I had a poem/self refection I wrote for a scholarship, but I was too embarrassed to send. As I finally embrace my culture: I finally decide to share it here.

“I am Brasil.”

As we drove, flashbacks of growing up in Houston occurred. It was funny how I grew up alone. Brazilian-American. Too Brazilian to be American, but too American be Brazilian. In Texas, with large Hispanic population, I always felt out of place with my Latino peers, even those who were Brazilian like I ; I did not know Spanish, but instead knew the most obscure language ever: Portuguese, and in high school I decided to learn French (still haven’t used it till this day…), I was Methodist and not Catholic, so regional ties to important Brazilian holidays like Carnival were not celebrated in my home, I grew up listening to my favorite kind of music, Country, so when I went to parties or gatherings I knew none of the Latin songs played. I felt that I had no identity, but did I would later find out that it’s an identity to have no identity.

My eyes widened as I see how high in altitude we are. As I have this new morning ahead of me I look out the window behind me in the taxi as we drive away. Away up in the mountains I see what I know in my native tongue: “Cristo Redento” and “Pão de Açúcar.” I think about how in English the same place doesn’t bring in the same meaning and uplifting spirit like it does in my native Portuguese.

It’s a Wednesday morning and my Papa, my Mãe, I, and the taxi driver, Joao, a friend of my mom’s friend who lived in the favelas. Joao wanted to show us how Brazil was more than Rio. He wanted to show me the Brasil, not Brazil.

As we drove along I thought to myself how my Brasil is nothing like movies, the movies that portrayed “Brazil” and not “Brasil.” Brasil was nothing like those singing birds in “Rio,” but I thought how the favelas were nothing like the “City of God,’” or how people in the states would talk about Brazil. They would tell me how there was horrible child labor, everyone likes soccer, and how all the women were naked. They seem to not understand the culture and true understanding behind it: that those little kids have to provide along with everyone else in their family, soccer there is a religion, and that the people here aren’t afraid to be naked or revealing as we look at nudity as the human body, and don’t take it as vulgar or sexual as other countries. They don’t understand the reality the country which my family came from, but I must not let them get to me.

Hours passed and we arrived in the small town over 300 miles away from Rio. I hear the words “Agua de coco!!! Coconut! Mangas!! Mangos! Dois Reais!!” I glazed over and saw a saleswoman wearing blue jeans and a “Calvin Klein” shirt” became puzzled on why these people of Brazil try to be American with their need to wear blue jeans and they are wanting to know English. Do they know how beautiful their culture is already? The feathered dresses, the R sound that sounds like an H that makes words like “Rio” actually pronounced “He-yo.”

We spend the day in this small town talking to the local, walking on the shore, and eating local cuisine. and I think to myself on why I have been embarrassed for so many years for being “Brazilian” or for being “Latino.”

Then I think it’s the stereotypes, the bullying, the ignorance I have always received.

But as I see the sunset on this ocean of the small town, I am awakened. No Brazilian had criticized me for being Brazilian. I begin to realize, I belong here… I am Brasil. I am also American.

Brasilian-American is what I am.

Forget ignorance of those and others cruel lack of knowledge...

I am now proud to say.

“I am Latina and no,

, I’m not Catholic.

I am Latina and no, I don’t speak Spanish, but instead the beautiful tongue of Portuguese.

I am Latina, and no I am not Brazil.

I am Brasil.

I let the wind from the ocean embrace me as I connect.