The vast majority of the students in the school were minorities, mostly because the school was located in one of Brooklyn’s most dangerous neighborhoods. The friends I chose were the children of West Indian and Latin American immigrants, if not immigrants themselves. The environment was weird for me at first, because I was used to going to school where I was among the minority and not among the majority. Furthermore, in all circumstances where I was among the majority, everyone was a Panamanian. As such, my junior high school experience introduced me to a manner of interaction to which I was not really accustomed. However, what I think eased my transition was the fact that I grew up in New York City. The city is special for a number of reasons, but mostly because of the level of diversity that exists in the city. One is exposed to so many peoples from so many different cultures, and one learns both

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directly and indirectly about the nuances between their culture and one’s own. Growing up in the U.S., regardless of the city, one also learns about the stereotypes that are associated with one’s cultural, racial, and gender group, and unfortunately most times people learn the hard way. The most striking stereotype, or I guess the one that bothers me the most, is a general consensus in U.S. culture that Afro Latinos are non-existent. There have been so many times when I have come across people who ask me where I am from, and the look of shock comes over their face when I tell them my family is from Panamá. I have been told that I am lying in order to pretend I’m “better” than I really am: “If you are really Latino, then let me hear some Spanish.” Meanwhile, someone who has the more stereotypically recognized features of someone from Latin America will automatically be accepted as Latino, even if they have never spoken one word of Spanish in their entire life. Worse yet, because Latino Culture now has become “popular,” smiles cross peoples’ faces when I tell them I am from Latin America, as though I get extra points because I am not just black. One of the most important lessons I have learned, however, is that just because I am Latina, I cannot deny the fact that I am also black. That is why, when I am asked where I am from, I say I am Afro Latina. A person cannot hide from how others perceive you, especially as a minority in this country. But, that does not mean you should let it define you. The way I see it is, if I allow others to define me, then I will lose my culture. Because I have grown up in the U.S.A., where race is made such a big factor in our everyday lives, I have become incredibly cognizant of how those I identify with are perceived generally by U.S. culture. I have learned that recognizing how others perceive you, but also staying true to your own cultural ideals, is one of the keys to success. In other words, you have to know what stereotypes you are fighting and use them to your advantage. In the same respect, you have to make sure you preserve the essence of the core of your being, which is based on the morals and standards that were set for you while you were growing up. By the time I finished my secondary school years, I was extremely secure in my ethnicity and gender, and I recognized my social standing within the context of society. I knew the morals and standards that provided the foundation for guiding my decisions and the goals I would like to accomplish. I spent the next phase of life at my mother’s alma mater in Canada. During this time, while my objective was to receive an education in neuropsychology, what I really attained is what I like to refer to as my “international education.” While Canada is very similar to the United States, I was still very much a foreigner. I had to learn how to adjust to being in a mainstream culture that people were quick to tell me wasn’t mine. If there is one thing that Canadians are more proud to say then saying they are Canadian, it is saying, “At least we

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are not Americans.” It was also a time when I met people from all across the world and learned their experiences firsthand. I also learned about the general mores that drove them. However, it wasn’t until after 9/11 that I began to accept my ethnic identity as a Panamanian. I could not deny the fact that I also was an American. Most people are as shocked as am I when I tell them, that when the planes hit the World Trade Center towers I happened to be in the Middle East attending a conference. My family was just as panicked for me as I was for them. Everyone that I knew and loved was in New York. The day after the attacks most of the Americans who were attending the conference had left. I stayed and worked for the remainder of the conference despite my family’s wishes that I go to Europe as soon as possible to ensure my safety. I ended up arriving in the United States around the same time as most of the Americans who had left the conference. The news coverage was unbearable; it made me want to cry every time I looked at it. Even more disturbing was the extreme difference in the news reporting that occurred in the Middle East vs. the U.K. vs. Canada vs. the U.S. Living in the US, and only being exposed to its news media is like living in a bubble, we only get a very narrow one-sided view of the story. We get very limited access to the world’s true and uncensored reaction. The most important lesson I learned from this experience was that as much as I disliked the foreign policy practices of the United States, when it came down to it, I could not disassociate myself from being considered a part of American society. When others from foreign nations look at me, they will consider me an American. When the world is angry at US foreign policy, nobody is going to say, “Well she is of Panamanian Heritage so she is not really part of that group.” I live in the U.S. and by virtue of that I am American. I decided that instead of ignoring what I felt were the evils of American domestic and foreign policy, I would put myself in a position to change them. One of my pet peeves is to hear people complain about the status quo and do nothing actively to change it. I refuse to be one of those people. I finished my undergraduate degree and decided I needed time to regroup. I took a year off and worked for an international cultural not for profit organization. Since then, I have pursued and completed a Master of Public Health degree and have embarked on the three-year process of obtaining my Juris Doctorate. Although I have additional goals, this for me, this educational process will help me become an agent of change. Today, 25 years have passed since the year of my birth. I am determined now more than ever to use everything that I have to reduce the unbalanced spread of poverty amongst people of color domestically and worldwide, decrease the spread of deadly infectious diseases, and become a humble leader and source of strength to disenfranchised people. Anything less would be a disgrace to my ancestors. I cannot let everything that they fought and worked so hard to

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establish for me go to waste. It is my inheritance to carry on their legacy. I will continue to learn to be a warrior to advance the positive well-being of humankind.

CHAPTER FOUR THE WOMAN I AM TODAY JENNIE GEORGES (HAITI)

The generation in the U.S. that I represent is first-generation HaitianAmerican. My generation is one that has great advantage. I can pass on the Haitian customs my mom has taught me and blend this with the Americanized ways that have become mine. At times, I feel torn between the two cultures, for I don’t really know how much of my Haitian culture I’m losing while adapting to the Americanized way of living. The tradition that my parents passed on to me will be the same tradition I pass on to my kids. It may lose a little of its authenticity because of the blend of cultures in which I live. Unlike my mother’s generation, which had solely one culture, my culture is a combination of what I have been taught and a part of my adapted lifestyle. * The reason my ancestors came to the U.S. was to take advantage of what this country had to offer – a better way of living and an opportunity for a future. This was an opportunity they would not receive back home. So, they came here to make something of themselves and for the benefit of their family. The reason my mom came to the U.S. was for vacation purposes. During this vacation, she was convinced by some cousins to stay. My mom’s generation was at a disadvantage, because they had to adjust in many ways. One of the problems my mom experience in adjusting was the language barrier. She said it was frustrating for her know how to translate what she read, but not be able to speak the language. She felt she was being discriminated against and was perceived as not worthy of being engaged in conversation. She said people tried to make her feel incompetent and stupid. This constant rejection from others made her feel out of place. The communication breakdown created even more difficulties for her –

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for instance, not being able to get around on a bus, for fear she might get lost by taking the wrong metro, and being unable to ask for directions. This fear was one of many, robbing her of the chance of learning more about the city around her. Not being able to go out made her a prisoner in the house when everybody else went out to attend either work or school. In the beginning she spent a great deal of time at home, lonely and depressed. She spent much time and energy thinking about all she left behind and missing the comfort of the family and friends she no longer had surrounding her. These issues my mother faced were very similar to the issues my ancestors endured. In my culture, we practice many customs and one of the cultural customs my immediate family practices is on New Year’s Eve when my aunt prepares a special soup consisting of squash vegetable, spaghetti, and meat. This holiday dish is served in most Haitian households on New Year’s Day. The preparation for this meal is completed on New Year’s Eve. It is served to all who come by to wish you and yours a good year on New Year’s Day. Then, a little before the clock strikes twelve midnight, we get together and begin praying the year in. We present our requests to God for the year we are entering, and say thank you for bringing us through the previous year. Another custom my family practices is that on Easter, the meal is cooked without meat. The dishes that day consist of fish, rice, eggs, beets, salmon, potatoes, and carrots. During this day, the family does not participate in any arduous activities. All responsibilities for the day should be accomplished before 3:00 p.m. because it is said that was the time Jesus died. We pray and relax the rest of the day. A social conflict my kin has experienced within the present U.S. culture is the process of courtship. In the Haitian culture, for some, when a guy comes to meet with the girl’s parents, it means he is asking permission to marry her. In the U.S. culture, when the guy meets the girl’s parents, it is just to let the families know of the couple’s decision to see each other. My cousin Chilene, even knowing how strongly her parents stand behind this tradition, decided to do things differently. She took matters into her own hands by going ahead and dating a guy without her parent’s knowledge. When the news of my cousin’s relationship got back to my aunt and uncle, they were very unhappy. So, when my cousin finally brought him over to meet my aunt and uncle, they thought he came to ask for her hand in marriage. To them, the fact he came to meet them signified his interest in their daughter and that a marriage was in the works. The parents of the young man did not have the same mentality that my aunt and uncle had, for they felt differently about how marriage was to be approached. As far as they were concerned, their son was just getting himself acquainted with Chilene and the two were far from the probability of marriage. They felt my uncle and aunt were trying to trap their son into a marriage. These differences of opinion about this

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issue caused a rift between both families, and my cousin and her boyfriend terminated their relationship. In my ethnic group, the experience I went through, in which I felt I lacked power, was when nine of my friends and I went to Orlando for Disney’s Night of Joy celebration. We stayed at the Days Suite Inn, which is located directly across the street from a Pondorosa restaurant. In the morning, we decided to go there for breakfast. When we walked into the restaurant, it felt as if the room stopped for a whole minute and that all eyes were on our group. As we neared a table, we noticed two waitresses debating about who should wait on us. Finally, the one who didn’t speak English began to direct the ten of us to the buffet. As we approached the buffet line, all of the diners were watching our every move. I don’t know if they felt as if we were going to eat all the food, or if they believed we just didn’t belong there. The looks they were sending us were looks of disgust, making us feel inferior. It was a reminder to us that the color of our skin was different from theirs – black. When I was in high school, my constant battle among my friends was the way I spoke. I was always being told that I sounded as if I was white, and that most of the words I used they did not understand. They used to call me “Oreo” – black on the outside and white on the inside. Some of my friends used to go check the dictionaries just to make sure that the words I used were in the proper context or that they even existed. They wanted to see if I was using the word incorrectly and, if I was, they made a point of correcting my error. For a long time, this issue used to bother me. It bothered me so much that I reformed my speech to match the way they spoke. My vocabulary began to change and I was using words to which I knew my friends could relate. I did this because I was tired of being told to speak English and to “Stop speaking proper.” It wasn’t a smooth transition but I did it, and every day I regret it. Now I can’t even remember half of the vocabulary I used back then. Sometimes, I feel they thought I wanted to be better than them by making them feel inadequate or embarrassed for not understanding the words I used. Within my family, I am the oldest, although my sister, who is four years younger than me, acts as if she is the oldest. She acts as if she is the one in charge instead of my mother. Sometimes I get frustrated dealing with her. She loves to be heard and in control. For the most part, I can deal with her bossy attitude, but when she pushes me too far I have to remind her about who she’s dealing with and who’s in charge. This is usually done by reminding her of my physical strength, which gets her attention once she finds herself at my mercy. She acts like she is tough, but once she sees that I’m serious she backs down. My sexual identity is that of a strong heterosexual female. I am a woman who does not settle for second best or who shortchanges herself for the benefit of any man. In my culture, I am a rare breed. In the Haitian culture, the men are

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treated like “kings.” Men in our culture get the royal treatment for providing for their family, while the women cater to them. For instance, every single day my aunt goes to the stove and cooks for the family. She cooks my uncle a separate meal if he happens not to like what she has prepared for the rest of the family or if he does not like the taste of the food. Sometime he doesn’t even have to come to the table; she will bring his food to the room. When he comes to the table, she sets his place like he is a king. She sets the table with his silverware, puts all his food in separate dishes, and pours sauce on one plate and spoons rice into another. The meat is placed on a separate platter with his beverage and a glass of water. When he is finished eating, he simply stands up and walks away. He doesn’t have to wash or put away any of his dishes; my aunt does it all. My godfather, her son, gets the same treatment. He doesn’t make up his bed. My aunt does all that for him. She also does his laundry, and more. As for me, I don’t believe I would go through all the extremes my aunt goes through for my uncle. My aunt’s generation believes the man’s place is on a throne and a woman’s place is to cater to him. My generation has shifted gears towards equal roles amongst the male and female roles in the household. In my ethnic group, a woman’s gender identity is influenced by her expected role in the home: she is the caretaker of the house and the family. She has to know how to sew, cook, and take care of the house. All this is mandatory knowledge a woman is supposed to have acquired by the age of 15. Men do not do housework at all. While the young girls learn to cook and clean, the boys are encouraged to play outside and socialize. They are not expected to help with the household duties because housework is only a woman’s domain. My professional identity is that of one who is lacking power. I’m the church secretary, which is considered a support staff position, and I assist the church’s ministers. My work is supposed to be vital in keeping the ministry moving forward and growing. But at times, I feel as though I’m getting treated as a second-class citizen. Just because I don’t have a degree in a particular ministry does not mean I don’t have great ideas that can contribute to the way the church operates. At times, the ministers make comments about how they have a degree in such-and-such area and this is what makes them qualified. They make their work seem more important than the work I do in the office. Having the title, I suppose, says it all – if you’re not a minister or don’t have a doctoral degree, you can’t have a valid idea. In conclusion, my culture has instilled in me many values. The values my grandparents passed onto my mother included always telling the truth, and if something doesn’t belong to you, don’t take it. I also was taught if you want something, ask for it. When entering a house full of adults, you are supposed to walk in and kiss and greet everybody in the room. This action shows respect for the adults in the room. You must have respect for your elders. You never call an

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adult by their first name. You address everybody as Aunty so and so, or Uncle so-and-so. My mom also taught me how to share with my sister, extended family, and friends. She used to tell me that when my grandparent’s crops bore before their neighbors, they would share what they had so their neighbors could survive until their crops produced. Another value was responsibility. When you were told to do something you, were expected do to it at that same instant, not when you got around to it or felt like it. Last but not least, she taught me the most important value: trusting in God and being thankful for what God has provided for me and for making me the woman I am today.

