9 posts tagged “hispanic”

 

A friend told me about American Chica earlier this year, just before I went to see my abuelita. Intrigued by the fact that the author, like me, had an American mother and Peruvian father, I put it on my birthday wish list. I should have known that my hermanito, the only other mitad mitad on the list of people who buy me presents, would be the one to give me this particular book.

Last week, I finally had the opportunity to to lose myself in it. Not surprisingly, I found myself fascinated by the author's observations of the differences between U.S. and Peruvian cultures. Of course, my experiences did not always coincide with hers, but when I came upon this passage, I recognized myself instantly:

There is a trait I recognize now in the child I was then, an obsession bordering on fever. Perhaps that inquisitiveness is common to children of mixed parents. You till, you dig, you paw, searching for bits, scrabbling at roots, eager to learn to which tribe you belong. Are you more like one or more like the other? Are you one way when you're in one country, but another when you're not? You dangle from that precipice, wondering where to drop.

It is exhausting work, that transit between worlds, that two-way vertigo.

I couldn't have said it better myself. Nor could I have picked a more fitting place to read it: suspended high in the air, en route from Houston to Lima.

While browsing Mighty Goods yesterday, I stumbled across the Swirl Syndicate, which sells tees for "multicultural" babies and toddlers. This is my favorite one (I would totally buy—and wear—it if they offered it in an adult size):

This next one would have been perfect for my hermanito, who was a master whiner back in the day (you know it's true, Brother!):

And, boy, my towheaded mother sure could have used a shirt like the one below for either me or my brother:

Over the weekend, Peru marked 186 years of independence from Spain. To commemorate the occasion, Mr. Guycita and I observed our quaint tradition of stuffing ourselves at the local Peruvian restaurant.

One of my cousins is doing much more than that to celebrate Peru's rich history. He lives in the beautiful mountain town of Cajamarca, and for the past four years he has been a part of the Asociacion Cultural Origenes. The aim of this nonprofit organization is to educate young people about Peru's folkloric tradition. They do this by putting on demonstrations of traditional dance and music throughout Peru and abroad (including Ecuador, Chile, and soon Spain).

My cousin's roles in the ACO include organizing events, arranging the music, and playing bass for the dancers. I couldn't be more proud of the work he is doing. Watch as his group performs the beautiful marinera, a dance typical of northern Peru:

And here is a (rather long, but very interesting) dance they did at the Mitad del Mundo. My cousin says it's their best act:

A few days ago, Mr. Guycita and I returned from an impromptu trip to Peru to see my ailing, 91-year-old grandmother. She is in bad shape, and it was a difficult trip, but I'm glad I got to see her one last time.

My grandma was hospitalized for the first few days of our visit. On the day they sent her home, she asked that a bouquet of white roses be placed in her bedroom. She loves flowers, and when she was younger, she would spend a lot of time caring for the ones in her garden. Their vivid colors were a bright spot in my grandparents' yard, which was (and is) always covered with a layer of dust from the desert.

On that particular morning, only a couple of white roses were in bloom, so my mom filled out the bouquet with different colored roses. My abuelita, who is now blind, did not know the difference, and the fragrance made her happy. Later that day, my grandma's younger sister went to the market to buy more white roses for her bouquet. It's funny what people will do for the ones they love, even when it doesn't make sense.

On the last day of our visit, my abuelito went outside to cut some more roses for my grandma. I went out back with him and took the opportunity to snap some photos of the beautiful plants in their yard. I thought other people might like to see them, too. It's amazing what lush beauty can emerge from the desert coast of northern Peru (in winter!).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every year, I ask Mr. Guycita what type of birthday cake he wants me to make for him, and then I scour my cookbooks and the Internet to find the best from-scratch recipe possible.

This year, he told me that he really didn't know what he wanted. In the mood to try something new, I suggested a tres leches cake. My mom occasionally serves it when we visit Texas, and Mr. Guycita always loves it.

Of course, I didn't want to make just any tres leches cake. So after considerable research, I decided to try my hand at a cuatro leches cake. This variation, in addition to being soaked in the traditional mixture of sweetened condensed milk, evaporated milk, and heavy cream, is topped with dulce de leche (a caramel-type spread that I grew up eating all the time in Uruguay). To put my own twist on the recipe, I decided that, rather than diluting the dulce de leche with milk to pour over the top of the finished cake, I would fill the cake with Conaprole brand dulce de leche straight out of the jar.

