| An Autobiography |
| by ‘Anonymous’ |
Perhaps I should not be writing the following. It is quite easy for an “outsider” to believe that I am over dramatizing what it is that I have experienced in my life. I have only lived all of twenty-two years and I have kept these feelings and ideas to myself throughout that span. Yet I still feel compelled to tell what it is I feel. I ask not for sympathy or compassion. I just seek an audience to which I can relay the contents of my brain. I am sure that the details of my tale are not as obscure as I have always thought they were. Please realize, esteemed reader, that the following piece is not an exercise in nostalgia nor is it a look back in anger. It is simply the stories and observations of my life.
I was born in a rather large city in northeast New Jersey at the beginning of the great Reagan administration. The policies of “Uncle” Ronald allowed immigrants like my parents to come to the U.S. and search for prosperity by working jobs no white American wanted. I must admit, most of my early years are quite confusing, which may have started my whole problem. To be fair, it was hard to tell who were my mother and father. At the age of two months they left me with a nice old lady who took care of all my infant needs. Since I was so young, and I spent most of my time with this nice old lady, I mistook her for my mama for a while. But at night, my real mama would pick me up and take me back to our house. I got to see my real house for a couple of hours at night. I loved the old lady’s house. Since I had no siblings, the old ladies grandchildren became my “brothers”. As I got older and more sophisticated forms of communication began to take over, I called the old lady “welita”, which is a mispronounced way of saying grandmother in Spanish. “Welita” would take us everywhere. And it was on one of these trips to the park at the age of six that I began to realize that I was a slightly different.
While at the park, my two “brothers” and I were playing on a swing set. As the afternoon progressed, two older boys came to the swings. As young children tend to do, we ran around and played with them, amazed that older guys wanted to play with us. But I then overheard the taller of the two other boys say to my two “brothers”, “Us Dominicans need to stick together. Why are you playing with the white boy?” I had no idea what he was talking about. What was a “Dominican”? Was I a “white boy”? I learned that “welita” and my two “brothers” are Dominican, but what was I? I said nothing and waited till my mother picked me up. While she tucked me in I asked “Mom, am I a white boy?”, to which she simply responded “no”. Naturally, I then asked, “Mom, am I Dominican?”. She said to me, “Mi hijo, you are Ecuadorian.” That was the end of the conversation.
The next day at school, I asked everyone if they were Ecuadorian. Some classmates said they were Boriqua, others Dominican, still others Black, but not one Ecuadorian. This puzzled me for the time. I never felt Ecuadorian. I wouldn’t even know what that would feel like. If “welita” and my “brothers” were Dominican and I was raised with them, doesn’t that make me Dominican? But that was all the thought I put into it and, soon enough, I completely forgot about it. I went about my routine of going to school, going to “welita’s” house afterwards, and waiting for my mom to pick me up. I maintained this way of life until the age of eleven, when my parents decided I was old enough to be home alone. I would still visit with my “welita”, but from now on I would stay home and eat there. My new presence in my “real” home was the dawning of the difficulties that my Dominican “welita’s” upbringing would reveal.
When viewed by an outsider, it can be quite amusing how minor issues can break a relationship apart. But when you are part of that relationship you begin to realize that, although some choices seem irrelevant at the time, every decision that is made by the people in that relationship has an effect. In this case, that would be my parent’s choice of leaving me with “welita”. My father would get home before my mother, so he undertook the cooking duties. My father, being born and raised in Ecuador, would cook up some typical dishes from his country. But I was so used to eating the Dominican entrees that my “welita” would cook that it became difficult for me to adapt. At first my father became amused that I would not enjoy his food. His strange use of herbs and vegetables combined with his uninhibited utilization of sauces perplexed my palate. Time went on and I still could not eat his food with great pleasure. My resistance to his food led my father to show genuine contempt towards me. We began to get into arguments about ridiculous topics. His whole demeanor began to change. My father became irritable and he began to pick fights with my mother as well. He began to insult all my mother’s family and friends. My mother, being also raised in Ecuador, began to blame herself for the problems developing in the “household”. My parents were born into a culture in Ecuador where the man is the supreme law of the house. No one is supposed to question or defy the father, whether it be wife or child. But I had to defend my mother and her arguments became mine. Then, at the age of sixteen, all these tensions evolved into an inevitable physical altercation between father and son. As I feel the regrettable details of that event are completely superfluous, I will say that I was left with a separated jaw and a new realization of the person my father was.