CHAPTER FIVE INTERLOCKING IDENTITIES: WEAVING TOGETHER LAYERS OF OUR SELVES KRISTINE MOLINA (NICARAGUA)

Growing Up I came to this country at the age of nearly six. However, it was quite an interesting journey I was taking from Corinto, Nicaragua, to Miami, Florida. Not that the route to this country was any different from any other immigrant’s, but that it would be a journey I never thought I’d be taking at the age of five. I was coming initially to visit my father, but actually I ended up staying to live with my grandfather, his wife (step-grandmother), their two younger daughters, and a cousin of mine. This was not the usual composition of many families back in those days, but these were the characters that made up my family. This obviously was not a nuclear family in any sense, nor did it resemble what earlier generations would have considered to be a “normal” family at the time. As a young child in Nicaragua, I did not know the course my life would dramatically change. My separation from my mother, sister, and other family members back in Nicaragua – resulted in a journey that turned adversities and obstacles into a strong determination to succeed and to strive for only the best. This is somewhat similar to the experience of many immigrants who come to the United States. I am a 1.5 generation and not a first generation immigrant, thus my experiences in this country have been quite different than those of my grandparents. Typical of immigrant parents, my grandparents were concerned mostly with working hard and making sure we four girls received the education and opportunities they were never able to attain in their country or in the U.S.A. My grandfather and his wife came to this country just as the Nicaraguan revolution was ending. They had witnessed the devastating effects of the

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Sandinista government as well as the negative effects of U.S. imperialism. However, their life in the U.S.A. was no better. They were to work jobs ranging from dishwashing, cleaning streets late at night, cleaning houses, and working as janitors. “Life in America” was not what they had envisioned it to be – the U.S. was no paradise to them. My family was living only on less than $11,000 a year, with six people in our household. We were surviving with this income, and never really questioned as to why we were living in such circumstances. I guess my grandparents’ coping mechanism was to deny the fact this was a cause of racial injustice we as ethnic minorities have had to endure across generations in this country. Neither did my cousins or I know why, while growing up, we were not receiving a good education or having the opportunities others were being granted. Throughout my childhood, I never questioned our circumstances. Why were we growing up with only limited needed resources such as food, education, clothing, and anything we asked of our parents? My grandparents, however, never spoke of not having much or about whether they were having financial problems. We were taught always to appreciate my grandparents’ hard work and to never complain about what we could not get; there were always other families who were worse off than us, we were told. What I remember most, however, is my grandparents always felt the need to tell us how they wanted we girls to study hard, to get an education, and to aim high in the goals we set forth. They mostly wanted us to be independent and to not have to be dependent on any man, so we could make choices of our own and not have to be trapped into relationships that would lead us nowhere. However, I can recall vividly their constant reminder about how being janitors for over 15 years was not a life wanted; it wasn’t a job we girls would ever want to inherit. They felt worthless at times, for having a job society deemed unworthy; yet at the same time they felt they were lucky to have a job. At least they were making an income that allowed us to survive – that was all they needed. They always believed someday they’d make enough to buy a house, something they could only dream of when coming to this country. Even until this day, we are all still living in a small, one-bedroom apartment located in Little Havana. America was also no paradise for me – someone who came to this country at an early age and who began public school just like every other child who was born here. Education, the most valuable resource for my family, from my experience, was not the type of education any caring parent would want for their child. This was the land of opportunity and equal rights, yet basic rights such as a quality education was being denied to us. Attending public schools in the inner-city all my life, I have experienced the poor resources and lack of encouragement students of color from inner-cities typically receive. For example, going through the educational pipeline without having taken even one

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grammar course is not what anyone such as myself ever thought would take me anywhere beyond high school. How could it? Isn’t grammar necessary for everyday writing we use in every subject? Our schools were too caught up in passing students because our schools were enrolling more students than they actually could teach effectively. Teachers were dealing with the demands of teaching classes that were too large, which affected the capacity for student learning. But this is not to say teachers were to blame for the lack of knowledge and low expectations held for students. In retrospect, I know many teachers who did the best they could with the minimal amount of resources they were provided. And now, more than ever, I am completely aware the hierarchical structure on which the educational system is based is at fault.

College Days What I couldn’t understand while growing up was the dissonance between wanting us to study hard so we did not have to depend on a man, as they constantly would tell us, and living in a patriarchal household in which taking orders from my grandfather, the male figure, was the norm. With fear, we listened to him and were taught never to question his authority. It was understood that he was to be right all of the time. His wife always made sure he got what he wanted, and most of all, she made sure we children always listened to him and respected him, not only as our father/grandfather, but also as the male authority figure in the household. I remember being told we should be grateful for having a father in our household, something my mother’s side of the family in Nicaragua never had. Living without a male figure in the household to them meant that there never would be discipline and that we were destined to suffer emotionally if a man was not present. It wasn’t until I entered college that I realized the depth and breadth of my family’s experience and what each of us dealt with individually and as a unit. I now had the words to describe the inequities we were facing, what my family and I had been feeling all these years, and why things were a certain way for some families in this country. Also, for the first time, I knew what it meant to be a person of color, but more specifically, a woman of color from a poor background. I could now understand why we had to listen to my grandfather all of the time; why the man in the house was to be respected. For the first time, I was to confront issues such as racism and classism/elitism. Going to a prestigious, predominantly white college was a place my family or I never could have imagined I would attend. It was a place where only “rich Americans” went, as my grandparents would tell me when I tried convincing them to please allow me to apply to college, any college. To them, attending college meant leaving my family and family values behind, something that never crossed my mind, but

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was feared greatly by my grandfather. As with other immigrant students, family always came first, and, regardless of whether I was at college or at home, family would always come first. I meant it then, when I assured my grandfather, and I am as equally committed to my family now. I worked many hours on work-study jobs that included dishwashing in the dorm dining room, cashiering at the campus center, and door monitoring at the science center, I served as a receptionist at the alumnae house on campus, research assistant, and baby-sitter off-campus. Yet, at the same time, I also had to attend to rigorous academics. However, if I didn’t work as much, I would not have had enough money to send to my family. This money, although meager, was extremely important. It meant my cousins could have money to go on field trips, buy new school clothes, etc. – luxuries only wealthy families could afford. Of course, working many hours meant I would stay up longer hours to finish my school work, even if it meant starting an unhealthy ritual of late night eating and sleeping, and sometimes not sleeping at all. Dress code has always symbolized and determined class status. I was poor and was ashamed to be known as such. I bought clothes, shoes, and lots of stuff for my room. At college, I bought just about anything I could think of that would distinguish me from my class background. I can recall one of the girls in my dorm once questioning me, “How could I be poor if I had a television, VCR, and stereo in my room”? Yet she never thought to ask how I had bought those appliances. If she had only asked me, she would have learned that those appliances had been bought with a credit card as high school graduation gifts from my family and that they probably were working at their janitorial jobs to pay for them. Had she wanted to know about me, she also would’ve learned that I worked for what I had, just as my grandparents had taught me to do since I was a young child; she would have understood that being poor did not equate to having nothing. Furthermore, I remember this same girl making a comment about how a certain professor was so stupid that he should consider working as a janitor rather than a professor. Had I not told her that my grandparents were janitors and that my grandfather was one of the most brilliant individuals I had known, she might have continued with her conversation. But to her, anyone who was not educated and wealthy was considered stupid and unworthy. I had acquired a class-consciousness – only a few days into college. I felt shame for being poor, but I defended my grandfather with relish. Coming from Miami, Florida, where Latinos and Blacks always were the majority meant Whites were not a group we would encounter much on campus. The only times I could remember interacting with Whites were at my job, where those who held the “better” positions were Whites. The schools I attended in Miami were mostly full of either Black or Latino students. I never had to interact with White students. Going to college was different, however. I now would be in

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the minority for the first time – in my classes, in my dorm, in the dining hall, just about anywhere I went. My grandparents had always warned us about how Whites held all of the power and that we should not disrespect them or disobey their orders. My outlook would soon change while in college. I was not going to be afraid of them, even if it meant being criticized by the resident coordinators on many occasions for using “immature” language. I was not going to be afraid of those who always asked me to turn my music down, simply because they did not like to listen to “ethnic” music. Yet, they could play their music as loud as they wanted, run around the halls late at night, and laugh right outside my door when I was asleep. But their conduct never was considered immature or disrespectful. I simply could not understand why I was being harassed for my music or for having a good time with my friends. Girls in my dorm tore a decorative sign on my door and would leave running after knocking loudly on my door, but hiding when I would come out and try to confront them. I learned being passive aggressive was a part of this college’s culture. Refraining from saying what was really on their minds was not something these girls were used to. My grandparents had taught me always to be respectful, to know how to act when outside of the home. But this college was my home, and why was I being harassed and not allowed to have a normal college experience? I became aware of the sense that I was a person of color who did not fit in. I was not White, I was not rich, and I did not involve myself with immature acts such as getting wasted, and running and screaming around. Attending this particular college was a privilege others in my community did not have. It was a dream for both myself and my grandparents. I was in college to become educated, to learn and to get the most out of it. Being on 100% financial aid and being the first person in my family to go to college was not something to take for granted; I knew this opportunity would not have been possible had my grandparents not worked endlessly to see their four girls grow up to be people this society might some day deem important. Although my grandparents feared the college would separate me from my family, they were in awe of it. The only way I ever could thank my grandparents for their sacrifices would be to graduate from college. And I wasn’t about to let racism or classism stop me from doing that. The discrimination I experienced was not limited to my peers. I also experienced other forms of discrimination and discouragement from administrators in college. I can still feel the sting of disappointment I felt the day I was told, “Let’s be honest, you’re never going to get into graduate school. I suggest you go talk to your adviser about other career choices, because as you did not do well in statistics, you won’t be able to do research, and you need statistics to do research.” And, although this incident caused much pain while I was attending college and made for a lowered self-esteem at different points of my college career, it also served as my catalyst to success. It served as a

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motivator, even if it was emotionally painful for me, as I had to prove myself every time thereafter. It felt draining at times to always need to aim for perfection, to want to succeed in everything simply to disprove that administrator’s words. However, this person was not the only one who discouraged me academically. Some of my peers also did the same. I realized these experiences had been undergone by other Women of Color who once occupied my space. I can only speculate about how they felt; did I too feel the same way they might have felt? A lesson learned from these forms of adversity is that life is full of vagaries – we experience positive moments, go through difficult times, bounce back, and sometimes end up back where we first began. But what I took from all this is that sometimes these moments are ones that give us an impetus to go on; they serve us well, despite the emotions they bring to us that never seem to go away, the shame that endures. For example, I remember sitting there – in that seminar room, number 204. And everyday that I passed by it, it brought with it a resounding sadness that I hadn’t felt before. It would bring me back to those memories that seemed to be obscured in what I considered an ordinary routine of my life. But it was that day, a warm yet cold day, that brought me to an emerging realization of who I was. As I sat in that grey chair, almost as grey as the feelings that surrounded me, we (the students) were asked to take our course packets out for discussion. I remember today that second week of my spring psychology seminar, as vividly as if I were experiencing this event today. It seems as though this event and the feelings I experienced reappears in my life every semester. I could not afford any books. I borrowed teacher editions from professors and was given an old course packet that differed in color from the current year course packet owned by my classmates. They all took out their course packets. I looked around, shamed that mine was a different color. Could it have been that it reflected how I felt – different, a different color than the rest? But the reality had not yet made its way into my mind. For a moment, I tried to ignore that I was different than them. That’s when I chose not to take the course packet out of my bag. For once, I had thought, “Borrowing a book isn’t so bad. It is not something out of the ordinary.” I couldn’t come to the understanding that being poor wasn’t as bad or shameful as many may have thought it to be. However, sitting in this classroom, having a course packet that was a different color while everyone else’s was the same made me an outsider – one who didn’t belong. And although I now realize maybe I shouldn’t have paid much attention to the color of my packet, whether I was different, or whether the people around me would wonder why mine was different, it didn’t occur to me that maybe I was lucky – lucky enough that I did not have to purchase it. Neither my professor nor my classmates ever could have understood the shame I was feeling inside, deep within my body for having borrowed the packet from the year before; no one could have understood it. How

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could they? They all had been able to purchase that course packet. My course packet caused me so much grief, pain, anger – feelings I never had felt before, for something of that sort. I felt so materialistic for feeling this way and judged myself mercilessly. I never before had felt what it was like to want something so much, something many thought of as standard – just to be like everyone else, to be able to afford something that was essential to my education. It was the fact I was poor and could not do anything about the situation, about my position in this society, one that naturally makes me feel as though this is what I shall always be – a poor Latina in America. As much as I try to distance myself from this conflict, the sensation in my body still entraps me at times: a prisoner within my mind – a cell from which I cannot escape. Every time I enter a classroom, that environment brings me that same shameful feeling. And I ponder about why it is I feel this way, when the particular course is over. I don’t feel it is over for me; it is a feeling from which there seems to be no escape. Collectively, these experiences provided me the means to learn how to fight the right battles. Not every one of them was worth the fight. Participating in rallies and sit-ins was exhausting, causing my grades to suffer and making me face difficult emotional times. I knew I had to stand up for what was right. Attending this college taught me the same principles that my family had cultivated in me from when I was young and also were principles I myself held. It could have been that my grandparents and I were from different generations and held different immigration statuses, but we still had something that connected us to each other – a desire to be educated and to strive for excellence and survival.

Present Day I graduated from college and have dreams of attending graduate school for a Ph.D. in Psychology. Although my family’s views on education have not changed, and they still think so many years of education might also mean fewer chances of getting married and having children at a young age, it also means a better future for me and for them. It means I won’t ever have to depend on a man and have to go through the humiliation we have had to face for being poor, for being immigrants in this country, and for not having English as our first language. Furthermore, it means my chances for survival are increased. Coming to this country has given me the opportunity to be educated, to take opportunities and make great things out of them, and, most importantly, to see things in a different light. I have come to a heightened understanding of how, as a woman of color from a poor background, I too can have high aspirations and make my dreams as well as my family’s dreams come true. I know I too can

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conceive a bright future for myself and for others. Most importantly, I have come to see myself as a role model for future generations and to allow them to see in themselves ways in which older and present generations of people can be distinct in many ways, yet very similar in others. Being born in the early 1980s meant I was born at a time when my country was going through a revolutionary war, but also symbolized the revolutionary war I would go through by coming to the United States, and how I too could gain a form of agency through this war. Agency once was prohibited for the peoples of Nicaragua and people of Color by those in power in the United States. Today, I consider myself a Nicaraguan, not an American; working-class, a feminist, a woman of Color, a person with multiple learning disabilities, yet very intelligent. I see the many layers that occupy the outer and inner self. What makes me who I am today is the journey I have taken from one land to the next – the inequities I face daily, yet surpass with a simple blink. And, although this journey of mine has been a painful one, it has not yet ended. I look forward to the many more roads I will take and successes I will experience.

CHAPTER SIX CUBAN SHARKS IRVIN MORALES (CUBA)

“Anyone who has known an emigrant journey will remember that the space between countries is full of emotions.”30 Nuala O’Faolain I have always found it curious to hear the creativity through which Cubans have escaped the island. We have resorted to cars turned into boats; we have resorted to being mailed, first class of course. Yet, there is a basic story behind us all, a crossing of that deep chasm called the Gulf of Mexico – a chasm that boils during midday like a witch’s cauldron, threatening your very existence, and shifts quickly during the night with that telltale sign of predators just out of reach. I have always wondered if the sharks in the Gulf of Mexico are now Cuban. After all, they have seen the bodies drown and have eaten away at their flesh – sunburned and scarred. If nutrients were absorbed into DNA, I would not be amazed if sharks were to raise their heads and say, ¿”Qué pasó, acere”? After all, you would expect the affable and melodic characteristics of Cuban personality to transfer into the shark. One would wonder why I am writing this story about sharks; yet ponder about this for a moment. They have been silent witnesses to what no humans have been able to see: a human suffering silent and deep, a heart-wrenching scream of a mother or father realizing their dream has not paid up and they have lost their children to the sea and its dark colored occupants. They did not reach the Promised Land – la yuma. Sharks, these cold-blooded animals, have stared silently as a human story has unfolded before them. A story that when told sends

30

Nuala O’Faolain, The Story of Chicago May (New York: Penguin Books, 2005), p. 9.

