Popping the Bubble in an Upside-Down World

Sometimes I think that I know myself; that I understand my cultural and social identity; that I comprehend the world around me, its people and its rules—but I know that it is all a lie.

In reality I do not know anything—at least just yet; life has not even started for me.

I live in a bubble. I try to pop it, but it is not time.

You see, I come from the middle of the Caribbean, where mulattas walk down the streets of solitude to the rhythm of salsa, tobacco, and rum. And although my inner heat rises in the Caribbean Sea, and my roots are attached to the rich soil of a half an island positioned under a sizzling sun, I live in the American north.

Thus my culture is a rollercoaster of downs and ups—blending rice with fries, merengue and rock. I now find myself at the mall, rather than the beach; I live in an upside-down world. And sometimes, just like Guatemalan artist Ricardo Arjona would ask, I think what if the North was the South…“Indigenous and dark would be the cool look; Castro would run stocks in Wall Street; the Yankees would run to Tijuana; and the boats would go from Miami to Havana.”

But in reality the North is not the South, and although I come from the South, I live in the North.

I have no definite identity—a continent’s geography has destroyed, yet built who I am—I just don’t know it yet.

I am not ready to pop the bubble.

Just thinking...