After that fateful encounter, our relationship became non-existent. We never spoke a word to each other from that day forward. Here I was, a scared sixteen year old boy with no father figure, confused by a new world that I now had to encounter alone. Thankfully my mother, the sweetest and most loving person in the world, did her best to help me and teach me the ways of life. Through my mom I gained a respect for all women and an appreciation of how they truly are the stronger sex. But despite my mother’s best efforts, there was always something missing. It was the puzzle of having a father there physically, as I still lived in the house, but being separated by continents of emotional tribulations and misunderstandings. So I began to look for father figures elsewhere. My “friends” from the neighborhood and I began to become tighter. Soon enough, they became my new “brothers”. My old “brothers” were still there, but they lacked the “coolness” of my new ones. Through my new “brothers”, I became introduced to such vices as alcohol and marijuana. These “evils” as I now call them helped drown out the pain and confusion of the relationship with my father. But when I wasn’t high or drunk, one thought always entered my mind. What did I do to have my father hate me? One day when I woke up early to go to school I received my answer.
Despite all the difficulties and missteps in my life, I somehow always did well in school. I received good grades and had no difficulty showing up. One day I had to get to school early to complete a project. On my way to the bathroom in the morning, I overheard muffled voices coming from the kitchen. As I kept listening, I realized that my parents were engaged in a hot discussion over yours truly. I decided to inch closer to the kitchen to hear what they were saying, being careful not to make them aware of my presence. They were just going back and forth, like all of the hundreds of arguments they have had over the years. But as I was going to head back to the bathroom, I overheard my father say one of the quotes that would puzzle my already confused mind. “Dustin is no longer my son. He is now a Dominican because we left him with those people. He is a traitor to us.” I was a traitor. It felt as if my soul had left my body. An issue that first revealed itself in a petty manner as a child has reemerged as the catalyst of the strained relationship between my whole family. The questions and feelings I had as a child had relapsed. As I wrestled with these thoughts, I began to look to try to rid myself of the title of traitor. By this time I had entered a rather prestigious university in my home state of New Jersey. Although I attended school with the same fervor I did all the prior years of my education, I became more and more engaged in the self-destructive practices of smoking pot and drinking beer. But when I wasn’t high or drunk, some new thoughts entered my head. How did I become a traitor to my Ecuadorian heritage? Was I a traitor because I didn’t follow the same culture as my parents? Was I supposed to be part of a culture I did not agree with? In order to keep these thoughts out of my head, I tried to keep myself intoxicated as long as I could. My constantly inebriated state would force me to leave the university. Since I was born and raised on government assistance and was living in section eight housing, the need for money was my first priority. With a full time job, I had enough money to handle the bills and keep myself intoxicated. It was a combination school could not compete with. I know many people that think leaving college is the worst step that any person can take. And, to a certain degree, I agree with that statement. But in my case, it led to the first instance of clarity in my life. Now being employed full time, I would work a regular nine-to-five schedule for over six months. I worked extraordinarily well and learned very fast, and soon I was named supervisor of my occupation. I thought to myself that I finally got a firm grip on life, but I was always haunted by my decisions to dropout of college and my traitor status. One day I left work early to be alone with my thoughts. While walking to my car, I saw a familiar face waiting by the bus stop. It was one of my old “brothers”. Having not seen him in several years, I went to him and we began to talk. He accepted my invitation to give him a ride home, and in the car I accepted his invitation to go to a bar and get a drink. While there we began to catch up on old times. I learned that my “brother” had graduated from the same university I had attended and was now an accountant at a huge corporation. When he asked about my situation, I did not hesitate to inform him of my state of affairs. He seemed disappointed and he confirmed this by stating that he always expected more from me. He always felt that I was more intelligent then himself, and he asked why I wasting that potential at such a lowly position. His honesty startled me. It was something that I needed to hear. When a contemporary of mine has achieved such a level of affluence, I began to question why I could not achieve it as well. But then came that traitor issue.
