When people ask me where I’m from, I usually just say, “I’m from the Bronx, New York.” It’s the easiest explanation. Simple. Clean. One label. No confusion.
But the truth? The truth takes a lot longer to explain.
Here’s what I wish I could say: I was born in Puerto Rico, I’m the youngest daughter of a Dominican mother and a Puerto Rican father. I spent the first six years of my life walking to the beach after school, spending my days with the neighborhood kids, and soaking up a language and culture that still lives within me today.
Then, in 2014, my mom packed up our lives and brought us to New York City. Suddenly, my days were filled with subway rides and bodega cats, and there was the occasional snow day. While it was exciting at the moment, I left behind a piece of myself when I got on that flight from San Juan, Puerto Rico, to New York City. The easy walks to the shore, the small-town pace, and the neighbors who felt like family.
Which is why, when someone asks where I’m from, I hesitate. I pause, not because I don’t know the answer, but because I do, and it doesn’t fit into a neat little box. I want to honor all the places, people, and relationships that have shaped me.
Am I Boricua? Dominican? A New Yorker? An immigrant? A first-generation American? The truth is, I’ve never quite felt like I belong in any category.
I’m also a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a student. As the poet Walt Whitman easily put it: “I contain multitudes.”
Puerto Rico is a U.S territory, but our culture is nothing like it is on the mainland. My mom is fully Dominican and immigrated to Puerto Rico before I was born. But moving to New York City wasn’t like moving to a different state. I had to learn a different language and different customs. All of a sudden, my life was no longer summer 24/7. This new home had four seasons, skyscrapers, and practically a whole other world beneath its streets.
My comfort food is mangu, a Dominican dish my mom has made for me ever since I was little. She never serves those mashed green plantains without the tres golpes — salami, fried eggs, and fried cheese. My favorite dessert is a Puerto Rican cheese-filled pastry called a quesito, and you can’t get a better one than from the island.
When I speak Spanish, my accent mixes Dominican and Puerto Rican dialects. And as soon as I speak English, you know straight away that I’m from New York City.
The beaches of Puerto Rico, the countryside of the Dominican Republic, and the city streets of New York — they are all so different from each other, but they come together to make me who I am. I have family and homes in all three locales.
That said, I am more familiar with some places than others. I know the streets of Santurce, the San Juan neighborhood where I lived, and New York City like the back of my hand. But if you dropped me off near where my mom grew up in the Dominican Republic, I probably wouldn’t make it 10 steps without getting lost.
I’m scared sometimes of losing the parts of myself that don’t feel as strong as they used to. There are times when I visit family back in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic and realize I’ve forgotten simple words in Spanish, my tongue tangled in a language that used to come so easily to me. I wish I lived closer to the islands because the distance sometimes makes me feel like an outsider when I’m there during school breaks.
Still, there are moments that make me forget I ever felt that way. Like the summer night in Dorado, Puerto Rico, when my family and I sat at a small beachside restaurant with the sound of waves in the background and live bachata, merengue, and salsa music playing. Everyone was dancing, and as I watched in amazement at how their bodies moved and how happy they all looked, my cousin grabbed my hand and pulled me up to dance.
I had begged my mom to teach me how to dance back in middle school, wanting to be closer to my culture. Still, I never had the courage to dance in front of anyone — too scared to embarrass myself and convinced other people would think I’m “not Latina enough.” But that night, three years later, I finally let go and danced.
Moments like those bring me home, not to a place, but to a feeling. Reminding me that I am made up of more than where I live or how I speak. I am made of music, movement, laughter, and my family.
In New York City, the closest you’ll get to feeling like you’re in the Caribbean is going to the Dominican hair salon. As a little girl, this is the only place where I was surrounded by grown-ups speaking the same Spanish we do at home — gossiping, gushing over my hair, and asking when I would next go to the Dominican Republic. The smell of the blower, the sound of Milly Quezada on the loudspeaker, and the feeling of my hair being wrapped tightly onto rolos. I felt so safe being surrounded by women who carried the island with them wherever they went.
That’s why I hold on tightly to all that makes me who I am, even if it’s just cooking locrio on the stove, calling my titi in the Dominican Republic, or choosing to say something in Spanish instead of English.
Some days, I feel like an impostor. Like I’m not Boricua enough, not Dominican enough, and not enough of a New Yorker. But most days, I’m learning that I don’t need to be enough for anyone. I just need to be enough for me.
Maybe, my identity lives in the mezcla of accents, the various places I call home, and the way my history and family walk with me every day.
And maybe that’s more than enough.
Ginger Roger Ceballos is a high school junior at Manhattan Early College for Advertising. As the youngest of six siblings, she’s learned resilience, adaptability, and the importance of forging her own path. Born in Puerto Rico, raised by her Dominican mother, she moved to New York City when she was 6. Today, she embraces the rich cultures that have come together to shape her identity.