Another thing that I thought made this recipe special is that it calls for Swiss meringue icing, rather than the traditional whipped cream. The meringue was super-easy to make, but I had never iced a cake with it before. I quickly learned that, being inexperienced with this medium, I was going to have to be happy with a freeform type of icing job:

I wanted to give the icing a lot of texture, and I thought it turned out pretty good for a first try! Now the recipe directed me to caramelize the icing (to give the cake a hint of roasted marshmallow flavor—yum!). Unfortunately, my little blowtorch refused to cooperate. Out of sheer desperation, I tried putting the cake under the broiler. This method meant that, while the top of the cake would become nice and golden, the sides of the cake would remain unbrowned:  

Although the end result was nowhere near what I had envisioned at the start of the process, the cake tasted great. The crumb of the mantecada cake was delicate while still being sturdy enough to hold 3 cups of the leches mixture (the leftover milk can—and should!—be poured over the plated cake wedges). And filling the cake with dulce de leche made this component much more prominent than it would have been if drizzled over the top as directed. I served the cake with coffee and strawberries, both of which were just right to cut the sweetness of the cake. As you can see, we dug in:

Mr. Guycita was happy, and that made me happy. But before I make this cake again, I'll make sure that my little blowtorch is in working order! 

In my copy of The Feast of the Goat, a brilliant novel by noted Peruvian writer Mario Vargas Llosa, a critic gushes, "Llosa's writing is, as always, rich and earthy, complex and elegant."

Although I completely agree with the analysis, the reviewer makes the unfortunate—and all-too-common—mistake of referring to the author by an incorrect last name. The confusion is understandable; to a non-Hispanic, Vargas appears to be a middle name, and Llosa looks like a last name. In reality, both are a surname—but they cannot be used interchangeably.

Here's how it works: In most Spanish-speaking countries, everyone gets two last names at birth, the paternal surname (in this case, Vargas) and the maternal surname (Llosa). The paternal surname always precedes the maternal one, and the two are not hyphenated. Informally, people use the paternal last name only, which is why Mario Vargas Llosa could go by Mario Vargas but never by Mario Llosa.

Men keep both surnames for life. A woman's surname configuration, however, changes when she gets married: She drops her maternal surname and replaces it with her husband's paternal surname (preceded by "de," which means "of," to show that she belongs to her husband). Therefore, if Mario Vargas Llosa were to marry Leticia Padilla Solis (the Mexican version of Ugly Betty), she would become Leticia Padilla de Vargas. Informally, she would go by Leticia Vargas.

Later, the children of this union would receive the paternal surname of each parent, with the father's surname coming first: Vargas Padilla. And so the cycle would begin anew.

Cool, huh?

Linguists assert that most families have a private language, or "familylect." Words in a familylect are usually (1) made up and (2) understood only by that family's members.

Someone asked me today what the meaning is behind my screen name. "Guycita" comes from "guycitos," which is a word my dad came up with at some point during my childhood. The root word is—yep—the English noun "guys." The Spanish suffix -ito (or -cito) indicates small size and/or affection. Therefore, "guycitos" is Spanglish for "little guys"—or even "little guys whom I love." It was my dad's special word for me and my brother when we were kids.

When I left home, I realized that the word "guycitos" was probably unique to my family. Perhaps it will be the special word I use for my children someday—or maybe we'll come up with our own familylect.

My father is Peruvian, and my mother is a native Hoosier. I am at once both and neither.

A friend recently referred to me as "mixed." This term does not offend me in the least, but I prefer to think of myself as "mitad mitad" (which is Spanish for "half and half"). That's because the concept of "mitad mitad" is about more than race or ethnicity: In my mind, it evokes the experience of having each foot in a different culture, in a different world.

The people who study these things would call me a "TCK" (third culture kid). The idea is that kids who grow up with the daily influence of two cultures create a third, hybrid culture of their own. I reject the label "TCK" for myself, however, because I grew up as a missionary kid in Uruguay, meaning that I had the daily influence of three cultures. The culture of my own making would then, logically, be my fourth culture. But I think being known as an "FCK" would sound (and definitely look) borderline vulgar.

So I'll just stick with "mitad mitad."