To Be Puerto Rican...

Growing up, I struggled with my self-image.

I was born in Germany to Puerto Rican parents—my dad, a U.S. Army soldier, was stationed there at the time. Life on military bases was filled with cultural fusion, but the Puerto Rican community stood out in its own special way. During the holidays, we had parrandas, traditional Puerto Rican caroling, complete with guitars, güiros, and tambours. My dad would sing and play guitar while the community gathered to celebrate and speak Spanish. That was my early childhood—a mix of languages, music, and a beautiful cultural blend. No one treated me differently because of how I looked. Being a military brat meant being immersed in diversity.

Then we moved to Florida.

Orlando has a huge Puerto Rican population—many with roots from the island, New York, or Chicago. But I wasn’t from any of those places. I didn’t sound like them, and I didn’t quite fit in. To some Puerto Ricans, I was “too White.” To others outside the culture, I was “too Brown.” It didn’t make sense. I felt like I was always stuck between two worlds—never quite enough for either.

It wasn’t until college that everything changed.

I decided to stop letting others define my identity. I leaned into my culture and gave myself permission to rediscover who I was. Sure, I liked reggaeton, but I wanted more than that. I wanted to know my history, speak better Spanish, and connect with my family on a deeper level. I wanted to dance salsa, merengue, and cha cha—not just for fun, but for connection.

So I got involved.

I became President of the Puerto Rican organization on campus, and in planning events, I learned more about Puerto Rico than I ever had before. I discovered the beauty of bomba y plena, the Afro-Caribbean rhythms rooted in Puerto Rico’s history. I studied the Grito de Lares, our fight for independence. I even found joy in the small things—like visiting Lares for the wildest ice cream flavors (corn, rice and beans—yes, really!).

Most importantly, I made it a goal to visit my family in Puerto Rico at least every two years. Those trips grounded me. They reminded me that culture is lived, not just inherited.

Here’s the truth:
No one gets to define who you are but you.
I’m Puerto Rican—not because of how I look, speak, or where I was raised—but because it’s in my blood, my heart, and my history. I embrace it through music, land, language, and love.

All cultures are beautiful.
But this one—my culture—is mine. And no one can take that away from me.

Ignorance Is Bliss... Until It's Hurtful

I’m normally a pretty positive person, but there’s one thing that really gets under my skin—maybe because I’ve experienced it firsthand growing up—and that’s discrimination.

Recently, Marc Anthony was ridiculed on Twitter for singing “God Bless America.” People claimed it was un-American. I was floored. I mean, seriously?

1. He was born in New York.

2. He’s Puerto Rican—which makes him a U.S. citizen.

3. Spanish is the second most spoken language in the world.

4. And the U.S.? It’s literally built on being a melting pot.

He’s also a Grammy-winning artist, but let’s be real—that shouldn’t even matter. Not even a month ago, students at the University of Southern Mississippi chanted “Where’s your green card?” at a Puerto Rican basketball player. Puerto Rican. As in, American citizen. That’s not just offensive—it’s ignorant.

What makes it worse is that many Americans don’t know their own history. Nearly all of us are descendants of immigrants in some form. Even Native Americans are believed to have crossed the Bering Strait from Eurasia. If you have European ancestry, someone in your family got here on a boat, too.

Just because someone speaks another language—or looks different—doesn’t make them any less American. I don’t speak “Mexican” or “Puerto Rican.” I speak Spanish, English, and even a little Italian.

My father served over 30 years in the U.S. Army and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel. I cry every time I hear the national anthem. I have cousins serving in the military. I am proud to be American. But sometimes, I walk into certain places and immediately feel judged—just for how I look.

And yet, at the end of the day, I still love my curly hair and my brown skin. I love that I speak multiple languages. I love my culture. I love how excited we get when someone’s roasting a whole pig in the backyard. I love the music, the food, the spirit, the warmth.

This country is beautiful because of our differences. It’s ignorance that makes it ugly.