I was so excited this morning because I was finally going to watch, In the Heights (HBO). It's a musical with music and lyrics by Lin-Manuel Miranda and based on the book by Quiara Alegria Hudes. Admittedly, I am a huge fan of Lin Manuel Miranda (a fellow Boricua), so I am far from unbiased. Despite my excitement, I was stunned because the film immediately filled my eyes with tears and soon thereafter the teardrops rolled down my face. Yes, Caribbean people have no reservation with embracing emotions, a character-trait I still struggle with in the Anglo-world of U.S. legal academia.
Indeed, the first stanza hit me like a rock. It was so genuine and true to my Caribbean experience in NYC—I was simply stunned. I lived the story of the young lead, Nina, who went away for college, Stanford in her case, only to return home with cultural, academic, and economic reservations. I recall my own father, a hardworking immigrant who never asked anything from anyone his entire life, and who was so honest, he signed away his retirement when the company he worked for faced economic troubles due to mismanagement; hoping it would recover–it never did. The day my father and I arrived at my college's bursar's office, I witnessed him put down his life's savings so I could attend one semester at a private university. When the official mentioned the tuition amount, a number I could not believe was for one semester, I promised myself at 17-years-old, he would never have to do that again. He paid the tuition without pause or reservation, but I knew the amount was shocking and it had to hurt. I earned scholarships, worked more than one job, and even hustled–but never another cent.
Much like Nina in the film, when I moved away I carried with me the beautiful dreams so many family members and neighbors held, it weighed heavy on me–but one learns to get by. After not fully embracing the private school life–with so-called parties where no one danced and everyone was drunk, where the music was largely terrible and could not be danced to, where fun seemed to be watching and avoiding college wrestlers getting drunk and picking fight with larger football players–just too weird for me. I eventually transferred from the snooty place–I was the only student of color not on an affirmative action scholarship which actually made be more isolated, and I was on the school's football team that had no Latinos and only one or two blacks (who were older and stars; I was a walk-on that had to "dress" in a basement–a football right of passage)–But I quickly learned I loved the wrong sport; those Gringos were giants–I should have tried baseball (sadly, I couldn't see, let alone hit, a curveball). I eventually transferred back to the city–Lehman College in the Bronx to be exact–where parties had music and everyone danced. Loved being around my people. Loved my city-life.
Loved it too!
From our prior talks, I bet you have an interesting take from the Island.