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chills up your spine, and makes you appreciate your life and the fact that if you happened to cross, you did so without dying. If sharks could talk, what would they say? Would they stand before a human rights commission and display their memories of suffering as proof of the need for change? Would they detail the fact that they lay there waiting for the remaining people in the raft to dispose of the bodies ravaged by the sun, dehydration, and an illusion that never materialized? I wonder what would have happened to me if my father, during our trip in our small 20-footer, had dangled his leg a little bit lower. According to him, the memory threatened to be faded by the passing of time and age, yet clearer by the minute, he wanted to be refreshed. He had not slept for about 48 hours, his muscles tanned by a life-long exposure to sun tensed at the possibilities. He had the items needed for the trip: a compass from 1941 and a Cuban-made map of the coast of Florida from 1911. Both of these items have now been included in the museum of the balseros [rafters] in Key West. I wonder if he thought he was under-prepared. Did he think the coast of Florida remained unchanged, waiting for him to arrive to evolve? This was just another degree of delusion involved in this act. He stood half-cocked over the ship’s wheel, half his body outside of the ship, poised over the half-inch rim of wood made for sailors to walk on when they feel especially brave. His eyes were closing and according to him, it was about 2:00 a.m. He was only wearing a Speedo, which suited him due to his small constitution. He felt tired as he struggled to stay awake and to look to the northern star for guidance, his older compass guiding him. He wanted a single shot of Cuban coffee badly. The only option that remained now was to lick the thermos previously full of coffee that now stood empty next to his Populares. Then his instincts stirred – the kind that only a sailor would have – and he looked down. There standing out of the water were two black fins. He clearly knew they were not dolphins, but sharks. According to my father, his eyes sprung back to life; it was as if seeing this brought all the warmth a shot of Cuban coffee possesses. Yet, what would have happened if he had not felt this instinct? Would he have succumbed to the easiest land of fatigue and let his leg wander into the water? I can imagine if by a chance, this would have happened. My father would have reacted to his leg hitting the water and being scooped up by the deep row of teeth of the sharks. I know he would have pulled away and screamed. Would my mother have reacted and sprung up from behind the fish cooler, where she held my head while I vomited. I, the seasick and dehydrating passenger, would have taken a step back. I can imagine the blood flowing through the boards of the ship under the fish cooler and reach my blond hair while I lay there too weak to respond. My mother, who at the sight of blood becomes weak and jelly like,

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would not have known how to react. My uncle, who prides himself in his mental prowess – would he have felt powerless? I think that only the doctor who accompanied us would have known how to react, quickly scooping up the supplies needed. If my father, the only sailor on board, would have died or been left incapacitated, there would have been nobody else to do the job. Would we have been left stranded amidst the bopping darkness? Would I have become another Cuban round in the daily shark feeding? Yet, this is all speculation; my father did notice the shark. He reacted and, other than stare at the possibilities of what might have happened and wonder, nothing came of it. For how many people has this been a true event? I wonder how many balseros, in the midst of having a sun-induced illusion, stepped into the sea thinking they were back home. I do not want to hear their screams realizing that the black top has melted and become water. I do not want to see their sailing partners, too weak to move a muscle, look on helplessly, or ignore the screams. Only the sharks are aware witnesses. This is a sad realization: the fact that a marine animal has been the witness to the bloodshed and human tears caused by desperation. I wonder how many people walk the streets ignoring this truth. I wonder how many Spanish or European tourists bathe aimlessly in the Cuban waters ignoring that death has tainted their stay and that death accompanies everybody who chooses to leave the island. I guess sharks make the ultimate decision whether death goes alone or with guest.

CHAPTER SEVEN MIGRATION STORY FROM EAST TO WEST SHANTI NAIR (INDIA)

Transition is a journey from known to the unknown. It is physical, mental, and spiritual by nature. Every living being goes through such change by learning to adapt and familiarize themselves with a new environment. Successful transition depends upon the extent to which one is able to self-actualize at each stage of life. These stages begin with birth and end with death, and are colored by significant life experiences, which may include developing relationships, marriage, career, divorce, and migration. Looking back at my life, the most important period was my migration from India, my country of origin, to the United States. Migration not only involves physically uprooting oneself, but also requires one to be mentally prepared to adapt to a totally different society. The transitional process is filled with selfdoubt, skepticism, and trepidation, as one moves from a stage of certainty to one of uncertainty. Throughout the process of migration, there are several changes taking place at physical, emotional, spiritual, as well as mental levels. As one goes through this process, the greatest concern for the migrant is the question as to whether she will be accepted within the new environment. Human beings have a tremendous need for belonging. We are by nature social beings. Belonging is essential for our very existence. Immigration is a stressful experience due to the demands of acculturation to an unfamiliar host culture and of separation from the family of origin. Therapeutic interventions often are needed in adaptation to the host culture. When assessing families in determining their degree of acculturation and biculturation, coding schemas, questionnaires, and rating scales should be used. These methods of assessment would determine family patterns and can be modified when used in families from a culturally diverse context. Information on transcultural and culture specific dimensions of family functioning also can be

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obtained through the assessment. In the use of family therapy interventions with specific cultures, let us take the example of conducting family therapy with Asian Americans. The therapist should communicate appreciation for family solidarity and connectedness, rather than individuation and family loyalty. Many Asian American families prefer therapy that is relatively formal, structured, and practical. The therapist is effective when taking an authoritative stance and demonstrating respect for parental authority and the culture of origin. But the therapist models democratic communication by encouraging all family members to speak. Initially, the therapist may need to engage in the family’s style of indirect communication between family members. Such willingness conveys an appreciation for the Asian American family’s preference for negotiation over conflict, respect for authority, and the propensity to feel ashamed. The therapist can meet with the family members individually before dealing with the conflicts in the presence of the whole family, be tolerant of silence during individual and group therapy, and use many forms of nonverbal communication through genograms and conjoint family drawings.31 As an Asian myself, from India, I can identify with all of the issues Asian Americans have to deal with in therapy. I also have struggled with striving to gain my individuality and still maintain connectedness to my family of origin. My descendents originated from the earliest recorded Indians who migrated to the U.S.A. from Madras, India, to Massachusetts, in 1790. A number of Indians were brought to the U.S. by seafaring Captains to serve in their households as servants. Records of this period contain references to bright, turbaned Indians participating in Fourth of July parades. In the early and mid-1800s, a number of scholars became interested in Indian culture, history, and philosophy. They formed associations to discuss their interest in India.32 During this time, a number of Indians migrated into northwestern U.S. and Canada. They worked in the lumberyards and in laying the railroads in the western states of the U.S. The main reason for their presence in the U.S. was to save money and send it home to their families. Most of them had to relinquish their farmlands to the British landlords in Punjab, because they couldn’t afford to pay the taxes imposed on them by the British rulers. Despite droughts, they still were expected to pay taxes to the British. The lumber mill owners liked the migrant Indian workers because they worked long hours for lower wages than the European workers. They earned more than they could in India, so they worked hard and saved money. Indian workers were discouraged from going to 31 M. P. Celano, and N. J. Kaslow, “Culturally Competent Family Interventions: Review and Case Illustrations,” The American Journal of Family Therapy 28 (2000), pp. 217-228. 32 History of Indians, retrieved from the World Wide Web, on July 18, 2004, at http://Flowers.insaf.net/immigration/migr_usa.html

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the U.S. and pressure was applied to the British to curb the flow. Thus, the lumberyards were forced to lay off all Indian workers who were not considered “American,” and these were banned from being hired. Consequently, a number of Indian workers moved down to northern California and worked on the farms. They were skilled farm workers because they came from the state of Punjab in India, which is mainly an agrarian state. A number of the Indians had saved enough money to buy some land and become very successful farmers. Some of the Indians entered into agreements with white persons who were given a profit share for saying they owned the land. But a large number of such relationships ended in the white partner claiming, at harvest time, that the whole crop was theirs. The California state government passed a law that made it illegal for non-citizens or naturalized non-white citizens to own land. The Indians got around this problem by organizing cooperatives, which ceded ownership to some Indian children born in the U.S. Faced with discrimination, the movement to formalize the exclusion of Asians from the U.S. was gaining momentum, supported by some politicians. However, there was a problem because Indians were immigrating to the U.S., not just from the Indian mainland, but from other countries in Asia as well. But Congress passed the Immigration Regional Restriction Act in 1917, over the veto of President Woodrow Wilson. It basically drew a line around the areas in Asia from which Indians were migrating and banned immigration from them. A movement was mounted to deny citizenship to the Indians in the U.S. and to take away the citizenship from those who already had been granted citizenship by applying the Regional Restriction Act retroactively to deport all Indians in the U.S. It worked, partially, as a large number of Indians returned to their homeland. The Supreme Court held that East Indians were not eligible for United States citizenship because they could not be considered White or Caucasian. Since living conditions of the Indians started deteriorating drastically, they were forced into slums.33 The U.S. government almost never allowed Indian women to immigrate, as that would mean Indians could grow roots in the U.S. by marrying and starting a family. However, many Indian men were marrying in the U.S. Unfortunately, most of these marriages ended in divorce because of the cultural and religious disparities. The children had constituted a small inter-racial population. They were quickly integrated into the community because they usually stayed with the mother after divorce. One interesting case was that of an Indian lawyer in California who had married a White woman. Under the law, if a man lost his citizenship, his wife automatically lost hers too. He challenged in court that if his citizenship was revoked his wife would lose hers too and then she would 33

Ibid.

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have nowhere to go because she was a White American. He retained his citizenship.34 Many students migrated from India to the U.S.A. Having completed their education, they applied for naturalization. It was during this period that the British and U.S. governments started cooperating to limit Indian immigration. When a large number of Indians started to apply for naturalization, a U.S. law only allowed Whites to become naturalized citizens. But most judges could not decide how to classify Indians and a large number of them were granted citizenship. As most Southern Europeans looked like Indians, this helped Indians benefit from the similarity.35 Toward the end of World War Two, President Roosevelt started to lift immigration restrictions on Asians. The Indian Regional Exclusion Act was stuck, however, in the congressional committee web. Roosevelt had to send his personal envoy to lift the ban on Indians. However, Indian immigration did not pick up until in the late 1960s and early 1970s, when a number of Indian doctors immigrated to fill the shortage of doctors created by the Vietnam War.36 Most Indians currently immigrating to the U.S. are either the family of U.S. citizens or professionals. The Indian community in the U.S. is currently the most educated and prosperous compared to other Asian Americans. Many have completed either a master’s or doctorate degree. Their per capita income is the highest in the U.S., and their educational and income levels are higher than other Asian Americans, Whites, Hispanics and Blacks. Indians in the U.S. have ventured into almost every field and occupation, though most of them are professionals such as doctors, engineers, entrepreneurs, and financial analysts. Since the number of Indian Americans is growing rapidly, it is essential that more of the U.S. populace know this history. It can lead to more acceptance and integration of Indians into American society. A good understanding of this relationship between India and the U.S. also may serve as a foundation for better relations between the two countries. The two of the greatest democracies in the world should start co-operating and working together. Perhaps with a better understanding of their past, Americans of Indian origin can contribute resolutely to developing friendly relations between the U.S.A. and India. Thus, the social, cultural, and economic benefits to both countries could be immense.37 Personally, for me migration was a major transition – this being my first time leaving home to live on my own. The ‘nesting’ period was over after living within the secure and protected atmosphere at home. Being the youngest child 34

Ibid. Ibid. 36 Ibid. 37 Ibid. 35

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and only girl in the family there was much apprehension in letting me go. After all, in the Indian culture the unwritten rule is that girls usually stay with their parents till they get married. So being single, it was understood that home was where I would be. Also, as this vital family structure is an integral part of the Indian culture, it was tough to detach from it. An added fear my parents had in letting me go was how I would manage on my own since I am physically challenged. Having the luxury of maids to take care of all my needs, one can well imagine the extent to which I was pampered at home. Not even knowing how to cook for myself, it sure was a concern to me as well. But, equally determined to break away from the ‘nest’ and move on, I stuck to my decision to come to the U.S. My parents had no choice but to let me go with the greatest of reluctance, especially on my father’s part. He secretly hoped that I would not be admitted to the colleges in the U.S. or that my visa would be rejected. He nearly got his wish, as I initially had difficulty in obtaining a visa. But to my good luck, I was able to get it the next time I applied. I think the day I left home will always be etched in my mind. During that long flight, several thoughts were running through my head, which will remain in my memory forever. I can never forget the confused state of mind I went through. It was a bittersweet feeling that I am sure everybody goes through when migrating from one country to another. Landing in a strange country was my biggest fear. I was overwhelmed by the thought of living on my own and being responsible for myself, as home was thousands of miles away. That meant being on my own with no-one to turn to in times of need. At this time, many questions ran through my mind: Would I be able to cope academically and adapt to a completely different educational system (this fear was heightened when I had to do my first exam)? Would I be able to take care of myself in terms of shopping, banking, cooking, which were tasks that I had never done before? Would I be able to make friends? Would I be able to adapt to a new culture? How would I fit my value system of family importance and high respect for teachers, into this new society with its emphasis on individuality and freedom? Would the conflicting values be a problem in my growth? Which of these do I adopt, and which would I have to change? How would I maintain the balance between the tradition that I have known all my life and that of my new homeland? What are my options if I do not succeed in adapting to this new way of life? Fortunately, my parents had given me the option of coming back if I felt I could not cope in the U.S. But a yearning to be independent and with a determination to go on, I did not allow myself to give up. In my mind, I knew there was no turning back. Through all this emotional turmoil, one thing I knew for certain: I would keep believing in myself every step of the way. After reaching this country, my mother, who was accompanying me, could not help gawking at people. Nothing one reads or hears can prepare one for the

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‘culture shock’ one experiences when starting a new life in another country. I recall my mother trying to come to terms with the open display of ‘affection’ among couples. Coming from a relatively conservative culture, it did not go down too well with her. Having lived in a homogeneous society, I was fascinated by the way people from different cultures come together in one country. An amalgamation of traditions seems to add a rich flavor to the great American heritage. Slowly I got used to my new life with each day becoming a unique learning process. I realized that people did not stare at me just because my skin was a different color or because I am in a wheelchair. I was treated like I was one of them. This was a pleasant surprise, as it would not be the same in India. I had to get used to the novel experience of people greeting me on the streets. In my country, people walk past without the slightest acknowledgement of me. I was happy to see that I could go everywhere without worrying about accessibility into buildings. I was careful to maintain a decorum that is conducive to specific situations, and was particular about being culturally sensitive to the American way of life. It was interesting to learn that bargaining, which is a common trend in India, is considered impolite in this country. I also quickly adapted to eating with a fork and knife at all times. This was in contrast to the Indian custom where eating with one’s hands is a common practice. On the flipside, the misuse of freedom by teenagers who frequently indulge in violence especially in the school setting shocked me. Coming from a country where the education is considered with the highest regard after family, this was appalling to me. It is something that I still find hard to comprehend. Shortly after coming to the U.S., I was questioning my decision to migrate, which was leading to a totally new life for me. This was heightened by the fact that I suddenly lost my father. It was an even greater blow to me as I had left home against his will. It left me with feelings of guilt and despair. I was ready to go back for his funeral never to return. But I decided against it as I was more determined to make a life for myself after coming this far. I reasoned out to myself that my father would want me to succeed in my life, especially since I had come so far. So I decided that is exactly what I would endeavor to do for his sake. After that I worked hard to do as well as I could. My first task was to adapt to the new educational system. I had to change my method of learning. Being used to learning by rote, I had to switch my learning style by making an effort in understanding the material that I was reading. The frequent assignments were helpful in keeping me updated all through the course work. Making friends was also not as much an effort as I envisioned since I have an outgoing personality. By getting to know the large Indian community in my college, I had a large circle of friends. But this did not limit me from widening my friendships to people from other cultures. It was not only interesting to meet

