Personal Narrative: Being The Chocolate Chip In A Cultural Cookie
Being the chocolate chip in a cultural cookie was never easy. Everything about me stood out; whether it be my skin color, Dominican heritage, or name “Alejandro,” I was astoundingly different. I was born to a Dutch-Canadian-American father and a Dominican mother. Needless to say, my household featured an interesting blend of cultures. Here in northern Michigan, I’m surrounded by beautiful lakes, forests, and the “Million Dollar Sunset.” My town is famous for its rich history, proximity to the great lakes, and the Petoskey Stone. However, my small-town environment has also presented me with a severe lack of diversity.
Everywhere I went, strangers were fascinated with my foreignness. Eventually, I grew tired of broken spanish and became upset
at the stories of five-star Dominican resorts. When talking about my culture, it seemed people wanted to skim the surface. For them, it wasn’t important to understand my Taino blood. For them, my name was fun to hear but hard to pronounce. For them, I was a novelty. It felt as though my differences had become a burden on society.
Everything changed during a class discussion on cultural assimilation. I had strong opinions on the topic and was surprised to see that others didn’t share them. It wasn’t until a peer recommended the creation of a “master race” that I began to get upset. In my small-town surroundings, I was truly swimming against the current. My teacher accepted his argument and asked the class to respond. I decided I was done being the only uncomfortable one.
I raised my hand and spoke confidently, knowing the material and how to dismantle his proposition. Citing historical evidence from World War II and our own textbook, I was able to solidify my position and change my classmates’ minds on the subject. It was in that moment when I felt I had affected real change, where I realized that I had as much right to be different as anyone else. I spent my entire childhood feeling uncomfortable so that others wouldn’t. It’s clear, now, that being uncomfortable is the first step towards understanding.
Everywhere I went, strangers were fascinated with my foreignness. Eventually, I grew tired of broken spanish and became upset
at the stories of five-star Dominican resorts. When talking about my culture, it seemed people wanted to skim the surface. For them, it wasn’t important to understand my Taino blood. For them, my name was fun to hear but hard to pronounce. For them, I was a novelty. It felt as though my differences had become a burden on society.
Everything changed during a class discussion on cultural assimilation. I had strong opinions on the topic and was surprised to see that others didn’t share them. It wasn’t until a peer recommended the creation of a “master race” that I began to get upset. In my small-town surroundings, I was truly swimming against the current. My teacher accepted his argument and asked the class to respond. I decided I was done being the only uncomfortable one.
I raised my hand and spoke confidently, knowing the material and how to dismantle his proposition. Citing historical evidence from World War II and our own textbook, I was able to solidify my position and change my classmates’ minds on the subject. It was in that moment when I felt I had affected real change, where I realized that I had as much right to be different as anyone else. I spent my entire childhood feeling uncomfortable so that others wouldn’t. It’s clear, now, that being uncomfortable is the first step towards understanding.