Where Do You Belong?
Belonging (n): the deep feelings of being accepted, valued, and included as your true self within a group, community, or relationship (Othering and Belonging Institute)
This month, I’ll reflect on the theme of Belonging as it appears in my upcoming chapbook, What Color is the Soil in Cuba? I’ll share an original poem, post thoughtful writing prompts, and interview Maltese-Alabaman poet and artist Miriam Calleja. We’ll look at self-perception, community, otherness, and bilingualism in poetry. Lots of fun ahead!
Who decides where we belong?
The other day, I spotted two friends from my old middle-school youth group (IYKYK). We had randomly signed up for the same watercolor class in the town where I now live. I was really excited to see them, but I also felt a prickly sense of old insecurity. Would they even remember me?
Most people are awkward in their adolescent years. I was really awkward. I was the homeschooled girl in a group of kids that went to the same local schools. They wore cool clothes, had cool hair, listened to the cool songs, did all the cool things. They talked about their favorite Backstreet Boy and N’Sync or The Smashing Pumpkins and Nirvana if they were really cool. I didn’t know what any of that was. I played Classical piano and wanted to be Audrey Hepburn. I had a bunch of siblings and we drove around in a big old mini-van. My shyness was debilitating. I felt more comfortable around adults. I was mature for my age, an old soul, etc. etc. etc. I’d get nervous in large groups and blurt out whatever most embarrassing thing my brain could come up with. It took a lot of effort to keep the intrusive thoughts inside and appropriate facial expressions on the outside. I wasn’t always successful. What is wrong with her? I remember the feeling of floating above my body, watching each social disaster play out below. Don’t be weird, I’d tell myself. I come from mixed heritage. I’m Hispanic on my dad’s side, and Caucasian on my mom’s. We ate frijoles negros and picadillo probably once a week. Sometimes I was told You don’t look Spanish, which was and is confusing to me… Also, my Spanish is terrible. Fake Cuban. My maiden name is spelled with /rr/ and an acento. We’ve since lost that acute accent but I can still roll my /rr/s. More on this another time…
This all features in my book, but back to my friends at the art class. I wasn’t sure if they’d remember me. Middle school to middle age is a long time. We’re friends on social media, but it’s one thing to scroll past someone’s curated pictures, and another to see them again in real life. I made eye contact, smiled, and hoped for the best. They enveloped me in the warmest, tightest, longest, most soothing and affirming hugs. They didn’t let go first. We sat down. As we painted, I repeated my old silent mantra. Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird.
The art class ended. I took my friends’ picture for them, and they insisted I join in. They asked me to dinner. I started to make excuses, thinking they were just asking to be nice. Then I stopped myself. I said yes. We ate. We ordered silly fancy cocktails in a coconut. We reminisced and tried to remember old names and complained about perimenopause brain. I told them I always thought they were the cool girls. They laughed in disbelief. I smiled more than I have in a long time.
I did a lot of thinking in the 15 minutes it took to drive home. Awkward homeschooled gringa you-don’t-look-Spanish anxiety girl took a big breath and let it out. I felt her let go. Later on, I looked at the picture I had taken of us. All I could see was our crazy big smiles. Why did I ever think I didn’t belong? Did I other myself? I was (am) different. That didn’t make me unlikeable. Sometimes, we need a new mantra.
So, what does this have to do with my book? Many of my poems explore otherness, what it means to belong, and the longing we feel when we are displaced. I’ve hidden a few lines throughout this article. Bonus points if you can find them in my book later on ;)
And to my old friends (you know who you are) – thank you for the hugs.