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people from all over the world, but an enriching experience too. We shared our experiences about living in a country that was different from our own. We got to know each other’s cultures by the stories we exchanged. Soon we formed our own group that consisted of 20 of us at one time! We knew how to enjoy ourselves but at the same time, we were responsible enough to find time for studies. My friends brought out the adventurous spirit in me. I once went sledding with them on the snow-covered slopes. A huge plastic lid served as my sled. When I reached the end of the slopes, they would carry me back onto my wheelchair and push me back to the top of the slopes. I don’t think I have ever had such fun in my life! Another adventure that remains in my memory was when I was tied to a harness and swung on ropes in a Ropes Course organized by the Psi Chi Club. It was thrilling to be able to participate in such an event. I was so lost in the euphoria of the moment, that I completely forgot my disability. With the passing of time, I realized that adjusting to my new home was not as insurmountable a task as I thought. I started gaining confidence in myself. All things seemed possible as long as I had a positive attitude. Along the way, I lost some friends and made new ones. Some were worth keeping for a lifetime and some were not. I learned the bitter lesson that trusting one too much can sometimes be mistaken for being gullible. I was quick to realize that selfconfidence and an assertive nature are the hallmarks that symbolize the character of the American people. With the understanding that I lacked these qualities, I began working on developing them myself. Confidence seemed particularly essential to succeed in life. “Survival of the fittest,” the motto Americans live by, encourages one to strive hard to make an impression in society. The country offers many opportunities to those who are prepared to work hard toward their goals. Unfortunately, in spite of the U.S.’s demographic transformation by international migration, immigrants are blamed for the country’s complex problems. By maintaining this idea, Americans can convince themselves they can solve these problems by restricting immigration. They also are distracted from facing the challenge of forging a unified society from highly diverse constituencies. This turns immigrants into scapegoats. The negative attitude is prevalent irrespective of the fact that some families have been in the U.S. for three generations. If one looks like an immigrant, there is a likelihood of being targeted for anti-immigrant hostility. It is necessary to realize that the U.S. is a nation built on immigrants. Such a heritage is the wellspring of the nation’s strength and vitality. By trying to close themselves from the world, Americans are keeping away from people from the outside world.38 38

Tien Chan-Liu, “The Role of Asian Americans in Higher Education,” Migration World Magazine 23 (1995), pp. 23-29.

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Looking back at my migratory journey, I can reminisce about the fact that I went through several experiences to get where I am today. Taking the tough times in stride as I traveled the road to a new life, I experienced dejection, happiness, sadness, depression, and joy all along the way. But, it was the best decision I have ever taken as I seized the chance of a lifetime that many in my situation would not have had. I am thankful for the courage, determination, strength, and vision that have contributed to my growth and development. It has helped me in realizing my potential and made me eternally grateful to be in this great ‘land of opportunity.’

CHAPTER EIGHT FROM PUERTO RICO TO USA: IN SEARCH OF MY CULTURAL IDENTITY SANDRA V. PADILLA (PUERTO RICO)

As a child of a U.S. Air Force Technical Sergeant, I have learned from a very early age about what it is to encounter a different culture. One of the most memorable moments for me was the day I was determined to play with snow inside the house. My family moved to upstate New York when I was about three or four years old. It was my first winter up north. I remember it was so cold I decided to put some snow on a plate and play in the kitchen table. I paid little attention to my mother’s advice to do otherwise, but as a real jibara39 coming from the Island of Puerto Rico, I really needed to explore that “thing” called snow. My father spent 22 years in the U.S. Air Force. Even though he spent most of the time at a base in Puerto Rico, we still had the opportunity to live in Guam;40 Rome, New York; and Macon, Georgia. All of those trips, as well as numerous business trips, have given me the opportunity to visit about 30 of the 50 U.S. states. This has given me not only the wonderful opportunity to learn more about the U.S. and its culture, but also to research more about my own roots and appreciate the rich heritage I have as a Puerto Rican. At the same time, I learned more about who I am and what matters the most to me. Who am I? I was born in Arecibo, Puerto Rico, a town about 50 miles to the west of San Juan, on the north coast of the Island. Puerto Rico is the smallest of 39

Jíbaro(a) is the name of the people who are descendants of the mix of Spanish, Tainos (Indigenous Puerto Rican Peoples), and African slaves. 40 Guam is a Pacific Island territory of the U.S.A.

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the Greater Antilles, measuring 100 miles by 35 miles – little in size but with a big heart. Puerto Rico has more than 500 years of Western history. Christopher Columbus sailed there in 1493, and it was claimed as a Spanish Territory until the Hispano-American War in 1898, when it became a U.S. Territory. In 1917, the U.S. Government guaranteed U.S. Citizenship to all people born in Puerto Rico, and in 1950, the Commonwealth of Puerto Rico was approved. Our heritage comes from the Indios Tainos, the African slaves, and the Spaniards. The three cultures mixed to form what we call today the Jíbaros or Boricuas.41 In the last 50 years, the U.S. influence has added more elements to our culture. For example, we also celebrate Thanksgiving and Valentine’s Day. Now the kids make two wish lists during Christmas: one for Santa Claus and the other for the Three Wise Men. My father’s name is Gregorio Lucio Padilla Pérez and my mother’s name is Violeta López de Padilla. We have to keep in mind that in the Latin culture, it is customary to use two last names: your father’s last name and your mother’s maiden name. Married women, instead of using a hyphen or their maiden name as a middle name, use the word de, or “from” and the last name of their husband. My parents have been married for almost 50 years. I am the second of four children. My older brother’s name is José Valentín Padilla López, my sister’s name is Sylvia Irene, and my youngest brother’s name is Alex Gregorio. It is not unusual that we all have middle names. Some of our names come from our grandparents or great grandparents. Again, this is part of the Spanish tradition. For example, my grandfather’s names were José and Valentín; the combination of both formed my brother’s name. The same is the case with my sister’s names. My youngest brother and I instead received the middle names of our parents: Gregorio from my father and Vionette from Violeta (an error during the birth registration changed my mother’s original name from Vionette to Violeta). My father comes from a lower-middle class family of blue-collar workers. He is the second of three kids. His sister’s name is Gloria. He had to work ever since he was a child. When he graduated from high school, he enlisted in the Air Force. He later married my mother, and they had my brother and I. Soon after my birth, my father was transferred to Guam and then to Rome, N.Y. He was stationed in Puerto Rico, ending his military career in Marquette, Michigan. Once he returned to Puerto Rico, he decided to complete his college degree in Business Administration. He and his sister Gloria were the first generation in their family to attain college degrees. My father has a tremendous sense of humor, which he inherited from his mother. He also loves to share childhood memories with us. His personality is 41

The name Boricua comes from the word Boriken, which was the name the Indigenous Peoples or Indios Tainos gave to the Island before the Spanish colonization.

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very much like that of my grandfather: low key and a good provider, as all good head of households are. As in all traditional Latin families, being recognized as the head of the family is very important. One thing I noticed is his experience in the military changed him to be more involved in the house chores, including preparing breakfast for the children. In that sense, he started the culture change in the family from being the dominant male provider who goes to work and returns home expecting to be served, to a more actively participating person in the house, sometimes assuming roles traditionally performed by women. My mother went straight from high school to college, where she earned a B.A. in Elementary Education. She comes from a middle class family of seven children: four girls and three boys. She and her sister Aida were the only siblings to receive a college degree. My mother worked as an elementary school teacher until 1977, when she retired. My mother’s personality is similar to her father’s: strong and very concerned about everyone in the family. As a typical woman of her time, she acquiesced to the religious tradition of the family and its political preferences, and accepted the limited position of women in the household. As her mother before her, she understood her place as standing behind her husband, recognizing her spouse as the head of the family. She was also the first of her generation to become a working mother – something not really accepted in her time. I think both my parents became part of a new generation, facing different challenges in the midst of a very strong tradition that outlined rules about parental toles within the family. My paternal grandfather’s name was José Padilla Crespo, and his mother was Silveria Pérez Paredes. Both were born in Isabella, Puerto Rico.42 My grandfather used to be a carpenter and worked in a movie theater selling admission tickets. My grandmother was a seamstress. José completed the 8th grade and Silvia – as we used to call her – received home schooling for the basic skills like reading, writing, and math, besides the traditional home care skills. My grandfather used to enjoy playing games with his children. They were the typical working parents who did their best to raise their children in the midst of the depression. The economic situation forced my grandmother to work outside of the home. This was not well received by my grandfather because, in some way, it implied he was not a good provider. These hard times did not stop them from celebrating the traditional festivities of Epiphany, Holy Week, and Christmas. My favorite part of Christmas was participating in Parrandas,43 even though we only had homemade instruments. 42 Isabela is located on the north coast of Puerto Rico, 30 miles to the west of Arecibo and 80 from San Juan. 43 Parrandas are a very traditional custom, similar to caroling in the U.S., in the sense of singing Christmas music. People get together late at night, with instruments, and do an

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My mother’s father, Valentín López Rivera, was a mechanic for one of the most important sugar cane processing factories in Puerto Rico. My grandmother Irene Sierra Maldonado was the typical stay-at-home wife who took care of their seven children. My grandfather went to school for a couple of years to learn the basics and my grandmother studied at home. I remember that my grandfather was the clear patriarch of the family. He used to be very mellow with his grandchildren, but had un character fuerte (a stern disposition) with his children and wife. He was very strict, caring, honest, and was a hard worker and a good provider. My grandmother was sweet, tender, caring, and very religious. Both grandparents were born and raised in Arecibo, Puerto Rico. It is my understanding that both grandparents were from Spanish descendants, while my grandfathers were 100% jibaro, and proud of it. My father’s paternal grandparents were Gregorio Padilla Ramírez and Petronilla Crespo De Jesús. Both were born in Arecibo. One of the family rumors is that the parents of Gregorio came from Venezuela. He used to be a quincayero; he owned a little store where he sold a little bit of everything. His maternal grandparents were Silverio Pérez Vargas and Francisca Paredes Duque. Both of them were born in Isabela. Silverio was a farmer. My mother’s paternal grandfather, José López, worked in the sugar cane fields. Her grandmother’s name was Paula Rivera. Both were born in Arecibo. On my mother’s side, her grandparents were Sebastian Sierra and Serafina Maldonado. They also were born in Arecibo. Their primary income came from the selling of cigars, tobacco, and related supplies. Most of my family still lives in Puerto Rico. Only my older brother and I moved to the U.S. Both of us came looking for better job opportunities and challenges. I also have an uncle who lives in New Jersey, who came into the U.S. during the massive Puerto Rican exodus from the Island to New York. He went there looking for adventures and ended up marrying and living most of his life there. He was able to open his own mini-market, which has sustained his family for years. The conditions for my brother and I contrast with those experienced by my uncle. In his case, he knew no English and did not have a formal education, while both my brother and I have graduate degrees and we knew the language before moving here. My brother arrived in the U.S. because of a job offer about a dozen years ago, and I arrived later, in 1997. The treatment we received when we moved was less biased because of our economic and educational status. We migrated to places where the discrimination against Puerto Ricans is minimal. In asalto and take by surprise several families by waking them up with music, which is very lively. The first people visited usually join the group, to continue the parranda, which ends at sunrise with an asopao de pollo, or chicken gumbo, at the last house visited.

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contrast, my uncle experienced discrimination due to the precedent established by some of the low income and uneducated people who moved to New York and who were stereotyped by the gangs and movies like West Side Story. In the U.S., the profession and economic status indicate more about you than the social class revealed by one’s last name. Although I maintain a level of social status, I have to admit I have felt a little bit uncomfortable because of my Spanish accent. In Puerto Rico and in most of the Spanish conquered countries, the last name and heritage sometimes means more than the individual identity of the person. Today that has changed, and, as Puerto Ricans, we have assimilated many U.S. traditions. For example, now we consider individual accomplishments as factors important to identity. I remember when I was little, people asking me about my father’s and mother’s last names, to ascertain whether I was one of the children of those very well known and distinguished families who resided in the town. For example, I had the privilege of studying in a Catholic school that usually was attended by children of high society families, those who belong to the country clubs and who had cars as soon as they got their driver’s license. There were times when I really felt out of place. I had to accept that being asked about your family lineage, as intrusive and offensive as it may be, is also part of my culture. I remember once when my father shared his military experience. He related that although he did not speak English when he enlisted, at least he was given the opportunity to learn English during his basic training. In addition, he was very aware of the discrimination to Puerto Ricans by that time, and he fought to change the stereotype of Puerto Ricans. He never volunteered information about his cultural identity unless asked. If he were asked, he would definitively tell anyone, but he was dedicated to do his job well and to portray a different image of Puerto Ricans. He was successful because he respected and helped others and due to his hard work and persistence, he got their respect. I do recall very clearly a conversation I had with my father about women in the military. I really admire my father and his passion for the military. He used to tell us, children should study hard, get a good job, and travel the world before making major commitments. He wanted us to have the same or better opportunities than he had. When I asked his opinion about me joining the Air Force, I was surprised about his lack of enthusiasm about the military. He loved his military career, but he knew that for a woman it was a different ball game. I never asked him about it again, but that conversation stayed in my mind. Either he was one of those people who think the military is not for women or he knew women in the military had a harder time than men do. I have to assume he was protecting me. I refuse to think he is or was one of those chauvinistic men with sexist thinking and macho mindset. I hope I am right…

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The interesting thing is I ended up studying engineering – a male dominated profession. Even when I went to college in the 1980s, the women in the Engineering Faculty were a very small group. I remember a friend who also was studying engineering saying he would never marry a woman engineer because he did not like the fact women could know as much as him about car engines, etc. I felt so discriminated against that I ended up insulting him. Another aspect of my upbringing that I reflected upon as an adult was that my mother had the traditional beliefs that boys will be boys and are entitled to be out in the streets, but a girl’s place is in the home. Girls have to be sweet, low key, and delicate, and wear dresses. I had brothers and cousins, who love all kinds of sports and games. I loved to be around them because it was fun. In my naïve thinking, I never saw anything wrong with me playing basketball or any of the boys’ games since other girls were in the group too. At the age of 12 or 13, my mother expressed very clearly that as a girl of my age and as a Señorita, or a miss, I should refrain from those games. The story does not end there. Later, I learned from her that she was unhappy I left home at the age of 16 to go to college. It was even worse when I started working right after graduation and moved on my own at the age of 21. I felt as if I had committed a capital sin, since a Señorita does not leave the parents’ house unless she is joining a convent or getting married. As a member of the 80s generation, this was hard for me to understand. I have many other memories and traditions about Puerto Rican culture. Even though I lived far from home, I still cherish and practice traditions including the celebrations of the Epiphany on January 6th, the Holy Week celebrations, or the typical food during Christmas. While we were living in Guam, my mother planted pigeon peas and sugar cane plants to make Mavi,44 and kids from the neighborhood who did not know what that was decided to steal the pigeon peas and the bottles with Mavi. We needed those ingredients to celebrate Christmas with the traditional food. Even today, I find myself looking in the grocery store for those things that bring back those childhood memories that remind me of what it means to be a Puerto Rican. Some of my memories are happy, others are not – but all of them contributed to my current cultural experience as a citizen of the world with a Puerto Rican cultural identity. This is what affirms my life: to discover the value of my heritage with reverence and to carry on the traditions and values that contribute to the well-being of myself as well as those around me.

