I often wonder how children from different backgrounds experienced their upbringing in the 1970s and ’80s, especially in America. For instance, while I later discovered the music of cultural icons like Fleetwood Mac and Carly Simon, my husband grew up immersed in their tunes. My own memories are filled with the rich sounds of Cuban comedian Álvarez Guedes and salsa music that echoed from the radio.
In stark contrast, my sons are enjoying their childhood in a spacious two-story colonial home nestled in the suburbs of the Mid-Atlantic region. This setting is a far cry from my own youth, where I lived in a densely packed neighborhood characterized by low-roof houses. The urban sprawl I experienced was a byproduct of poor city planning and the looming threat of hurricanes.
As my children engage in after-school activities like soccer and swimming, I often find myself pondering how aware they will be of their cultural origins. Will they grasp the significance of their heritage? Will they carry forward the traditions that have shaped my life? What will they truly understand about their cultural DNA?
I must admit that one of my first shortcomings as a parent is that my sons have yet to learn Spanish. While it’s easy to attribute this to not being raised in a Spanish-speaking household or community, my own upbringing demanded bilingualism. My husband, who speaks no Spanish, relied on me to communicate during our early dates at Latin restaurants, though he has impressively picked up culinary terms along the way.
For many immigrants of previous generations, their Old World cultures were evident even in their new homes, where businesses catered to those longing for a taste of their past. I envision my husband’s Jewish ancestors embarking on a challenging journey from Eastern Europe to America, arriving with little more than their dreams and a few possessions. They faced the reality of arriving at Ellis Island as third-class passengers, with their names often altered for easier pronunciation. Despite the sacrifices made by their forebears, my husband remains disconnected from their struggles, a fact that perplexes me. Meanwhile, my family’s journey to America feels much more immediate and relatable.
In Miami, where I grew up, many Cubans who fled their homeland established a vibrant community, preserving their cultural practices despite being in a new land. Unlike the traditional Christmas dinners where people might feast on ham while listening to Bing Crosby, my holiday celebrations revolved around lively Latin music, coquito, and a whole roasted pig, an experience that filled the air with the aroma of garlic and sour oranges.
Although higher education was expected of us, most of my peers attended nearby colleges, often living at home and missing out on the typical college experience. For many parents of my generation, the idea of their children living away from home was unfathomable, as they preferred to keep a watchful eye over their lives.
Reflecting on my upbringing, I recognize that it was a unique blend of cultures and languages that shaped who I am today. My generation danced between the traditions of our parents and the realities of our new environment, often feeling isolated yet supported by friends and family alike.
For my children, their connection to their cultural DNA will unfold through their experiences as they navigate life with a Cuban-American mother and a Jewish-American father, both striving to provide them with opportunities for a prosperous future.
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In summary, cultural heritage plays a crucial role in shaping our identities and the lives of future generations. As parents, we have the responsibility to pass on our traditions and values, ensuring that our children understand and appreciate their roots.