I know that I was born in Miami, Florida. But is that truly where I am from? Who am I? Am I a dream? How do I know that the scorching heat of the sun on my back during a sunny day is in fact reality? If dreams can be made into reality, then where does my anchor take landing? After all, Wharton's Age of Innocence dubbed telephonic communication without wires as some kind of Arabian nights marvel. What if an entire generation gathered together to conjure up my existence? Okay, perhaps that is an exaggeration. But what if our existence is some kind of fantasy? When will I wake up from this âdreamâ?Â
But for the sake of sanity, I will assume that the life I lead is indeed reality. I don't consider myself a part of Miami. In fact, I loathe it. I cringe at the very prospect of answering the dreaded question - where are you from? Yet, I wonder why I am so repulsed by it. After all, this is where I was born. This is what I would be told to call my home. Perhaps âtoldâ is key.  Why canât I convince myself this fact? Why do I struggle with this question so much? Is it the loss of my American identity in a myriad of cultures, an amalgamation of a spectrum of ethnicities from across the globe? Is it the fact that I live in America while simultaneously am not? In theory, but not in practice?  It always seems as if I am out of place. The awkward flamingo in the bunch.  For instance, take this one time when I stopped by the convenience store for a bag of chips and a granola bar. I am in line, a Cuban lady is in front of me checking out her groceries. The cashier and her begin conversing in Spanish, chuckling and laughing in between each item scanned. I understand some bits, though I expected to pick up more. After all, I studied Spanish diligently for three straight years. The lady left promptly after, and I put my goods on the counter. âQue tal?â Whatâs up? I asked her, forcing a smile in the process.  âHay caliente afuera, no?â Itâs hot outside, right? I thought I would seize the opportunity to practice my three years of Spanish taken in high- school. Yet she couldnât be bothered, sighing instead, proceeding to scan my bag of chips. What did I do wrong? Was I not capable of speaking the âmother tongueâ that she and her client were doing just moments before? I kicked up some lyrics from âThe Whitest Boy Aliveâ that night. How ironic?
Iâm a white European-style raised American mommaâs boy learning to live in the suburbs of what my friends joke around as âNorthern Cuba.â But perhaps the disjointed culture is just a fragment of the hollow shell I feel. Â Maybe it is the gilded film that coats this city? The letting loose and trying to feel alive? The Great Gatsby of Miami? Whatever it is, I know that this âfromâ isnât what I call home.
Whenever I think of âfroming,â I always picture some kind of woodlands, surrounded by the ambiance of chirping birds and the occasional passing deer. Other times, I can see the wide enchanting ocean with giant, âsurfableâ waves crashing along the shore. But more often than not, I see a young city with seasons, with people wearing their overcoats and scarves draped around their necks. Girls wearing ear muffs, others simply in their long-sleeves with snowflakes tapered on the front. Coffee and iced tea in their hands. Bags of whatever in the other. Some talking it over with friends. Others taking their furry pets for a walk, maybe tugging on the leash to nudge them in a certain direction.
One thing is for certain. The trees are enchanted with an array of dazzling colors â cherry red, unripe tangerine-flavored orange, Â and playground yellow. And during the night, well, I see a sky starry with stars. That, I think, is where I am from.Â