“Where you From?”

In a little while, I’ll be celebrating my 14 year anniversary of moving to the States. I was eleven when I left, so most of my life has been spent here. Still, when I consider the question, “Where are you from?” my answer seems to vary, often depending on my mood or on who’s asking.

Interestingly enough, I know several people born here who do not like to consider themselves American. Many of them say they don’t really feel American. I can’t say that I truly do either, but neither do I feel Trinidadian.

Part of me hates actually saying that. After all, growing up in Trinidad was great, and I wouldn’t change it for anything. My world there was small and clearly defined. I was young, and the only people in my life who really meant anything were my family. The hardest thing in my life as a child seemed to be keeping track of family….

Things changed incredibly abruptly. Suddenly, at the age of eleven and a half or so, I was starting over in America. I don’t think that anyone told me I had to start over, and I doubt that at that age I was making a conscious decision to start over, but that’s essentially how it was. Being young, I had not yet made any incredibly strong, lasting friendships, and to be honest, as much as I love my family, for the first several months in America, the only people I missed were my dad and my grandmother. When I thought of Trinidad, they were the only people to come to my mind.

Anyway, at the age of eleven, I was starting over…. As an American…. And it wasn’t easy. People didn’t understand my Trinidadian accent. My mother was going to school and working long hours to help “get us going.” I knew no one. Classmates were pretty much always signing my yearbooks, “You are so weird…. J.K.” [J.K. = just kidding.... But were they?]

Pretty soon, the accent disappeared. I switched from heavily accented to quietly mumbled. But my mumbling clearly had a California twang, and my lifestyle quickly followed suit.

But there was quite a bit of resistance. Somewhere between the ages of 13 and 14, I started hanging out with the friendly local punkers. Most of the punk groups I listened to were heavily political, and were constantly singing about inequality in American society, and horrors of the country’s past. And I wasn’t a citizen… didn’t have any sense of incredibly strong loyalty…

…not that I can really say that I feel any more loyal now that I am a citizen. But, with each passing year, I am more appreciative of what my life here has given me.

Not American. Not Trinidadian. I’m not even sure if it’s safe to say I’m a blend. Sort of like citrus in milk. But then again, I’ve never been too fond of using labels.

There’s a line that gets repeated a few times in my favorite movie, Magnolia, that “We may be through with the past, but the past sure isn’t through with us.” Whatever I am, I’m happy with it. I’m happy with what my past has given me. And I know it has a lot more in store for me too.

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