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Mavi is a fermented beverage made from sugar cane, similar to malt.

CHAPTER NINE A LOT OF HISTORY TO BE DISCOVERED ELSA R. RODRÍGUEZ (SPAIN/CUBA)

I was born in Barcelona, Spain, and raised in a small town right outside the outskirts of Madrid. I am the true middle child in my family; I have no one with whom to bond. My older sister and brother are approximately seven to eight years apart. My little sister and brother are seven to eight years apart from me. Thus, between my older siblings, there is only one-year difference; between the younger siblings, there is another year of difference. My parents came from a very strict background, in which the women of the family had no say. My father adored us; however, he did not give too much freedom. He believed women should be educated, but should stay at home. The men in the family, though, should have as much freedom as possible; according to him, this is what made a boy mature into a man. I was a strong woman to whom, from the beginning, my mother would say, “There is nothing that is not possible.” I am free in everything, in what I want to do, and with no hang-ups. My father has changed his ways after he moved here to the United States. On any ordinary day, my father would go to the office and take care of the family business. He owned a line of automotive shops, and opened the first one almost 50 years ago. I remember watching my father get ready to go the office around six in the morning. Sometimes I felt like my parents ignored me and became completely self-absorbed into their own lives. However, my mother – more of a traditional housewife – was trying to manage the kids, a husband, and yearned for her family in Cuba. Mother was born in Havana, Cuba; she never got a chance to finish grade school due to the physical impairments her mother suffers. My father’s parents were very well-to-do, and they used to travel quite frequently. My parents met at a social, or a party for young women to meet their future husband. My father asked my mother to dance and from that moment on they knew they were meant

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to be together. After my parents married in 1963 in Havana, Cuba, my paternal grandmother became very ill, so my parents traveled back to Spain to see her. My parents ended up staying in her villa for the next seven years; grandmother passed away two months after my birthday. I lived in Spain until I was seven years old; in 1981, my parents decided to travel to the States. They wanted us to have an opportunity grow up in the United States where we could make it economically. Our funds in Europe were depleting and father had no choice but to sell grandma’s house and use the money in order for us to leave. The economy was not doing so well and he did not want to risk losing what he had left. At first, I felt extremely uncomfortable, not knowing the language – only a few words – and was acutely aware of the way that people looked at us. I remember my first days in grade school – they were horrible; children were mean and they picked on me. There was one particular child who just made my life a living hell. However, I think after all that, the meanest thing that had been done and said, the worst experience of all, was when they called me a “Nigger” and a “Spic.” I truly believe I overcame the hurt because my parents told me that children who said mean things to you were kids who felt intimidated by me. I spent most of my grade school years moving from home to home. My parents had trouble purchasing a home, so we rented quite often. People in those times did not want to rent to “Cubans, Blacks, or if you had children”; times were really hard. The problem with constantly moving meant having to establish new friendships and getting re-acquainted with neighbors. Finally, in my junior high year, we purchased a home in the Coral Gables area. It felt so good to finally own a piece of property. Most of my ancestors purchased homes and lived either in Europe or in Cuba. They did not like the States for some particular reason. My parents were the first in our family to purchase property in the United States. I remember my first Christmas was quite an adjustment: Christmas is not celebrated in either Spain or Cuba. What we celebrate is Los Tres Reyes Magos, or the “Three Wise Men.” This tradition is followed by the three kings who visited baby Jesus and gave him three gifts. We normally celebrate this event on the 6th of January. However, the day before Christmas we celebrate Noche Buena, or “Good Night”; this is a traditional party for Cubans, when we celebrate everything good that has happened throughout the year. In addition, we give thanks to God for providing for us. This get-together is a party celebrated with close friends and family. We listen to salsa, merengue, and a little bit of the music that is popular with the children at that time. Our main dishes are pork, black beans and rice, yucca, and sea crest salad. My mother would stay up most of the night cooking up a storm for the celebrations to come.

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Since we have been here, we have felt racism in all its facets. I personally have felt I have to explain and describe my ethnic background every time I meet someone new. People act very differently when they hear my Spanish. However, sometimes it seems like a second job, just explaining my heritage to others. Mother has had people give her dirty looks. Mind you, my mother has a light complexion and she has fine hair, so I would have thought she would be treated a little differently. However, the [U.S.] Americans treated her very cruelly, especially because she did not know any English. However, the meanest of all were the Hispanics, who would make comments in front of her thinking she did not know the language. Once they would find out my mother knew Spanish, the first thing they would do is tell her she was Dominican, Haitian, Panamanian, or Puerto Rican – even Columbian. My mother would reply, “No I am Cuban of ‘Spanish descent.’” They would look at her and say, “No you’re kidding, right? There are no blacks in Cuba.” Those comments would just steam my mother; she would just walk away and go on her merry way. She would come home frustrated and upset, not understanding why these people were treating her the way they were. Father, in contrast, liked to deal with things head on; my father’s complexion was very dark with green eyes. People would actually ask him, “Why do you wear contacts? Are you not proud of your eyes? Don’t you think you’re kind of old to be wearing color contacts?” Those insidious comments would disappoint my father and everyday make him reconsider why we were here. Finding a job was not easy either, my father, an Office Administrator, could not find a suitable job. Companies would overlook him all the time; they would always tell him, “We will call you” – but nothing. He was a very educated man; he had acquired two master’s degrees – in International Business and in Finance Management. As a family, my parents always told us no matter where we live, we still are Spanish and of Hispanic descent, and they told us not to forget our culture. Our culture is who and what we are. The little traditions we have as inconsequential or unorthodox, as they may seem, are still intrinsic to our culture. Mother would always tell us to keep it up and to teach the rituals to our children. She said it is a beautiful thing to be a Spaniard of Cuban (Hispanic) decent. She would tell stories about things that have happened throughout time, and where we stand as Black Cubans and Spaniards. She taught us to embrace our heritage, but learn the American way, without forgetting everything she taught us about our value system. The cultural values of Spanish and Cuban ethnic groups are different and the same in many ways. According to my mother, in Cuba there was definitely a class system. The doctors and lawyers were in an elite social class of their own. The corporate executives and second-generation wealthy people were in the same social status as the lawyers. Now, for the black Cubans, that was a

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different story: they were considered second-class citizens. However, the way social status quotas were set, black Cubans served predominantly as the maids and servants, and as the predestined beasts of burden. The blacks who were well-to-do usually were the light skinned ones or the mulattos, who are racially mixed blacks. They considered themselves to be in a league of their own. My mother fell into that category; her mother was fair skinned with green eyes, and her father had more of a red undertone with blue eyes. My family has crossed several barriers to arrive at where they are today, whether here or in Cuba. It was not easy for my mother to leave her mother in Cuba and go to Spain, and then to leave her home in Spain to migrate to the United States – a place that reminded mother on a continuous basis that her skin color was a barrier and that she was like decaying human waste in society that everyone forgets about or ignores. Today, I ask my parents, “Was it worth it to come here?” To be quite honest with you, she cannot answer that, for my mother loves her little island; this is where all her family is. This is the place where her parents are buried; she does not have anywhere else to call home. To my mother, living in the States is secondary; home is still very far away. In contrast, my father has a different story; he loves the States. He would not go back to Spain, even if you paid him. He says there are too many painful memories. Father had lost too much on his way here; his family had closed the doors on him and, therefore, he closed his heart to them. My father has done pretty well here; he has been able to establish his own business, purchase a lovely residence, and build a comfortable retirement plan for himself and the family. Besides, in relation to all the hang-ups that society has dumped on Blacks, with all of the racism and discrimination, being Cuban/Spaniard has shielded us from a lot of grief. The beauty about being Spanish is that as soon as people find out, you are treated as an equal or just the same as them. You are no longer an outcast; you are just like another Cuban dealing with the oppression of the political system of Cuba. I have felt that privilege, and it feels great, for sometimes I feel I am all alone and in fact, I’m not. My parents feel the same way. Even though there are race issues, Cubans will always try to assist another fellow Cuban. Being brought here at such a young age and growing up in the American system with values and morals of my native country is not easy. The American system is extremely liberal and very biased at times, regardless of race and social class structures. However, my Spanish system values respect, love, and understanding for all, especially the elderly. Our neighbors are part of our immediate family and they look out for us when things get sticky. Cultural values were taught through my mother’s lessons. My mother would tell us, “Will God help you if you disrespect your neighbor when he scolds you for doing something incorrect?” The moral system is almost a religious form if it

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keeps us in line. My favorite one was, “No sex until you get married.” “You are not allowed to date until you are 15 years old and we must know the family of that young man.” “You will take care of your parents until they pass away.” The way Americans put their parents in a nursing home – it’s unheard of for Cubans. To us, our parents are sacred; aging is a normal part of a life cycle – they took care of us, now we take care of them. Life has many circles and whirlwinds, and in the middle of it, you have the impediments that have been brought by the socialites and the elites of society. The truth of the matter is that life is cruel and unfair; however, you do not have to settle for all it provides you. Yes, we are not from the same race or even gender than these who control the government; however, we have the right to vote for someone who truly is going to represent us. Yes, society has put an ‘invisible blanket’ to limit us on how far we get in life, if we are of lower income. I say, fight for the right to be treated equally. My parents have taught me to treat others the same way I want to be treated, to respect my fellow peers, and to love myself first, before I can give my love. I am a proud Spaniard of Cuban decent, and I have African heritage. It is a beautiful thing to be so many ethnic groups in my life. I see a lot of history to be discovered.

CHAPTER TEN “MI COULDN’ WAIT FI CUM MERIKA” ERLINE RUFF (JAMAICA)

Mi couldn’ wait fi cum Merika. Mi hear se di road dem big, wide an’ straight, straight wid no cana. Di pickney dem no wear no uniform. TV sign on all day. Even di TV in a color an’ all. Boy, a wonda if a so heaven stay! * I am a Jamaican by birth and a United States citizen by naturalization. My daughters, Domeneque and Kourtney, represent the first generation of my family in the United States. My daughters are fascinated by their varied backgrounds. Here in the United States, they are just as “spoiled” as the typical middle class American children. In visiting Jamaica or in being around other Jamaicans, my daughters try desperately to blend in by speaking patois, the native dialect, and by doing “Jamaican” things. For example, they enjoy playing childhood games like “ring-around the roses,” “dandy-shandy,” and “box-ball.” Most of the time, my daughters will just say they are Jamaicans. What a difference! I couldn’t wait to be an American. My parents immigrated to the United States for financial reasons. “Jamaica the beautiful” was a myth for the thousands of people like my family living in dire need of minimal sustenance such as adequate housing, food, and medical supplies. My stepfather came to Massachusetts as a migrant worker in 1978. Within a short period, my stepfather realized the picking of apples was not his idea of the American Dream for himself and for those of us back in Jamaica. He soon escaped the campground, married a U.S. citizen, and moved to Bloomfield, Connecticut. As soon as time allowed, my stepfather divorced and purchased a house in Hartford, Connecticut. The owning of the house would prove to the United States officials that my stepfather had sufficient assets and stability to file

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the needed documents to bring the remainder of his family here. Still lacking enough assets to reunite the entire family, we immigrated in phases. My mom immigrated in 1979 to increase the income level. My sister and I came in 1980. My four brothers came in 1981. My maternal grandmother came in 1982. Finally, we were all here. The challenge was about to begin. Adjustment was difficult for me in Hartford. I stuck out like a sore thumb in school. My language sounded different, even though I spoke English. For example, my pronunciation and spelling of words were based on the British System. My classmates laughed at me. I neither asked questions nor volunteered to answer any questions in class. I watched television every waking moment that I was not in school, to become as familiar as possible with the American culture. I wanted to submerge myself completely into the American way of life so the snickering would stop. For example, I watched television shows like: “The Facts of Life” to see how teenagers behaved in school, “Different Strokes” to see a non-traditional family in action, and “Dallas” to see the American depiction of the capitalistic system. I tried hard to assimilate into the culture of my new homeland. Therefore, I decided to face every adversity in good stride. My clothing screamed 1970s, while the other students were in trendy 1980s fashion. In Jamaica, the very affluent people had more clothes than they could wear at any one time. For the rest of us, any combination of bright stripes, bright plaids, and pastel colors seemed perfectly coordinated. It was as though the brighter one’s choice of colors was, the more in fashion you would be, in my Jamaican hometown. I would watch my favorite television programs here, and I would see the commercial advertisings about the fashionable jeans like Gloria Vanderbilt, Chic, Jordache, and Sassoon, but mom didn’t have the money to purchase designer fashions for six children. I decided that my inappropriate attire would not deter my educational pursuits. It was extremely difficult for me to incorporate the social culture of my school into my lifestyle. My mom tried to help. We had no idea what a shopping mall was. The only place my mom knew where to shop for clothing was at Zayre. My stepfather was the only one who knew how to drive. My stepfather drove the only car we had, to get back and forth from both his jobs at the factory. My mom would take the bus to Zayre, where she would put all of our clothing on layaway. We neither had knowledge of America’s clothing style nor had any prior experience living in a country with all four seasons in its climate. Jamaica is a tropical island. Mom did her best to keep me in darker colors during the winter months. But, I was seriously out of fashion style by the time mom could afford to take the clothes off layaway. Mom outfitted me in polyester pants and whatever top combination that was on sale. Oh, how I wish I could wear a uniform to school.

