When I was two turning three years old, I was enamoured with Rosita from Sesame Street. If you’re unfamiliar, she was a turquoise-coloured, bilingual Muppet who hailed from Mexico. As mimicry is the greatest form of flattery, I began telling people I was from Mexico too.
A few years later, I realised that I was not, in fact, from Mexico, but from Puerto Rico. I was not born there, my maternal grandfather was. But this was enough to satisfy me and confirm my Latin heritage. It swiftly became an integral part of my identity.
I literally and physically began devouring everything I could grasp of my culture at the time. Heaping plates of rice + beans + platanos + a fried egg, caramel-doused flan, cafe con leche. (It’s no wonder I grew to develop such a raging coffee habit.)