After several shots of cognac liquor, I brought up the statement that had altered my life. My “brother”, again with admirable honesty, said “You should not let those issues effect you in the way that they did. We should always remember that we do not live in Ecuador. This is the United States. There is a mix of all types of cultures here, and no one can truly be the nationality that their parents originated from.” I could not believe that this simple idea did not penetrate into my brain earlier. After that encounter, I began to realize that all that my “brother” told me was true. I could be a success if I would go back to college. As I was growing up, my parents measured success by how much money you make. But now I realize that success is more than that. Success is enjoying and loving what you do and who you are. I am a citizen of the United States, not of Ecuador, and I was not a traitor to anyone. All of a sudden I reached a peace of mind that I had not felt in years. I began to stop using marijuana. I would still drink alcohol, but strictly in a social atmosphere. I did not need it to drown out my problems. All that those two evils did was give me two more troubles to deal with. I then went back to the registrar at my university and enrolled as a full time student for the upcoming fall semester. During that fall semester, I took a class that dealt with several of the nationality issue that I had experienced while I was younger. That class helped reinforce that nationality is more than just background. It is about what culture you embrace. And that every culture is as valuable as any other.
These realizations have carried me to the present time. It is now the administration of Bush the Second, although many of the policies of “Uncle” Ronald and his predecessors are still causing injustice throughout the world in a more clandestine way. I am still in college and am doing very well. Many of the confusions and troubles that I experienced are now a thing of the past. I am still very close to my “welita” and my old “brothers” are now my sole close friends. I am now dedicated to surrounding myself with positivity. Unfortunately, this means that I will not be allowing my father to enter my circle. My father is a difficult, stubborn person who dislikes anyone who does not conform to his views. I hope that perhaps one day he will accept me for what I am, but until that day we will not be able to have a constructive relationship. Please, don’t feel sad. I am glad that he was hard on me. Experience is the best teacher. And he has showed me how not to treat your wife and child. Now when I enter a relationship with a woman and eventually have a child of my own, I will learn to nurture the both of them. I realize that the gift of a lady giving you a son or daughter is the highest prize any man can receive. I recognize that a child is the purest love that one can experience. Issues such as culture, race, and nationality should never get in the way of these bonds.
Alas, it is time to bid you, my valued reader, farewell. I would like to thank you for sparing some time to listen to the tale of an anonymous stranger. But to you, who were so gracious as to hear all my ramblings, I offer one last thought. We pass hundreds of people everyday and we don’t even stop to think about the wonderful experiences that they may have encountered. All these strangers, like myself, have some story behind them. These seemingly ordinary people could be filled with stories of adventure, stories of beauty, stories of agony. Perhaps, once in a while, we should stop and try to take note of another person’s story. It may be possible to learn much about the person and establish a relationship that can benefit all involved. In short, this is the story of my life until now. I am still very young and still gathering experience in my life. This is merely the first chapter in what will hopefully become an epic novel. To an outside party, as stated before, all my experiences may seem mundane and perhaps even uninteresting. But it is still the story that I felt had to be told. It has transformed me into the person I am now. I am hopeful that my words could help someone out there that may have encountered many of the same problems I had. I hope that you can envision how I was able to evolve into a person that could get past the mental traps so many young people fall into. I hope that the story of your life never ceases to amaze and wonder you. I hope you remember me when our stories cross paths. I hope…
Dustin Rodriguez
November 4, 2002