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The new phrase in my vocabulary was to be “culture shock.” I was so confused. My initial aspiration to be an “instantaneous” American didn’t seem so appealing anymore. I couldn’t decide whether to be an American or to be a Jamaican. As my siblings and I tried to the best of our abilities to fit into the American way of life, our parents were doing everything to “literally” bring Jamaica to Hartford. For example, my stepfather would drive to Springfield, Massachusetts, at the break of dawn each Saturday to bring back a freshly killed goat or some other animal to have an all day cookout/party. From my vantage point, it seemed he made these trips to Springfield to annoy me purposely. The all-day Saturday cookouts/parties seemed to bring “every” Jamaican in Hartford to our home. It was sheer torture for us kids. Our parents were seeking vengeance against us kids. When the gathering of “all” the Jamaicans in Hartford at these Saturday cookouts/parties didn’t prove embarrassing enough for us kids, our parents began making road trips to Poughkeepsie, New York, to meet up with “all” the New York Jamaicans. Here we would meet mostly with other ex- migrant workers who had made the quick transition from “illegal aliens” to American citizens by usually marrying Caucasian American women. The Saturday cookouts/parties in Poughkeepsie must be reminiscent of what the Reverend Jesse Jackson’s Rainbow Coalition looks like in one of his regularly scheduled sessions. The children of these interracial marriages were beautiful shades of browns. But, I digress. The color lines were blurred for those moments at the cookouts/parties. Everyone was having fun. Maybe, our parents knew what they were doing. Many times, I was unsure we had left the Jamaican culture back there across the Caribbean Sea. I can still recall waking up on Saturday mornings in Hartford to the stench of curried goat, curried chicken, and curried whatever, goat soup, cow’s feet, and whatever else was edible on my parents’ choice of any meat, fish, or poultry for that day. As children, my siblings and I felt like we were at the mercy of our parents. We had no choice about what to eat on Saturdays. Any idea by either of us kids to go to McDonald’s or any other fast food restaurant on a Saturday was dispelled quickly by one of our parents. A primary family rule was that “children were to eat what was prepared for them.” The above rule held true in our family because so few opportunities were presented to us to choose from. We had to eat what was given to us, whether or not we liked it. How were we to compete with the fact that our parents were adamant about enmeshing our Jamaican heritage into our newly found American lifestyle? My siblings and I had spent the entire week at school grappling down spaghetti, macaroni and cheese, sloppy Joes, pizza, and French fries for lunches to make sure we were like all the other American children. Even when we finally had the American speech down to where we could disguise the Jamaican accent, there was no camouflaging the unique smell in my neighborhood of our native

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food on Saturdays. The smoked-filled skies around the house were the prelude to the roasting of a goat’s head, or the feet of a cow, or whatever else that would emit a horrible smell. I can only imagine what Saturday mornings were like in my neighborhood before we moved in. The noise and laughter from the men playing dominoes and the children roller- skating up and down the block was coupled by the loud and crude noise of Bob Marley’s reggae music and women gossiping. Oh, how I missed Granny in the early years of being in Hartford. Granny would have been the voice of reason in the chaos of my parents’ Saturday cookouts/parties. Granny informed everyone that her home should be respected at all times and even more so on the Sabbath (Saturday). She would not have cared that Bob Marley was a legendary Jamaican reggae artist. All of us would have to be in church on the Sabbath, and no regular weekday schedules would take the place of church-related activities. The preparation of all foods would have taken place prior to the setting of the sun on Fridays, and only religious music would be played from that time until sunset on Saturdays. The observance of our Sabbath principles was taught by Granny and followed by all of us in Jamaica. Granny would have been disappointed in my parents disregard for the Sabbath in this country. Granny was a devout Seventh-day Adventist Christian until her death on October 29, 2001. Granny made sure her grandchildren, especially, were in church each Sabbath. Since my mom had all six of us at a young age, Granny overruled her and my stepfather in our home in Jamaica. No one would even think to undermine Granny’s authority. Without Granny’s presence in the early years of my migration to the United States, I felt my past slipping away. The idea of making new friends at school seemed dismal. During my three years at Weaver High School, the student body was basically divided along the following three ethnic lines: African-Americans, Jamaicans, and Puerto Ricans. Each group of students was busy carving out its own niche as each one vied to live by the rules of its unspoken culture. Ethnic wars were not uncommon in our school. It’s as though each group of kids took turns to fight the other. In retrospect, it is still unclear what we were all fighting about. Even more ironic was the fact that the acclimated Jamaicans would not associate with the newer immigrants like me. It was illogical for us to fight each other. It was difficult to make friends with anyone. The culturally dominant group did not accept the Jamaicans, the Puerto Ricans, or the African-Americans. A better strategy would have been to provide a united front against the forces of oppression. If either group ventured outside Hartford – if we were in any cities other than New Haven or Bridgeport – we would quickly be treated as inferiors. I was being forced to deal with too many incomprehensible issues in my teen years. I needed a sense of belonging.

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My Jamaican ethnicity had both positive and negative consequences. Some of the positive aspects of being Jamaican were that once some Caucasians looked beyond the color of my skin and realized I was Jamaican, it seemed as though I gained some unequivocal favor in their eyes over being an AfricanAmerican. For example, I remembered having a definite advantage in being Jamaican over the two African-American young ladies who brought the total to three of us in my sophomore year and their first year to our dormitory at the University of Connecticut in Storrs. As a result of that insignificant gain over most African-Americans, I never really wanted to be labeled as an “AfricanAmerican.” Subconsciously, I think that’s why I hesitated in becoming an American citizen. I savored the sense of power that being Jamaican gave to me. It was always uncomfortable for me to feel a sense of rejection among my peers. Even when I had children of my own, I made sure their names were reflective of the dominant group. The drawbacks to being a Jamaican were usually being asked to speak for all Jamaicans. In high school, other groups critiqued Jamaicans as being overly aggressive in attaining educational goals. Most Jamaicans are high achievers by the very definition of our culture. A quality education was imperative to a better future in Jamaica, and most of us continued to hold that factor to be self-evident in this country. However, my underachieving brothers are a testament that not all Jamaicans are high goal seekers. In the workplace, Jamaicans are ridiculed for holding several jobs at one time. For example, my mom currently works as a Certified Nursing Assistant, which is a typical job for most uneducated Jamaican women. It is a lucrative area, in which the demands for hard and dedicated workers are matched with ample income. Most groups fail to understand that many Jamaicans work more than one job to ensure a better future not only for the family here in the United States but also for the ones remaining on our little island. Many Jamaicans adhere to the philosophy of our national motto: “Out of many, one people.” As such, most of us firmly believe in helping any Jamaican just because that person is a fellow Jamaican. The values that my ethnic group placed on education helped to determine my social class. In Jamaica, most people held more prejudices with someone’s economic standing than they did with their race. So, the concept that education and income related positively was echoed at home and at school at an early age. When we immigrated to the United States, where the opportunities for advancements exceeded the barriers to them, I clearly understood that education was even more so the key to a better life for me. My bachelor’s degree, for example, denotes that I earn more money than a cashier at the corner store. And, even though I consider myself to be at the lower end of the American middle class system, I still feel that I have power in my current social standing. For example, I am not receiving any public assistance from the government, and I

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once again have the opportunity to advance my degree as I am doing presently. The assumption that I can decide my social class makes me feel powerful. As a result, my economic status has an impact on my family. The experiences resulting from my ethnic background have allowed me to be extremely resilient within my family. Many Jamaicans live within extended family structures that usually are headed by a female. Granny was the strong and dominant force in our home. With Granny as my role model, my basic paradigm demonstrated that men played an insignificant role within a family. As such, I was never fearful when I became divorced that I would be unable to support my children. I had an education and a career. After my divorce, I feared more so the embarrassment of losing friends my ex-husband and I had made as a couple and not having a husband like most of the other women my age at my church. I quickly regained control of the situation by using some of the strategies from growing up in a non-traditional family. I overcame the fear of alienation from friends by immersing myself into my children and by moving to another city and church. I am now the sole financial provider within my family. It is wonderful for me – a woman – to have this feeling of power within the family. The gender issue was truly the parody of my culture. The notion that women were subservient to men permeated our little island. On one hand, Jamaican women were encouraged to gain an education. On the other hand, it was implied they were to be submissive to their male partner. The men in most homes were confused about their roles because there were no clear identifiable markers for them other than to be bread- winners. On an economically depressed island such as Jamaica, it always took more than one person to earn sufficient wages. It also was easier for the women to be employed because the need for domestic help was always in abundance. I remembered seeing how tired Granny and my mom would be from doing housekeeping chores within our home and outside. I vowed at an early age that I would only clean up in my home. I now own a home without a man’s assistance. I have the independence and security of not relying on a man. I feel that I have power within my gender. Yet, I understand that a responsible man is an asset. Intolerance was the operative word when it came to sexual identity within my ethnic group. Many Jamaicans would probably say their justification for such disdain was Biblically based. From a Christian viewpoint, they believed that God created “Adam and Eve” and not “Adam and Steve.” Anyone who deviated from being “straight” was called a “batty boy” – I remembered that term from a very young age. It was much later in life before I knew what it meant. I left Jamaica at a relatively young age and my exposure to the media was limited to a hand-held radio. Therefore, I was able to retain most of my childhood innocence for a longer period of time than the current average for most American adolescents. I feel that I have complete control over my sexual

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identity as a “straight person.” Because I treat each person as a human being, I doubt that I would treat a homosexual person any differently than a heterosexual one. My ethnic makeup was tantamount to my professional identity. Employment within the caring professional fields was always emphasized in the Jamaican culture. It was evident in the fact that many professional Jamaicans are usually teachers, doctors, nurses, and or airline stewards or stewardesses. Unlike the teachers here in the United States, Jamaican teachers are highly respected. For example, teachers are given special discounts on housing and pay a discounted rate on declared goods brought into the island from a foreign country like the United States. It was expressed overtly in my culture that knowledge was power. I feel that I have achieved that power because of my educational attainment. In turn, I have power within my professional identity and financial independence. America is truly the “melting pot“ for acculturation. Where else in the world can a person go to learn, everyone has the right to be accepted in spite of his or her “race, creed, color, gender or ethnicity?” America is not perfect, but it is still the greatest place on earth for humanitarian rights. God Bless America! Dem have to bound mi, gag mi, an’ handcuff mi if tek mi outta Merika.

CHAPTER ELEVEN A GIFT TO MY CHILDREN YANET RUÍZ LACAYO (CUBA)

I have had the opportunity to speak about my life and about my past several times during my education. I thought that the more I wrote about my life, the more numb I eventually would become to the feelings that emerged, and I’d just be “writing a paper.” I was wrong; the truth is every time that I write about my experiences, new emotions arise. I feel that each time I reflect, I express myself in new ways. I feel many people don’t truly take the time to explore what they have gone through or what their family has undergone in terms of migration and identity. I have learned that it is important to examine both in order to truly understand current choices and behavior. In this essay, I will be as open and as factual as I can be. I am now considered what is known as “Generation X.” According to the earlier generations, this generation does not have the best reputation. For example, we have been called the most liberated and carefree generation, the rebellious generation, doing what we want and when we want, no remorse, no respect. I do not entirely agree with this statement, although I know my generation has crossed many barriers. Also, I’m not one to go with the trend and may not meet the criteria that describes this generation. I’m going to begin to tell you a little about my relatives. All of my family was born in Cuba, with the exception of my mother’s father; my great-grandfather was born in Spain in 1888. He then moved to Cuba years later, for reasons of which we’re not aware; we also don’t know when he moved. He met my grandmother and they were married on February 9th, 1930. Aside from those facts, my mother does not know much more about her father’s history. My grandparents on my father’s side also were born in Cuba. My grandfather was deeply involved in Cuban politics. Because of the change from President Carlos Prío to Fulgencio Batista, my grandfather began to set up a

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group to prepare them for battle against Batista. He was caught, and he needed to flee to the United States. At that time, asking for asylum was much simpler than it is now; therefore, he was granted his asylum and moved to New York and lived in the Bronx for six years. Throughout those years, he visited Cuba several times to see and be with his family. Each time he went back, he was arrested; they would torture him in order to get some valuable information, which he never disclosed. At times, he would be released, while other times he would escape. While he was in New York, he needed to establish his life; therefore, he worked as a mechanic making parts for boats. This allowed him to live well and to be able to visit his family in Cuba. My grandfather died of a massive heart attack on August 19th, 1960. In Cuba, my grandfather left behind a wife, Isabel Avellaneda, and three sons, Santiago Ruiz, Raúl Ruiz (my father), and Rodolfo Ruiz. After his death, one of his sons needed to assume the role of my grandfather in two separate ways. The two roles the sons needed to take were the head of the home, which would set forth discipline and respect, and the continuation of his name in politics and work. My oldest uncle took the first position, which was to be the head of the house. He declined the second position because his focus was elsewhere when it came to work and politics. My father then stepped forward and took that position. At the age of 16, my father was fighting at the Bay of Pigs in support of the Cuban Revolution. He also was involved in many of the movements that Fidel Castro was leading at that time. He was a leader, sent to organize an island in Cuba called La Isla de Pino, which now is called La Isla de la Juventud (the Isle of Youth). This island was abandoned, with no civilization, and Fidel assigned several men to initiate civic life there, to build movie theatres, restaurants, homes, and work places. Aside from this, my father was involved in many other activities associated with the revolution. While these events were taking place, a moment came when one of the first exoduses began; this was in the 1960s. My oldest uncle decided this would be the time for him to leave. He fled to Spain and began a life there. He had been working as a hairstylist in Cuba, and he continued his career in Spain. My father had no intention of leaving Cuba because he was very comfortable and was committed to Fidel’s social ideals. He believed all of the promises that were being made to the Cuban people at this time by Fidel Castro. Years passed and the situation in Cuba became more complex. My father met my mother, and they were married three months after they met, on December 10th, 1967. On May 3rd, 1969, my sister Diana Isabel Ruiz was born; nine years later, on May 27th, 1978, I was born. My parents were noticing at this time that goals were not being accomplished, and promises made were being broken. For example, Fidel

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focused so much on his power and authority that he was forgetting the people and their needs. Two years after I was born, another exodus began, and was termed El Mariel, named after the port city near Havana. This time, Fidel allowed family members from the U.S to claim their families in Cuba. Fidel took this opportunity to release the criminals from the jails and also mentally disturbed patients and political prisoners who had been held in Fidel’s mental institutions. Needless to say, this group was not the most wanted group of immigrants, and many Cubans who came to the United States in the 1960s were not in agreement with the U.S. policy that allowed this 1980 exodus. My father decided that Mariel provided the opportunity that he needed to take his family out of Cuba. Making this choice meant he was risking his life, because when people found out he was leaving, the officials from the government hunted for him. After living several years in the United States, my father informed my sister and I that his departure had been discovered because an aunt had betrayed him and had spread the word that he had plans to leave Cuba. This betrayal created a great deal of pain for my father, but after several years, he forgave his aunt and no longer holds a grudge. Many terrible things occurred during the time that we were attempting to depart from Cuba. We experienced death threats, eggs were thrown at our faces by all of the people who were disagreed with everyone who chose to leave Cuba at this time, and there were many other disturbing situations. We thank God daily that He guided our way, because if not, we still would be there, or worse. My uncle who already had moved from Spain to Miami heard about the opportunity to rescue his family from Cuba and bring them to the United States. He rented a boat, went to Cuba and claimed his mother, mother-in-law, my father, and the three of us. After many trials and terrifying circumstances involved in this exit from Cuba, we finally arrived in Miami on May 27th, 1980, my birthday. Now that we were in the U.S., we were faced with a completely different scenario. I was still a baby when we arrived, so the first testimony that I’m going to share is not a direct one but one communicated to me by my family. Both of my parents began to work two jobs while my grandmother cared for my sister and I. My sister began to go to school and was treated as if there was something wrong with her. Her language was different, her clothing was different, and her character was different. The people who came in The Mariel Exodus were considered to be “the worst of the crop,” and because my sister arrived during that exodus, she was judged as low class and dirty. As so many people arrived during that exodus, there were other children in my sister’s school who were going through the same things. They stuck together but it didn’t make life any easier. My sister began to work as soon as she was allowed to legally, in order to

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help the household with all of the financial obligations. My parents worked really hard to adjust to their new living quarters. My parents wanted to start a new life even though there was much about their new life that was not known to them. They left everyone they knew. They left everything they knew how to do, in order for my sister and I to have what we could never have in the place they loved so much. The Cuba they knew and loved was slowly turning into a place they couldn’t live with, and was somewhere in which they especially didn’t want their daughters to grow up. The language barrier was always one of the greatest issues for both my parents and sister. Even though my sister was in school, her English was not the same as that of the other kids; her English had an accent. As for my parents, they never had the time to learn the language; they were working either too late or too hard. While I was growing up and I started to go to school, it was easier for me. I started fresh. My concerns were that my parents didn’t know the language, and every time there was an open-house or a game I was playing, they didn’t understand anything that was going on, unless I translated. This situation never allowed me to be completely open, as I wanted to be, when my parents were around my friends. I knew everything I said or they said I needed to translate; therefore, I would try to talk as little as possible or have them interact only when needed. In that case, I wouldn’t have to explain everything that was happening. I also felt badly for them because they couldn’t have any conversations, and I know that they wanted to participate. I always needed to talk to my friends in Spanish if my parents were present because that was rude if I didn’t do so. I still need to do that, but now it’s not an embarrassment. My parents never allowed me to forget my origins. I grew up listening to Cuban music, eating Cuban food, and talking to or about my family who still resided in Cuba. The stories were a weekly event in my house – about my father’s war stories and my grandfather’s heroic acts. We celebrated Noche Buena, Christmas Eve, when we roast a huge pig in the ground, with blocks and all, from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m., or until we know it’s ready to eat. We celebrated Christmas Day. We rang the New Year in by singing the Cuban Anthem every December 31st at 12:00 a.m. We also cried every New Year’s because we had family members who were not here with us, but were still in Cuba. My father would sit in a chair listening to his old Cuban songs while he would cry and tell me how he longed for the day he would again walk through the streets of Cuba. To this day, my father still does this. I grew up knowing that when they said, “We’re having company,” I was going to have at least 15 people in my house until all hours of the night. In January we go to “Three Kings Day” parade with other Cuban immigrants. Another cultural experience I experienced was when I started dating. I was not able to go out on my own with a guy until I was 19 years old. I was allowed

