“I know you’re technically diverse, but you just don’t look like it.”
It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, but when you hear it from a friend you don’t really know what to say.
Just another variation of “But you’re too white—it doesn’t count.” An age old micro-aggression that I—and countless others who have latino heritage—have heard time and again. Like little pin pricks over and over and over as if you’re supposed to just get used to it.
And yes, I have green eyes and red hair and vampire-white skin. I love my Irish heritage, too. But one side of my family is Puerto Rican—and it counts.
It counts that I go to Zumba with my mama every week because when I was growing up she filled our home with latin music.
It counts that there are certain words and phrases I’ll only say in Spanish because my family did.
It counts that when you look in my freezer you’ll find a few tubs of butter that are actually tubs of sofrito.
It counts that my grandma taught me how to make sofrito from scratch when I was a little girl, and I still remember how my hands smelled like garlic for days after that first time.
It counts that one of my comfort meals is a dish that my Papi used to make for us.
It counts that I make arroz con pollo using my great-grandmother’s recipe, and I’ll never be able to make it taste exactly like hers because she was sneaky and left things off the recipe card.
It counts that certain smells take me right back to getting out of the car and running up to my great-grandparents’ apartment and how we could already smell what was cooking from the parking lot.
It counts that I love yellow gold because it reminds my of my great-grandma’s jewelry and also of that one time my Papi shimmied into the living room, singing and dancing in nothing but a pair of shiny gold boxers.
It counts that I was raised around music and singing and dancing and unbridled joy that loves out loud.
It counts that my grandpa, great-uncle, and great-grandparents left Puerto Rico and made their home in Rochester, NY.
It counts and it matters.
We’re expecting our first baby this spring, and the Puerto Rican slice in the pie chart of his DNA will be pretty small. But you can bet I will pass along the generations of traditions, culture, and stories that make us who we are—
The Bowers Burrow 