The All-American Hispanic

I often think of my father as the typical All-American dad- he works a steady job, owns a home in the suburbs, and rides a motorcycle in his free time. He enjoys weekends at the beach and makes a mean hamburger. Many people would go so far as to call him average- a middle-aged, middle-class male working a white collar job as a manager at Tire World. But there is so much more to this man who calls me daughter than meets the eye. He has a past rich in cultural experiences that has shaped him into the multi-faceted person he is today.
When I was presented with the assignment to interview a subject for my blog, I flippantly considered my father. Sure, it would meet the requirements for English, I thought, but what is there about Dad that I don't know? Our relationship is very close and we share almost everything with each other. I could probably answer most of the questions for him quite thoroughly. I figured my best bet for an interesting piece would come from interviewing one of the Greek restaurateurs I work with. Everyone enjoys a rags-to-riches tale, especially when it glorifies America as the land of opportunity. However, being the procrastinator I am, I completely forgot about this assignment until Monday night. My Dad sat downstairs in the living room watching television as I ran down the stairs, notebook and pen in hand. “Wanna do me a huge favor?” I asked with a grin. “How much money does it require,” he quipped with an arched brow. “Zero. I forgot that I have an English paper due tomorrow at 11 and you’re going to help me get it done.” I plopped down beside him, cleared my throat, looked at him with what I hoped was a professional reporter’s gaze. “Oh my god, Chelsea, how typical.” He rolled his eyes at me, but with an amused smirk turned off the TV. Thus began one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with my father.
My father grew up in a diplomatic family and spent much, if not most, of his childhood in Latin America. My grandfather, born and raised in Venezuela, worked for the Organization of American States, a career that required extensive travel. At the age of three, my father’s family moved from the tri-state area to the Dominican Republic. He returned to the States when he was four and lived in Montgomery County until he was eight, when my grandmother, grandfather, and he moved to Columbia. He once again became a resident of the USA right before his twelfth birthday and then, at the age of sixteen, moved to Venezuela where he lived until he was nineteen. He returned to the USA and has resided here ever since. “So,” I began, “I know you’ve gotten to live in many countries. Which would you say you enjoyed the most?” My first question, bland and straightforward, merited a similar response. “Venezuela,” my father stated. With some prodding from me, he elaborated. “I was old enough when I lived there to appreciate the experience and the people I met. In Columbia and the Dominican Republic, I was always with my parents. I was sheltered. In Venezuela I had freedom. I had a car and friends of my own. Plus we had a bigger house,” he chuckled.
I asked him what opportunities he felt had been awarded to him because of his time abroad and he replied, “A lot. I’m bilingual because of my time there.” Then he got serious. “I became very culturally aware. I realized early on that there are different cultures in the world and that Americanism isn’t the only way of life. The food there was different, the lifestyle, and especially the family values.” Interested, I asked him to go on. “Social interactions with family and friends are more of an integral part of life. The family is very important to Latin Americans. Here, we work to live. Our job is the key element, the first thing on our list of priorities and all else falls second. There, family and friends always come first, always. They place more emphasis on keeping the family together and happy than wealthy. That’s why the divorce rates are so much lower.“ He tells me about the college kids choosing universities near their home states because they want to stay close to their parents, and smiles over at me as I cringe. “Unlike me,” I say, “I couldn’t wait to get away. I was set on going to school on the other side of the country.” I pause and look at him impishly. “No offense,” I offer. “None taken,” he replies before he goes on. “One thing I’ve noticed about Hispanic families,” I wonder, “is that the father plays the biggest role. It seems like a very patriarchal society. Grandpa is always talking about how he is the head of the family. But that value didn’t seem to transfer to you. You raised us in a setting of equality and never showed signs of machismo. Why do you think that is?” I pondered. “Well, I was exposed to both the Hispanic and American cultures. I guess you could say I learned from both and extracted useful information from each. I believe in true equality, that everyone’s opinion should be heard and valued whether they be the mother, father, or child.” He laughs and looks at me knowingly. “It helps that I was raised with a very strong willed American mother. She was the true head of the house,” he says and I laugh because I know it’s true.
He talks of the general economy of the “deep south,” as our family jokingly refers to our homelands. He speaks of the unfortunate political and economic turmoil the citizens of Venezuela face, and his voice turns bitter as he speaks of the current president, Hugo Chavez. “Unfortunately, while I believe Venezuelans are advanced when it comes to social and familial workings, they are not enjoying the financial success of the US.” I inquired about his last trip to Venezuela, the first in over 17 years, and he described it as simply disappointing. “It seemed like there was no progression, only regression. It was dirty and corrupt. The people have lost their pride in their country, probably due to the leadership.” He told me he’d never want to me to go there, because I have an image in my mind of this beautiful, rich nation with warm, loving people and he doesn’t want to shatter my vision. “I wish you could see it as I remember it,” he says wistfully. “My father owned three farms. We lived in the mountains, and as a child I’d talk to the monkeys in the ravine. I’d go to the high point on our property and make gorilla noises as loud as I could and all the monkeys would mimic them back.” He stops and straightens up like an excited child. “One time, we found a three-toed sloth in our yard. He stayed there for over a week!” We laughed as he detailed how slow moving it was, like a miniature orangutan with “really long arms.” We sit in silence for a moment, each imagining a lush mountainous region full of humorous wildlife. He turns to me and says, “It broke my heart to see what the nation is like now. I have no desire to go back and have my heart broken again.”
Despite this, when asked if he considered himself lucky to have been allowed to live abroad, he firmly says “Absolutely. More than anything, I’m grateful.” The All-American self-made man contributes his love for Spanish foods to his upbringing on platanos and arapas and his dedication to his family and friends to a childhood full of family dinners and reunions.
“I think everyone should spend some time abroad. Everyone should leave the country at least once,” he says to me as the interview draws to an end. I realize that we’ve spend an hour talking about nineteen years of my father’s life that I knew virtually nothing about. I look at the man in front of me, fit and tan in his khaki pants and t-shirt. Nothing about him screams world-traveler or culture connoisseur. But in essence, that is what he is. When I hear him speaking Spanish to my Aunt Belarmina in a rapid, rolling way or telling stories of banana trees and treacherous mountain roads, I remember that this average American male is anything but average. I hug my Dad and tell him he’s he best last-resort for an English paper ever and go to bed dreaming of monkey calls through the trees.