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to go out with my friends but never was I able to go out alone with a guy. My sister needed to take my grandmother everywhere as a chaperone. If I was ever serious with any of the guys I wanted to see and I was going to call him “boyfriend” and he wanted to come to my house, then he needed to talk to my father and present himself; if not, he would not have the “proper” entrance to the house. I could always have friends to our home, but never one who might be considered a boyfriend. All of these traditions came from my parent’s upbringing, which they passed on to my sister and I. It wasn’t until later in my life that I came to appreciate all of this. I once was ashamed of being Cuban. By “ashamed” I mean I didn’t learn to appreciate my culture until I was older. I was different – my family was different. I thought that because I wasn’t like everyone else, I would be considered strange. I learned later that because of the fact that I was different and I had a different culture, that was what made me unique. I had experiences I could have shared and from which others could have learned. I was not giving others the opportunity to learn because I didn’t want to learn myself. Now, I can’t believe I was ever denying who I was. I came to realize that I wasn’t ashamed of just being “Cuban” then, but I was ashamed of all that my parents did for me; I was ashamed of all that my grandfather did for a cause. All the tears they shed, all the hurt they went through – I was ashamed of all of this, and there is no way I will ever be able to take away the credit and the praise that my parents deserve for doing what they did. I’ve shared much about my family and a few of the struggles we’ve been through as a family. I’ve also shared about our traditions and customs, and the adjustments they went through to be able to make it in a new country. As I mentioned before, I shared my families’ testimony on their adjustments and their barriers. Now, I will share with you some more personal ones. My ethnicity has always been the same as that of my parents, even if at one point I didn’t feel like it was – meaning I was always sharing my parent’s culture and beliefs. I enjoyed the traditions, and I shared their beliefs. My family was always very close. We always had celebrations that brought us together. As I shared with you earlier, a visit at my house was never just two people. We traveled in packs. It was not a surprise, or isn’t still a surprise, that on a given Wednesday night, I have 15 people in my house just talking and playing dominoes. My friends know me for my “Cubanism,” if you will. The way I act, the slang words, and the phrases I may use indeed are very Cuban. I have always considered myself to be middle-class. I have never “had it all,” but I have never lacked it all either. My parents worked very hard, and while I was growing up, I had everything I asked for. If I wanted a bike for Christmas, I got that bike for Christmas. I was never taught to shop by brand name, but if I needed sneakers, I had them. I didn’t know if they were from Marshall’s or

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Nike, but I had my shoes. When I got older and became more mature, I began to notice where the money came from. Obviously, as a typical teenager, I didn’t make things easy for my parents, but I look back and notice they sacrificed a lot to give me what I had. It wasn’t until I began to work and started to pay bills that I came to realize that more money went out instead of coming in. Now, I knew why my parents went to Payless instead of having all brand name shoes. It was okay, and I needed to be grateful because I knew there were a lot of other people who didn’t have half the things I did. I mentioned before that my family was always close. We’ve never been in a position in which a very important decision had to take place until recently, when my grandmother was dying in the hospital. Even then, they heard what I had to say; if they considered it or not, I’m not sure, but at least they heard me out and they respected my feelings. Now, prior to that situation with my grandmother, no major family decisions had ever been made in which I was not consulted or asked to share an opinion. I was always and still am considered the baby of the family. When I got married, everyone was in tears saying the baby was getting married. I have always been babied by my parents, especially my father. I have my responsibilities, and I have always had responsibilities but in truth they have never been like the ones my sister had when she was my age, or even younger. My parents always focused on my education. They needed to focus more on my sister’s work status than they ever did with me. The reason for that was they needed my sister to work in order for her to contribute to the bills, whereas I worked but more for personal reasons than actual necessities. I also gave financially to my parents for the bills of the house, but again it didn’t compare to what my sister had to give when she was growing up. I also had more freedom than my sister did. Therefore, my position within the family was not as equal to my sister in some ways, but at the same time, I feel they respect her more as an adult than they do me. The reason for that is that I think they will always see me as a baby, and not as an adult. Even if I do adult things and I’m establishing my life as an adult, I will always be seen as everyone’s baby. I was my father’s “little boy.” When I was growing up, I was in every sport known. I played softball, soccer, basketball, kickball, and tag football. I asked for bats and gloves for Christmas instead of the big Barbie House that every girl in the neighborhood had. My parents were called in to see the principle numerous times because of my behavior. I would fight at school all the time, and I was known as one of the tomboys of school. I didn’t mind, because I was doing what I liked. Now, when I started liking the cute boys, but they treated me as just one of the guys – that was when the heartbreak began. I remember my mother was so upset for having to go to school because I was fighting, whereas my dad would call me aside and tell me I should never allow anyone to hit me,

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and if they did to hit them harder. I’m sure people would question my sexuality. In fact, I remember one of my aunts once said that if my mother didn’t take me out of these sports, that I probably would become gay. My mother never liked when she said that, and never agreed, but she sometimes would ask me why I couldn’t do things like ballet or gymnastics. I would just respond that it wasn’t me. When I got hurt and my doctor told me I would no longer be able to play softball because of my shoulder, my mother wasn’t happy I was hurt but I think she was happy I wouldn’t be able to get hurt again. I’ve never questioned my gender identity, but I enjoyed doing what the males did better than what the girls did; men had more fun. I still love to play sports and I watch them, and any time I have a chance to play, I do. When I’m blessed with kids, I will never deprive my daughter from sports just because she’s a girl. I’ll be her coach. I’m now trying to finish my master’s degree in Marriage and Family Therapy. I know I’m living in a time when women have many more rights. We’re not completely free from any prejudiced comments or people in the world, but times have gotten a lot better. I have never been directly hit with a prejudiced comment because of my gender in the work place. In general, I’ve faced comments, but never directed to me personally. I feel people – men – are coming to realize there are suits made for women. Those women are taking future clients to lunch to close that big deal and not to go to bed with them. We’re not where we need to be, but I think we’re working up to it, and things look better. I pray that when my daughter grows up and chooses whatever she wants to be, that people will be more accepting and give more encouragement to her rather than discouragement. I have shared with you several personal situations I have experienced as a child, and then as a Cuban-American woman. I believe God uses experiences to mold and to make you a better person. At times, we never learn from the experience of others, but we could learn to appreciate them and to respect and also look at them with a more expansive worldview. I will always appreciate my parents for what they did for me and I will try, as I get older and as I have my own children, to provide them with the same amount of sacrifice and love that my parents showed me. I always tell my father that I’m going to always tell my children where they truly come from and to share with them the same stories they shared with me. We do this with my nephews now, and I can’t wait to give my children that same gift.

CHAPTER TWELVE I KNOW WHO I AM ELIZABETH VALENCIA (U.S.A./COLOMBIA)

My name is Elizabeth Valencia and I’m a member of the Black/Hispanic ethnicity group. My citizenship status is that of U.S. citizen. I was born and raised in the United States. I represent the second generation in my family to step foot on U.S. soil. The first generation is of course my mother and father. My parents came to the U.S. in 1980, from Colombia. They came in expectation of a better life for their children (my older brother and two older sisters), their family back home in Colombia, and themselves. They believed that in this country they could have better jobs and could give their children the education that in their native country would have been difficult, if not impossible. My parents came to the United States leaving behind what little they owned, along with family and friends. They arrived here in Miami, Florida, in October of 1980, not knowing the native language and not having the skills or education to obtain permanent or middle-class income jobs. Only one month later, I arrived as the new member of the family. It was extremely difficult trying to adjust, but they always managed to provide at least the necessities of life. It was also very stressful and depressing for my parents, not having the rest of the family they left behind in Colombia to share in the up coming holidays, as well as not having enough money to purchase those nice things other families purchase to dress the holidays. Even with all the hardships my family endured, they always managed to make those sad times not be so sad at all. From a very young age, we learned the value and importance of family over any tangible matter or substance. The situation later slowly but surely improved for my parents. Both my parents began working. They both used knowledge and skills obtained back in Colombia to work. My father earned a living in the construction business, and my mother earned a living as a housekeeper in a hotel. My parents said this was

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their first actual culture shock. They were amazed that here in the U.S. both men and women work. However, back in Colombia it was extremely common for men to work, and for women to stay with the children, and tend to the home. Also in the U.S., stay-at-home moms are viewed as an acceptable profession; however, when the role is reversed and there are stay-at-home dads in the U.S., moms can be the breadwinners. My brother and sisters were enrolled in free public school, which was another surprise, because in Colombia my parents would have to pay monthly for each child to attend school, pay for textbooks, and school lunches. Here in the U.S. school, books, and lunch was free, and open to anyone who wanted to attend school, even parents. My parents, neither of whom had a high school diploma due to the financial hardship of my grandparents, were able to obtain that and so much more through the school system. They were gratified that education was cost-free. They were taught the English language and, for the first time, it was easy to understand some of the smallest things that gave them trouble before. A few of those things included going to the grocery store, paying bills, and talking to teachers and doctors. The hardest thing was not speaking the language well enough to obtain better paying jobs. My parents said that racism was not something they experienced when they first arrived in the U.S. They believe the racism they endured had to do with the poor neighborhood in which they lived. The area where we lived was occupied by mostly Hispanics of low-income resources. The issue of black Hispanic versus white Hispanics really didn’t exist in Colombia; they all mixed and got along fine. It wasn’t until later when the ethnocentrism developed. My parents say the few Americans who lived in the neighborhood were very nice, and didn’t mind all the Hispanics, and their ways. They say the non-Hispanic neighbors seemed to enjoy the Hispanic culture, music, food, and the togetherness of family and friends at gatherings. Sundays were the best days. I remember church in the morning, barbecues in the afternoon, and family stories at night. My parents say if it wasn’t for the English barrier in the beginning, moving and adjusting to the American way of life would have been as simple as good ole’ American apple pie. My parents tell me that the reason they feel like things were not that difficult for them, as it could have been so much worse, was because of the area they chose to live in. If they had moved into a non-Hispanic neighborhood, they would have felt left out, afraid, and probably would not have tried so hard to learn the language, and overcome all their obstacles, because of fear of ridicule. My parents told me that racism really wasn’t an issue and that change was minimal because we were minorities in the United States; however, they said change came later. As time went by and my family progressed in the work field, learned the language, and so much more, people of other countries began to

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migrate into this huge melting pot, and that’s when racism became an issue, because of an influx of all of the minority groups. People settled into communities made up of those who are members of their ethnic group. Those communities then began to fight for power. My parents say that’s when they actually had their first taste of reality. They knew of slavery, and all the evil things American people had taken part in, but they didn’t actually experience it fully until these conflicts occurred. I remember my first experiences of prejudice and racism were not with Americans, but with my people, other Hispanics who migrated here. I’m a Hispanic with black skin, and I was treated differently by Hispanics with white skin. For the first time, I knew that I was not just a Hispanic, but a black Hispanic, as it was pointed out to me at the age of nine. Before I open my mouth to speak, people perceive me as African American, and that’s o.k. as well, because that’s a part of who I am, although it does not represent all of my complete identity. My first experience of racism with a White American, took place later on during my senior year in high school, when I was followed around in a store from the moment I walked in, until I walked out. I remember the manager telling the person who was following me, “Pay extra attention to those people.” Somewhere down the road, after years of conflict, different ethnic groups began to merge for positive solutions to end conflicts. The major solution I recommend is to identify the strengths that one’s ethnic group has provided to overcome personal and group obstacles in life: family, work, and education, can combat sexism, racism, and the disenfranchisement of ethnic groups. Resilient strengths can be used by the individual to educate others, to become culturally confident beings, and encourage them to do the same with strengths instilled in them from the ethnic group they represent. As a member of a family with a strong upbringing of morals and values, I respect all those who I share similarities with as well as those who are different from me. As a bilingual person at work, I am able to make the customers of my employer feel comfortable and communicate with clarity, which assists them in the productivity of the company. As a student, I understand the importance of education, and so while learning new cultures, I don’t want to forget my own, and, therefore, I currently am a member of clubs culturally related to my ethnic group. As a woman, I’m able to cross those lines, and do the things that were once taboo for my gender. I represent an ethnic group of strong men who now understands the importance of a strong woman who is able to stand on her own two feet. As a member of the middle class population, I’m aware that I’m here, because I’m a driven individual who understands the importance of working hard daily to provide for my family and myself. As a Black/Hispanic, I was able to overcome the natural reaction of becoming upset and staying upset when

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White/Hispanics think they are better than us, when they feel that we are just guests to their culture, because they claim they were there first. Also, I refuse to be forced to choose whether to hang in the circle of all African Americans, or all Hispanics Americans. To go to one, and favor one over another, is the core example of COBRA (color-blind racial attitudes). I know who I am. I was taught who I was through my ethnic group and I won’t go against it. I am all that is mentioned above, and as a member of a Black/Hispanic ethnic group, I proclaim to be as important, with as many contributions to the melting pot, as any other ethnic group. We all are different and hold the power to make a difference. Those who keep their same negative attitudes keep the world this way, and those who bring forth different positive attitudes, change the world for the better. It’s all about knowing who you are (identity), and sharing the strengths given to you by your ethnic group, listening to and respecting the strengths given to others by their group in order to become culturally confident beings who are able to live in a world of hope for an equitable future.

