Much of the United States’ population consists of hyphenated-Americans. We are a country of immigrants and that is reflected in the criss-crossing, overlapping, diverging and parallel identifiers that individuals are somehow supposed to put together to creat this thing called identity.
Lourdes Gil, a Cuban poet, once wrote about the celebration of “a day like today, when we can finally speak across our histories.”
In my family, this means conversations between generations who have lived very different lives in radically different countries. It means home videos on repeat and debates on U.S. – Cuba relations. It means croquetas and flan in the same kitchen as poptarts and Publix chicken wings. It means doing my History Honors Thesis on the making of Cuban-American identity.
For many children and grandchildren of immigrants, conversation plays a key role in connecting them to their heritage, but what happens when those physical links dwindle? How do you remain connected to a place you’ve never seen? To memories owned by people who have left us?
The answer: well, there isn’t one. Each family is different; every heritage unique. Some of us scramble to preserve our family’s past and others shake it off. I happen to cling to my hyphenated-American identifiers. That doesn’t mean you should too.
Photo credit: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/395472411007013389/