When I entered my kindergarten classroom, the cards of my future had been instantly dealt. I was going to attend an American school for the next 12 years of my life, graduate as a fluent English speaker and attend a university in the United States. All these plans seem promising and exciting, but the context of my story is very different.
I was born in Nicaragua, the second poorest country in Latin America after Haiti. In my country, aspects like political corruption, police brutality, poverty, lack of education and hunger are law. As obvious as the situation seemed, I was oblivious to this reality while growing up. I was too busy learning about the American Civil War, keeping up with who Blair was going to socially destroy next in "Gossip Girl," praying for my hair to look like Lauren Conrad’s, listening to Avril Lavigne, and dreaming about shopping for Abercrombie jeans and Hollister shorts.
Less than 5 percent of the population of my country could obtain the quality of education that I had. My parents worked extremely hard to keep me in school and pamper me with every American trend I wanted to follow next. For 18 years of my life, I lived in a surreal bubble. Everyday, I tried not to look at the young kids that begged for money in the stoplights on my way to school. I ignored the plastic bags and trash on the streets. “I have bigger plans for myself,” I thought, “soon I won’t have to take in any of this.” I dreaded going to the town where my grandfather was born. I avoided going to markets and crowded places, especially eating food there — it was dirty, contaminated, and strange. I’d rather go to Friday’s and eat chicken fingers.
I felt like my body belonged to my country, but my mind was in America. I could not have been happier to leave for college. However, this time the cards were dealt against me. It finally hit me: I was not American. Sure, I spoke English with the slightest hint of an accent, knew all about their history, knew the capital of all their states, took the SAT’s, took AP classes and knew all about "Gossip Girl," but I was still not American.
I was not Nicaraguan either. As soon as I hung up my country’s flag in my freshman bedroom, I realized how little I actually knew about my country. Of course I had volunteered for non-profit organizations, had been “exposed to poverty” and had written it on my college applications. Yes, I was proud of my renowned grandfather, who is one of the most celebrated writers in Latin American literature. I also talked a lot about San Juan del Sur and Granada, the biggest tourist attractions in my country. But, deep inside, I knew I had always been just a tourist.
As a 20-year-old who recently finished my sophomore year, I have traveled back to Nicaragua countless times. I have learned to define myself as a sort of hybrid, akin to two souls in the same body. I am a child of the Nicaraguan Sandinista Revolution, but I am also a millennial. My body is 50 percent Pacific Ocean water and beach, and 50 percent city life. I can devour a cheeseburger in 5 minutes, and I can eat an entire plate of “gallopinto” in one sitting. My heartbeat rises when I listen to an entire Arctic Monkeys album, and I silently cry in my dorm room listening to Carlos Mejía Godoy.
But now, I am certain of this: both cultures are part of my identity. Unlike before, I now fully accept my country I came from. I worship its volcanoes, lakes, beaches, folklore,language and people. I am proud of its history, its poetry and its literature. At a distance, I fall more in love with originating from the rawest corner of Latin America.