FURTHER READINGS

The following brief list of publications offers further information related to the themes of this book. Anderson, Margaret L., and Hill Collins, Patricia, eds. Race, Class, and Gender: An Anthology. 5th ed. South Melbourne, Australia: Thomson Wadsworth, 2004. [On intersections of race, class, and gender.] Antone, Hope, and Yong Tin Jin, eds. Our Stories, Our Faith. Hong Kong: WSCF Asia Pacific Region, 1992. [On Asian women.] Bowe, John. “Nobodies: Does Slavery exist in America?” The New Yorker, 21 April 2003. [On agricultural workers.] Boyce Davies, Carole. Black Women, Writing and Identity: Migrations of the Subject. London: Routlege, 1994. [On Black women.] Boyce Davies, Carole, ed. Encyclopedia of the African Diaspora. New York: Routlege, (2006). [On African diaspora.] Ember, Melvin, Ember, Carol R., and Skoggard, Ian, eds. Encyclopedia of Diasporas: Immigrant & Refugee Cultures Around the World. 2 Vols. New York: Kluwer Academic/Plenum Publishing, 2004. [On diasporas.] Fisher, Bonnie, ed. Violence against Women and Family Violence: Developments in Research, Practice, and Policy. NCJ 199701. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Justice, National Institute of Justice, 2004. [On violence against women.] Grotberg, Edith Henderson, ed. Resilience for Today: Gaining Strength from Adversity. Westport, CT.: Praeger Publishers, 2005. [On resilience.] Human Rights Watch. Campaign against the Trafficking of Women & Girls. New York: Human Rights Watch. [On trafficking in women and children; available at http://www.hrw.org/about/projects/traffcamp/traffic campaign.htm]

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Jordan, Judith V., ed. Women’s Growth in Diversity: More Writings from the Stone Center. New York: Guilford Press, 1997. [On social conditions and minority women.] Lantiagua, John, et al. “Modern Day Slavery.” Palm Beach Post, 07-09 December 2003, p. 1, and 12-page insert each day. [On human trafficking and modern-day slavery.] Lesage, Julia; Ferber, Abby L.; Storrs, Debbie; and, Wong, Donna. Making a Difference: University Students of Color Speak Out. New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2002. [On social justice.] Marger, Martin N. Race and Ethnic Relations: American and Global Perspectives. 6th ed. South Melbourne, Australia: Thomson Wadsworth, 2003. [On ethnic relations.] The Mission of God and the Suffering and Struggling Peoples of Asia. Quezon City: Christian Conference of Asia, 1989. [On Asian peoples.] Oduyoye, Mercy Amba, and Kanyoro, Musimbi R. A., eds. The Will to Arise: Women, Theology, and the Church in Africa. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1992. [On African women.] Pattel-Gray, Anne, ed. Tiddas Talking Business. Voices from the Edge Series, No. 1. Delhi: Indian Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 2000. [On Aboriginal Australian women.] Trafficking Alert. Washington, DC: Vital Voices-Global Partnership. [On human trafficking and modern-day slavery; periodical available at http://www.vitalvoices.org] Trafficking Victims Protection Act of 2000, Pub. L. No. 106-386, Div. A, 114 Stat. 1464, enacted October 28, 2000. [Also known as “TVPA 2000.” On human trafficking and modern-day slavery.]

QUESTIONS FOR FURTHER REFLECTION

The following questions are intended to facilitate further reflection. These can be used as discussion prompts or as written assignments. They also may be useful in small group or classroom settings to promote critical inquiry. x Who defines “identity” (self, family, society, culture, others)? x What are the root causes that lead to migration? x Are there similarities in the challenges each woman encounter? x What cultural traditions and values are highlighted by each woman? x What is required for “successful transition” after migration? x What is the relationship between migration and stress? x How do the writers transcend the negative effects of racism, sexism, and classism? x Describe the coping skills employed by the writers and the agency that emerged. x What strategies can be used to support and foster resilience in immigrant women? x What would be the effect of full implementation of United Nations Resolution 1325? x How do the writers navigate between culture of origin and the dominant culture to which they migrate? x Describe the process by which some authors achieve a secure sense of ethnic identity.

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x What strategies can be used to support and foster resilience in immigrant women? x Identify the intrinsic strength factors the authors reveal in their narratives. x What impact does the intersection of race and gender have on the writer’s lives? x What experiences and beliefs contribute to hope?

CONTRIBUTORS

Celia Lisset Álvarez is from Cuba. She received an M.F.A. in creative writing from the University of Miami in 1995 and currently teaches English at St. Thomas University, while continuing to work on a Ph.D. in English. Her stories have been published in Poui: The Cave Hill Literary Annual, zingmagazine: A curatorial crossing, Iodine, Mangrove, and the Journal of Feminist Studies (forthcoming). Born in Spain after her parents emigrated from Cuba after the Cuban revolution, she has been living in Miami for more than thirty years, with her husband, her parents, two cats, and one dog. She is currently working on her first novel and has recently published three of her poems in diverse literary journals. (Co-Editor) Prof. Judith Barr Bachay, Ph.D., L.M.H.C., is from the U.S.A. She is Professor of Counselor Education at St. Thomas University, in Miami, Florida and serves as Coordinator of the Master of Science in Guidance and Counseling Program. She is the Founding Advisor of the Women United for Human Rights organization, and a founding member of the Center for Loss and Healing. She has authored two conflict resolution books for the Peace Education Foundation and is a network member of Women Waging Peace. Her research and publication agenda includes the intersection of race, gender, human rights, and peace. She is married to John Bachay, a feminist psychotherapist, and is the mother of Jessica, Jacqueline, and Daniel. Kira N. Brereton, M.P.H., is from Panamá, where she was born and raised. She graduated from McGill University in Canada and from Florida International University (summa cum laude) in the U.S.A. Only in her 20s, she already has served as a Research Assistant in Montreal, the Deputy Executive Director of a Non-Governmental Organization in New York, a Judicial Intern with the U.S. District Court Judge in Miami and with the Florida Supreme Court in Tallahassee, and an Intern at the United Nations in Geneva. She also has served as the Southern Regional Treasurer of the National Black Law Students Association. In the summer of 2005, she participated in an “International Human Rights and the Environment” program in Costa Rica. Currently, she is in her second year of studies for a J.D. degree at the University of Miami School of Law.

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Jennie Georges is Haitian-American. She was born and raised in Miami, the eldest of two children. She is completing her university studies in elementary education and planning to become a school teacher/counselor, working with preK to sixth grade children. She lives with her mom and works as a church secretary. In her mid-20s, she dreams of one day writing a book to help young Haitian-American women, as she is concerned that her peers may be in danger of giving up their own dreams and becoming pregnant, dropping out of school, and falling away from themselves. In her words, “I hope the book I will write can help bring them back to themselves.” Kristine Molina is from Nicaragua. She is a graduate of Smith College, with a B.A. in Psychology. Currently, she is in the Joint Ph.D. program in Women’s Studies and Psychology (Personality in Social Contexts) at the University of Michigan. Until recently, she conducted research at Florida International University’s Community-Based Intervention Research Group (C-BIRG) under a Minority Supplement Grant provided through the National Institute of Alcoholism and Alcohol Abuse (NIAAA). She is interested in research relating to ethnic and cultural issues, the impact of social issues (e.g., poverty and racism/discrimination) on mental health, and factors related to building resilience to stressful life events among underserved populations. She has both a personal and professional goal to effectively research topics relating to ethnicity, culture, class, and gender in a way that will help individuals function optimally in our society. She is determined to make contributions that improve people’s quality of life. Her long-term goal is to become a university researcher/professor in order to serve as a mentor to underrepresented students in the sciences and instill in them a sense of pride and encouragement. She wants to give them the opportunity to develop into socially aware individuals. She believes it is vital people know that allowing others to hear what is necessary for this society is extremely important. Only then will we be able to affect change. Irvin Morales is from Cuba. In 1991, at the age of 12, she was picked up in open waters, in the Florida Straits near Key West, by the U.S. Coast Guard; a few minutes later, the USCG blew up the little 20-foot boat in which she, her brother, and other members of her family had been traveling – all this in full view of an Italian television documentary crew. Since then, she has adjusted to life in the U.S., graduated from university, and made a family. These days, she likes to write and is compiling a book of stories from people who have crossed by ocean from Cuba to the U.S. – and her brother is an officer in the U.S. Coast Guard. Currently, she is a marriage and family therapist working at the Douglas Gardens Community Mental Health Center, in Miami Beach, Florida.

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Shanti K. Nair is from India. She earned a Bachelor of Science in Psychology in Chennai, Madras, India, as well as a Bachelor of Science in Psychology from Oklahoma City University (“OCU”) and a Master of Science degree in Marriage and Family Therapy from St. Thomas University (“STU”) – the latter two in the U.S.A. While a student at OCU, she was a member of the Psi Chi Club and the Asian Association. At STU, she was a member of Women United for Human Rights and of Chi Sigma Iota – Sigma Tau chapter, “an international honor society for students, professional counselors and counselor educators.” She plans to specialize in couples counseling. In her spare time, she likes to go sailing, kayaking, sledding, dancing, traveling, and listening to the sounds of good music. Sandra V. Padilla is from Puerto Rico. She comes from a Catholic, middleclass family. Due to her father’s military career, she spent three years between Rome, in New York, and Guam, in the Pacific. During her teenage years, she participated in activities including speech contests in Spanish, English, and French, among others. Sandra enjoys traveling; either for business or for pleasure, she has visited more than 25 states and 20 countries. As a young woman, she moved quickly up the career ladder, becoming the youngest manager in the factory at which she was working. In 1997, she moved to North Carolina and later on to South Florida, where she lives now. Sandra is studying Pastoral Ministries. Elsa R. Rodríguez was born “on the most beautiful island in the world, Cuba – where the nights are smooth and cool, and the days are warm and soft.” She arrived in the U.S. in 1979. Her father is of Spanish descent and her mother is of Asian and Venezuelan background. She comes from a home of five siblings. She is the true middle child. However, she is closest to her little brother. Currently, she has formed a little family of her own, and she is a very proud mother of an 11-year-old girl and a 13-year-old boy. In her words, “I must say, my life is complete.” Erline Ruff is from Jamaica. She lives in Miami, Florida, with her daughters Domeneque and Kourtney. While employed as a full-time teacher with the Miami-Dade County Public School System, she earned her Master’s degree in Guidance and Counseling at St. Thomas University. She is a member of the Chi Sigma Iota International Honor Society. Currently, she is a high school guidance counselor. She is the oldest of six children; she migrated to the United States from Jamaica at the age of fifteen. Her travels have taken her from the underdeveloped areas of Tijuana, Mexico, to the exotic islands of Hawai’i. She has served her church in the capacity of Education Secretary, Assistant

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Superintendent, Choir member, Assistant Clerk, and Hostess. She constantly hails God first and foremost in all her plans. Yanet Ruiz Lacayo is from Cuba. She was raised in Miami and is in her late 20s. She, along with her parents and sister, is one of the many people who arrived in the U.S. in the “Mariel Exodus,” on May 27, 1980 – her birthday. She recently graduated from St. Thomas University, where she earned her Master’s degree in Marriage and Family Therapy. She is married and presently is serving the Lord in ministry alongside her husband, Freddy Lacayo, in a church that God appointed, named New Life Ministries Miami. In her words, “Arriving to the United States was my first step of success that God has blessed my family and me.” Elizabeth Valencia is from the U.S.A. and Colombia. She is an undergraduate student at St. Thomas University, majoring in psychology. She plans to become a freelance author and, someday, to open her own public relations firm and run her own magazine. * (Cover Artist) Gail Schaefer was born in the U.S.A. She has been part of the Miami-Dade Public School system for 22 years. Presently, she teaches art at Palmetto Middle School in Pinecrest, Florida. She has a Master’s degree in Art Education. Gail has been married for more than 20 years and has two daughters (ages 18 and 13) and an 8-year-old son. Her mother was born in Cuba of Spanish descent, and her father is of Lebanese/Irish descent. Her passion for teaching is the driving force that enables her to continue making a difference in the lives of her students. * (Co-Editor) The Rev. Prof. Raúl Fernández-Calienes, Ph.D., is from Cuba. He is an ordained minister of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) and is currently Executive Assistant to the Dean and Visiting Associate Professor at the St. Thomas University School of Law. He has served on the staffs of the Aboriginal & Islander Commission of the National Council of Churches in Australia and of the St. Thomas University Human Rights Institute in the U.S. A prolific writer, his English and Spanish-language publications include more than 120 monographs, chapters, articles, editorials, and reviews. A sought-after researcher and editor, he also has served as editor or production editor for many other award-winning authors, who are published in Australia, India, Korea,

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Switzerland, the U.K., and the U.S.A. In 1990, he was awarded a Fellowship for Human Rights Work from the Consortium on Rights Development; in 2000, he was awarded a Woodrow Wilson National Fellowship Foundation Practicum Grant.

INDEX

1.5 generation, 43

civil society, 3, 7, 16, 17

9/11, 35

classism, 45, 47

acculturation, 55, 81

Coloniales, 29

Afro-Antillanos, 29, 30, 32, 33

Commonwealth of Puerto Rico, 64

American Dream, 75

cultural values, 71

American way of life, 60, 76, 77, 92

culture shock, 60, 77, 92

Antilles, 64

discrimination, 47, 57, 66, 67, 72,

Arecibo (Puerto Rico), 63, 65, 66

100

asalto, 66

disenfranchisement, 93

assimilation, 67

Easter, 38

Atlantic Ocean, 29

education, 34, 43, 44, 49, 55, 58,

balseros, 52, 53

60, 66, 79, 80, 83, 88, 91, 93,

Barbados, 29, 30

100

Barbie(s), 22, 88

elitism, 45

Bay of Pigs, 84

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, 1, 51

biculturation, 55

Epiphany, 65, 68

Boricua, 64

exodus, 66, 85

Brazil, 29

feminism, 28

Bridgeport (Connecticut), 78

food, 39, 40, 44, 68, 75, 77, 78, 86,

Bronx (New York), 84

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Brooklyn (New York), 33

Fourth of July, 56

California, 12, 57

freedom, 8, 59, 60, 69, 88

Canada, 29, 31, 34, 35, 56, 99

Generation X, 83

Christmas, 64, 65, 68, 70, 86, 87, 88

Gold Roll, 33

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Index

graduate school, 47, 49

migrant worker, 75

Grenada, 29

music, 47, 65, 70, 78, 86, 92, 101

Guam, 63, 64, 68, 101

New Haven (Connecticut), 78

Hartford (Connecticut), 75, 76, 77,

New Year’s, 38, 86

78

New York City, 31, 33

Havana, 69, 85

Noche Buena, 70, 86

Hispano-American War, 64

Pacific Ocean, 29

Holy Week, 65, 68

Panamá Canal Project, 29

Immigration Regional Restriction

Panamanian English, 32, 33

Act, 57

parranda, 66

Indian Regional Exclusion Act, 58

patois, 75

Indios Tainos, 64

plantations, 29

Isis, 19, 22, 24, 25, 28

pollera, 31

Isthmus of Panamá, 29

Poughkeepsie (New York), 77

Jamaica, 29, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,

powerless, 4, 53

101

Punjab, 56, 57

janitor, 46

quincayero, 66

jibara(o), 63, 66

racism, 45, 47, 71, 72, 92, 93, 100

Key West (Florida), 52, 100

Sabbath, 78

king, 40

San Juan (Puerto Rico), 63, 65

language, 30, 32, 33, 37, 47, 49, 66,

segregation, 32

70, 71, 76, 85, 86, 91, 92

Señorita, 68

Little Havana (Florida), 44

sexism, 93

Macon (Georgia), 63

Silver Roll, 33

Mariel, 85, 102

slave trade, 29

Massachusetts, 56, 75, 77

slavery, 29, 93

Mavi, 68

St. Lucia, 29, 30

melting pot, 81, 93, 94

Supreme Court, 57, 99

merengue, 70

Survival of the fittest, 61

Michigan, 64

Three Kings Day, 86

Women Moving Forward

107

tourists, 53

West Indians, 29, 30

tradition, 37, 38, 59, 64, 65, 70

West Side Story, 67

U.S. Air Force, 63

women in the military, 67

U.S. Citizenship, 64

Women of Color, 48

United Nations, 2, 3, 10, 14, 15, 16,

Women Waging Peace, 2, 3, 8, 11,

17, 99 Vietnam War, 58 visa, 59

12 Wonder Woman, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24, 25, 27, 28