My father tells me about his struggles turning Spanish thought into English words. He fumbled with letters and pronunciations as a resident of this new world. Even now his accent is thick like the trunk of a "ceiba" tree; roots still encrusted in Caribbean soil. Still, there is not one person he does not smile and say hello to on a daily basis.

My mother tells me of my grandfather’s first encounters with this land, without a lick of English rolling off his tongue as he tried to communicate to the butcher that he wanted some pork chops, and could only push out a mutation of its Spanish counterpart; “chullets”. He was forgiven for looking Italian in a time where signs were plastered around labeled “No ‘Spics’ Allowed”.

My grandmother on my mother’s side wore wigs to cover up her natural curls. My grandfather would call her his pretty “negrita” and her eyebrows would arch as her face turned red in anger. See, her father was a black man, descended from slavery, while her mother belonged to a high class Spanish family, the epitome of European beauty standards.

My great-grandparents married at the age of fourteen, which gave way to her disownment. Even now, Latin-American language is sprinkled with colorism, though we all essentially share similar ancestry. Phrases such as “improving” or “worsening” the race are still terms used, when two people with different phenotypical features intermingle. And so, she was tossed aside for betraying her race.

They lived in what my mother describes as a hut with dirt floors, where they raised my grandmother and my eight great aunts and uncles. They made “pasteles” on holidays and my great grandmother would often go hungry so that her children wouldn’t. When she lost her teeth she soaked Maria brand crackers in coffee. My great grandfather would say “they named them after you because they’re Spanish and sweet”.

A friend of mine once told me that English was difficult for her to learn, growing up. Her father was a simple man from “campo” lands, who viewed English as a cultural betrayal. I spent a year living out of my grandmother’s guest room with my mother and brother. I felt guilty during Christmas and birthdays when I saw all those gifts, with money spent that could’ve been used for necessities. My mother struggled to stay back home, but diaspora promised stability.

My parents moved out of the island almost a decade ago, into this thing called diaspora. I followed suit 2 years ago. A friend of mine asks if it’s safe out here, because she can barely make a living as costs continue to skyrocket, while jobs plummet. I don’t know how long my grandparents will survive with all the hospitals around them facing the threat of closing.

My facebook feed is bombarded with comments and statuses from friends who are afraid. We’re either afraid of the future of our home or afraid of trying to make it out in the diaspora. Either way we look at it, things look bleak.