I often ponder how children from different backgrounds experienced their formative years in the 1970s and ’80s. My own childhood was steeped in Cuban culture, filled with the sounds of celebrated comedian Álvarez Guedes and vibrant salsa music, while my husband, Tom, grew up immersed in the tunes of Fleetwood Mac and Carly Simon. Our sons, however, are growing up in a suburban Mid-Atlantic home, far removed from the tightly packed neighborhoods of my past, where houses stood shoulder to shoulder against the threat of hurricanes.
As my boys engage in soccer and swim lessons under the watchful eyes of deer in our tranquil suburb, I often wonder how connected they will feel to their cultural heritage. Will they grasp the significance of their roots? Will they carry on the traditions that form part of their identity? What will they truly understand about their cultural DNA?
Let’s be honest—my first major shortcoming is that my kids don’t speak a word of Spanish. Of course, I can point to the fact that they weren’t raised in a Spanish-speaking environment, unlike me, who navigated through life bilingual out of necessity. Tom, who speaks no Spanish, relied on my translation skills during our early days together in Miami. Despite his lack of formal language education, he has mastered an impressive array of culinary terms from Latin cuisine.
Many immigrants from previous generations carried their cultural identities with them as they settled into new lands, creating communities that reflected their heritage. I often imagine Tom’s Jewish ancestors arriving in America, much like characters from Fiddler on the Roof, facing the challenges of starting anew in a foreign land. They arrived at Ellis Island with little more than their dreams and the hope of a better life, only to have their identities altered as their names were shortened to fit into an Anglo landscape.
Yet, Tom seems oblivious to the struggles of his forebears, and it’s a mystery to me. My own family’s journey is much fresher in my mind. Growing up in Miami, I, and many of my peers, were among the first in our families to fully integrate into American society. Unlike those who crossed the Atlantic in search of a new life, Cubans who fled to Florida sought to preserve their traditions within a tightly-knit community.
In my childhood neighborhood, cultural heritage was a way of life. I didn’t celebrate Christmas with a traditional ham dinner while Bing Crosby sang in the background. Instead, my holidays kicked off the night before, filled with the infectious rhythms of Latin music, laughter, and coquito—a coconut drink enjoyed by all ages. The centerpiece of our festivities was an entire roasted pig, the aroma of garlic and sour oranges wafting through the air.
While higher education was encouraged, many of us stayed local, attending nearby colleges and living at home, which often blurred the lines between high school and college life. It simply wasn’t common for parents of my generation to let their children venture far from home, where meals were cooked and laundry was done, regardless of their age.
I realize I may be romanticizing my upbringing, which I left behind over 14 years ago. Yet, the experience of growing up amidst a tapestry of shifting cultures was unique. My generation straddled the line between the traditions handed down by our parents and the new realities we faced in America. We felt a sense of disconnection at times, but also found comfort among friends and family navigating similar waters.
As for my children, they will form their own relationship with their cultural DNA, influenced by a Cuban-American mother and a Jewish-American father committed to ensuring they thrive and seize opportunities. For further insight into cultural heritage and parenting, check out this post on cultural DNA. And if you’re looking for resources on home insemination, CCRM IVF offers excellent guidance. For those on a fertility journey, Make A Mom is a reputable retailer of at-home insemination syringe kits.
In summary, the journey of cultural inheritance is complex and deeply personal. While my sons may not fully grasp their roots now, their experiences will shape their understanding of identity, just as mine did for me.
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