Let me take it back to 1994.
I was in the seventh grade and, at the time, my mom took our family to her first barrio in Santo Domingo almost annually. Los Mina felt like a time out from the hustle and bustle of New York City. Rectangular houses no taller than two stories, dusty roads with their not run parallel, and roosters telling us the time characterize my imagination of the place. The slowest, soulful bachatas would play from the durable radio, still around from the 1950s. My grandaunt wondered whether her American-raised kids wanted mangú with salchichón or frosted flakes (yes, an alternate brand) for breakfast. We were still in poverty, but the matriarchs knew to feed each other nevertheless.
In the summer, my grandfather or uncles would drive to any of the nearest beaches so the sun would add a darker coat on our skins. In the winter, we had a full 12 days of Christmas, streets shut down for days on end with people eating and dancing in the streets. On the flight home, I’d come back bearing gifts like iron cups or dulce that I’d enjoy for days after.
When we flew back home, I’d carry those memories with me until the next trip. This narrative was common among my fellow Dominicans, many of whom still had houses there. The pilgrimages kept the culture alive in new contexts wherever two or more Dominicans were gathered.
Unfortunately, that’s not often enough to be fully seen as having “culture.” In the seventh grade, my Spanish teacher of Spanish background asked us to write a mini-biography about our family. In my first round of questions, my mother responded enthusiastically. I couldn’t stop taking notes about the pride she felt about the obstacles she overcame to get from Santo Domingo to Miami to New York City. My first draft seemed to go well enough. We then had a second round of questions, to which my mother had a harder time responding. She not only felt ill on the due date, but seemed to evade details for her inquisitive child.
I pieced together what I could, but it wasn’t enough.
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