by Blas Falconer

"There used to be a time when the Puerto Rican experience was the experience of the people on the island; then it became the experience of people in New York City. Now it is the experience of people like me, who started out in New Jersey, and now I am in Georgia and it is a different reality." (Judith Ortiz Cofer, "The Infinite Variety" 735)

My father, John Howard Falconer, of German-Scottish descent, is the son of a milkman. He grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania. He ate pork chops and Sauerkraut for dinner. My mother, the daughter of a successful businessman, was born in Salinas, Puerto Rico, a small fishing village on the southern side of the island, and could see the ocean from her kitchen, the mountains from her back yard. They met in Silver Spring, MD—at the swimming pool of an apartment complex. My father worked as an engineer for IBM, and my mother translated Cuban radio transmissions for the CIA in the sixties. She has never been able to keep a secret.

I spent most of my childhood in Reston, VA, thirty minutes outside of Washington D.C. My parents' best friends were just like them—a European-American husband and a Puerto Rican wife: Terry and Eduvíjise, Tom and Emílse, John and Dominga. Each family had three children and we all lived within a mile of one another. Our mothers spoke to us in Spanish, and our fathers spoke to us in English. In the summer, we roasted a pig on the front yard of our suburban house. The neighbors slowed down as they passed; they drew the curtains. On Christmas we caroled. We ate lechón. We drank coquíto. Some of us looked more like our mothers. Some of us spoke Spanish.

At Hunters Woods Elementary School, no one had ever heard of the name Blas, but back in Puerto Rico, I could point to the plot of land where my great-great grandmother lived—a stone's throw from my great grandmother's home—now, also, a field of yellow grass—across the street from where my grandmother lived with my grandfather—Papi Blas—my uncle—tío Blas—and later his son—Blasito, and his son, Blasito. Walking down the street in my bare feet, I was often stopped and asked:

¿De quién eres? I could just as easily have been my aunt's or my uncle's—until I opened my mouth.

In Virginia, I was sometimes told what great fortune my mother had to marry my father, who must have pulled her up from certain squalor. When I corrected them, their faces turned from pity to incredulity to anger, the stereotypical table turned on its side with all the rice and beans.

My mother's parents taught us to savor every bite, to eat until we were full, and then order dessert. My father's parents, having lived through the great depression, made us decide what we wanted to eat before opening the refrigerator door, so we wouldn't let all the cold air out.

**

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | Next Page | View Full Essay