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Alyssa Carter ’22

A hand holding a book. Credit: Emma Baynes ’20

A Place to Call Home

 

I was born on February 15, 2000 on the small island of Trinidad and Tobago. On December 25, 2004 my family officially moved to the United States, with one suitcase and $100 in hand. We stayed with my grandmother, in a small Brooklyn apartment for the first few months. Eventually, we moved into an apartment of our own, and then to a house.

My parents didn’t have any connections in the U.S., and they took it as their responsibility to pave the way for my little brother and me. That said, I had my own paving to do. It was hard for me to be the first and only child in my family attending school in America right out of a small Caribbean country. Even though I wasn’t ashamed of my accent, it was difficult, at times, for me to communicate with my teachers and peers. I often felt misunderstood—literally. As I got older I taught myself how to speak like an American: I paid close attention to how sentences and questions were phrased, imitated my friends during lunch, and repeated what I’d picked up from listening to teachers and at home. I practiced any chance I got.

But my speech wasn’t the only thing that was evolving. Eventually, I learned what American foods were acceptable to eat in a public setting, what styles were considered “cool,” and how a typical American kid acts. I was learning the ropes.

Little did I know, this was only the beginning of a long road of separation from my Trinidadian culture. It’s a cultural given that when you’re born Trinidadian, you’re born with an unbreakable belief in your religion, primarily Christian, and you live by Trinidadian customs and, of course, have a strong measure of pride in being Trinidadian. But somewhere along the way my pride, religion, and overall faith in who I was, was challenged. I grew up seeing America as my home, and, deep down, there was no honest connection to the traits that made a Trinidadian, a Trinidadian. As the years went on, my detachment grew, and it became harder and harder for me to relate to old friends and family. We were unable to grow together. However, coming to terms with my incapability to identify with my own background is something that I have learned I don’t have to deal with alone.

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During my senior year of high school, in AP Lit, my class was assigned The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. Previously, I had had a reputation of leaving books unfinished due to procrastination or a loss of interest, but I was determined to get through it all this time. I fell in love instantly with Oscar’s journey, and read the book every chance I got. Oscar, a Dominican male who grew up in New Jersey, narrates much of the book; I strongly related to his disconnection from his cultural background, and his feeling of not having a place in the world. For example, it was difficult for me to choose between the person I was becoming, my own personal melting pot of American and Caribbean culture, and the Trinidadian woman I was born as, the woman almost everyone expected me to be.

Like Oscar, ​I feel I will always be an immigrant in both the country I live in, and my home country. Coming to this realization was hard, as I felt like there was no place for me on this earth. It was easy for me to feel isolated when my place of belonging was unclear to me, as in Oscar’s situation. But accepting this fact was even harder, as I had to be okay with the idea that there will always be things about my own culture that I will have to learn and relearn. There are even moments in my own house when I’m unable to connect with my parents on Trinidadian history, politics, and geography. My family doesn’t usually have dinner together, but when we do I love sticking around a little longer and chatting with my mom and dad. We call this “old talking,” as the topic is mainly about their lives growing up in Trinidad, places they used to hang out as teenagers, things they used to do, and people they once knew. I participate as much as possible, but each time it’s like I’m hearing it for the first time. ​But no matter how entranced I became in American culture and language, like Oscar, I still never felt fully American.

After his initial homecoming week, after he’d been taken to a bunch of sights by his cousins, after he’d gotten somewhat used to the scorching weather and the surprise of waking up to the roosters and being called Huáscar by everybody (that was his Dominican name, something else he’d forgotten), after he refused to succumb to that whisper that all long-term immigrants carry inside themselves, the whisper that says You do not belong…

This quote serves as a reminder that just because I have to relearn what it is to be a Trinidadian in Trinidad, I do not have to give in to the whispers. For almost sixteen years I’ve heard this whisper in the back of my head. Caving into its negative powers gave me the impression that I will never find my “place.” I removed myself from important relationships, such as the one I had with my best friend, because I felt as if my identity no longer aligned with hers. Even though my parents are very rooted in their Trinidadian ways, as they have spent most of their lives in their home country, I am more than blessed to have parents who are open and supportive of the person I’ve become and the woman I will grow into. Similar to Hypatia Belicia, Oscar’s mom, my parents truly want nothing more than for me to be content with whom I choose to identify as. While Oscar’s confusion about where he stood in his culture was discussed more at the beginning of his life, the fact that he was unable to fully deal with the situation fed into his life later on and affected how he saw himself compared to everyone he was surrounded by, physically, mentally, and emotionally. My parents have always understood that identity has always been a struggle for me, but not once have I felt as if anything was in my way of exploring my personal interests and values. Leaving behind a life that would have been and coming to America wasn’t a change I was afraid of, because I knew my family was with me every step of the way. I’m glad I learned that at a young age.

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The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao gave me a new perspective on cultural identity. Like Oscar, I didn’t know how to accept my “immigrant” status—I too was afraid of being who I am, because I knew that people of my own background would judge me.

I’m still on my journey. But as of now, I’m surer than ever that I am a combination of my Trinidadian heritage and my American childhood. I am the epitome of the American melting pot. However, being a Caribbean-American does not mean I have to choose sides. Oscar’s journey made me feel less alone as I tried to negotiate my emotions. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao opened my eyes to the fact that neglecting part of who I am to try and fit into the person I think I should be, is neglecting all of myself.