Who Hit the SAP button?!

To be trapped in a double life, is exhausting, to say the least.

I love reading Coehlo novels in Spanish, while Jack Johnson whispers his songs discreetly to me through my headphones. You will find me sitting down for a traditional Puerto Rican dinner with my family, our recipes that have been passed down for generations in the small island, and in the midst of the loud clanking and quick Spanish talk - I'll ask my dad in English to pass me the fork and some water. The conversation goes back to my native tongue, as if I hadn't just burst out in another language a few seconds before, about a Neruda poem I read long ago while laying in a hammock with mamá.

Ever since I learned my first words, my parents pounced on the opportunity to raise me in a bilingual household. My dad always spoke to me in English and had a damned flash card for every word I would learn in Spanish first. But in time, I found myself communicating in both without any effort. Every t.v. show I watched was from the US and in English, so were the books I chose when I went to the library and the comics I read. I was my grandmother's little "gringuita".

My mom's side of the family always instilled in me the love for my country, it's culture and history. They fed my body and mind with everything that ties a puerto rican to the island, with knowledge that makes us grow loving our home and all of Latin America. I grew up falling in love with García Marquez, Isabel Allende and countless other writers from all over the world - while still carrying deep within me the preference for Puerto Rican literature/poetry. I knew the songs of my country, from modern classics to yesteryear, and I also sang songs from Mexico, Argentina, Spain with the same passion. Nothing like Spanish lyrics in a song makes you feel something come alive within you, and you start feeling that tingle in your limbs. I remember that all throughout my childhood, it was my most fervent desire to join an independent guerrilla called 'Los Macheteros', who are opposed to the government, mainly the fact that the US controls much of what we do due to our 'Commonwealth' title. They hated the fact that we were considered 'American Soil', and so did I with all my heart. It provoked a feeling of anguish to see this invasion of a foreign government that was hellbent in destroying the very way we lived, our culture and roots. I wanted to bleed for my history, I didn't want us to become another state. So many implications with that statement...now that I'm older. Now I see it's much more complicated. But that was me, to the core. Puerto Rican. Fighter. Passionate about my little piece of earth, that measures 100 x 35 miles.

However, that was only half of who I was. This is where it gets fun.

My father's side of the family are your typical 'newyoricans'. They're full blooded Puerto Ricans, born in Brooklyn and moved to the island in their teenage years. Way, way too late to have that love for local things embedded in them. They always spoke in English, and whatever Spanish they managed was very botched. Spanglish heaven. They lived the American way of life, and were unaware and uninterested with any historical fact about the place they now called home. They listened to The Beatles and dressed like the people I saw on TV shows, with their hair worn like Blondie or leather jackets that mirrored Michael Jackson's. My uncles would deck me out in Adidas, Nike or Converse shoes - depending on whatever NBA jersey / Pink Floyd t-shirt they had found for me. My aunts bought me Rainbow Brite and Strawberry Shortcake toys, and sang along to Poison or Bon Jovi as they teased my hair 4 levels higher than anyone should ever have it. Their outfits for me? Leggins, jean jackets with patches and bright tights...in 100F Puerto Rico summer heat. Yeah. But I loved it all. My favorite bands were Metallica and Iron Maiden, and I loved singing the Star Spangled Banner in the shower. I followed MLB and NBA, rooting for the Braves and the Bulls respectively...rather passionately. I was fascinated by the Witch Trials in Salem, the Trail of Tears and William Shatner. I dreamed of marrying Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Of having blonde hair and blue eyes, like the American girls did. Of being a cheerleader. I loved America.

So that's how it was. I grew up reading 'Martin Fierro' and 'Hamlet' at the same time. I loved Robert Frost, Dickinson, Whitman and Luis Pales Matos. I can cook any of my traditional Puerto Rican dishes and I identify myself as Boricua, Latina, anywhere I go. Yet, I am considered a 'gringa'. I have two lives. I work for the IT Dept at a local hospital and aside from my office coworkers and a few acquaintances, no one knows I am Hispanic, much less speak Spanish fluently. My light skin throws them off, I guess. My collection of Marvel Comic figurines and love for rock music do not match my curves and very latino feisty attitude. I'm a nerd who likes Star Trek and still wishes Puerto Rico was free, for entirely different and unrealistic reasons. I like beisbol and futbol, as well as hockey and football. I listen to Jimi Hendrix and Joaquin Sabina. Foo Fighters and Maná. I can dress in so many ways, it's impossible to classify me as anything but Yari.

So there's my dilemma. I can't completely abandon my beliefs and love for my country just because I'm living in this one. I pay my taxes, abide by and respect the laws, enjoy the culture and adapt. But I will not, cannot, consider myself fully American hard as I try. Just like I can't expect you, my American friends, to stop being who you are if ever find yourself living abroad. We must adapt. We must learn to love.

What am I? I'm a walking definition of hypocrisy. In English, and Spanish.