¡Mamá, Borinquen me llama! ¡Este país no es el mío! ¡Borinquen es pura flama, y aquí me muero de frío! –“Nostalgia” by Virgilio Dávila
After Thanksgiving, everything turned red and white: the shops, restaurants, cars, and people seemingly forgot, as if a switch had been flipped, that Thanksgiving had just passed. The cold started to creep into my bones as my nostalgia did, as this was my first Christmas season spent away from Puerto Rico. During Christmas Eve I worked, when usually I’d be bloated because of all the lechón and pasteles I’d plown through. Now I was sweating while I rushed past people who celebrated as I worked. On Christmas day, I worked; on New Year’s Eve I worked and closed, and on New Year’s Day, I opened. Restaurant business does not care about celebrating, but about production. As my people celebrated with coquito and ron caña, I was simply working for those who celebrated. Social media only made it hurt a little bit more; as I went through photos and albums of people celebrating, and watched their snaps of our Puerto Rican traditions, I sang in every parranda I saw on Snapchat, and tears fell every time. Even on Three King’s Day, there was a rush, but the gifts did come; I got paid that day. I bought the materials for coquito, made one gallon of it and drank it with my mom. Hey, we have to celebrate, right?
Watching people celebrating our culture and our history made me happy, not satisfied. I wasn’t there, but still felt happy that people still come together and celebrate Puerto Rico. Eight months living in the U.S. and yet I can’t assimilate, I have truly begun to believe that this is just a temporary base until I return back home.
Puerto Rico, where going to the beach in winter is normal and going to your neighbor’s house to an asalto is only meant to bring them joy. Puerto Rico, mi isla, mi tesoro.