FINAL REVISION.

Looking about the room I noticed the many ethnicities that my friends encompass, I am a proud Hispanic. Over the past years I have been blessed with the grand opportunity of visiting my family in the delightful country of Cuba. Unlike myself, my parents were brought up and raised there. I remember the fiestas my aunts and uncles would have, and the long complicated dances that would take place in the center of the dance floor. The salsa and merengue music would revive the hearts of the guests. My cousins would pull me by the arm and move their feet in ways I had never seen before. They would rotate me in all directions and have my hands behind my back doing all kinds of twists and turns. It never ceases to fill my Latin soul with rapture.

     After the extensive dancing everyone would gather around the dinner table and help themselves to the various plates of pleasurable food. Like any other formal meal, we would place the roasted pork at the center of the table. Conversations were exchanged along all sides, and with extended arms food was passed around from person to person. My favorite dish was the boiled yuca drizzled with a hint of mojito, which gave the yuca its lemony garlic flavor. My mouth would always water at the sight of it. It made me realize what a wonderful taste in food we Hispanic people had.

     By the end of the gathering, saying their goodnight’s and good-bye’s, I’d feel the warmth of my cousins’ faces as they leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek one by one. It was a sign that reminded me of the much love and affection within my family, each and every one of them so kind and morally correct.

     The neighbors were also a delightful people, encountering me during the day with a bright smile, seeming to have known me for many years, as if we were old time friends. They’d talk to me about nearly everything. Despite the fact that they were Cuban, I actually understood about every word they said. My friends and I back in the U.S. did not possess the same luck; many of them never spoke another language, and those who did knew nothing of Spanish. Spanish is my primary language, adopting foreign words from a variety of other languages as well as developing new words.

     Being Hispanic has its up and downs; it characterizes me with the intolerable habit of never arriving to a place on time. When it comes to important dates and occasions being fashionably late is one of my unfortunate habits. I practically never manage time efficiently, and it’s without a doubt a huge downer.

     Growing up Hispanic was a huge part and highlight of my life. As a young Latina woman, a passage ritual at the age of fifteen was a ceremony of initiation and gratitude given by my father and what they called a Quinceañera. During the ceremony while lifting up my dress, my father would change the flats I was wearing into heels. It involved a huge celebration crowning my becoming a young lady. I chose fifteen young boys and fifteen young girls to become a part of my dancing court. The entire family was there. It will always be a memorable and notable event in my teenage years.

     When I look at myself in the mirror, I can easily say without a doubt that being Hispanic is one of the proudest qualities I possess. I wouldn’t trade it for anything because it defines my identity.