Do the Hard Work First

The view in the sunroom where I am sitting this morning ultimately leads to the ocean. I love this view because I am now a beach person, but only when I come to Puerto Rico. The mountains of Colorado were my family’s vacation destination growing up, a tradition I continued with my own children. The beach entered my life in 2019, when I came to Puerto Rico with my newly discovered biological father to discover my newly found heritage. I am half Puerto Rican, the other half a mix of French and Scottish. My paternal grandfather’s side of the family is mainly Spanish and Portuguese; my paternal grandmother is a mix of Indigenous Puerto Rican, West African, and Spanish. DNA revealed that my blood contains at least seventeen regions of the world (AncestryDNA continues to update, and I continue to become more diverse).

I have the deep brown eyes of many of the people here, and after the first week in May, my skin darkens with little effort. Of course, many Puerto Ricans look more European than indigenous, so I could just as easily pass as a white girl from Oklahoma, which is exactly what I am. Trying to identify myself as Puerto Rican feels like an appropriation, or at least an ethnicity I do not deserve to claim. I’ve visited the graves of my ancestors at the Castle del Moro—a sprawling fortress and battle structure built by the Spanish in the 1500s, and posed for a photo in front of my great-grandfather Martin’s house on Calle Martin Terazzio in Old San Juan. A cousin showed me the family tree and how I fit into it, and my father bought me a t-shirt here that says, “Puerto Rico: It’s in my DNA.” Cute and true, but that doesn’t settle anything.

I took salsa lessons, but my rhythm is lacking, and I am terrible at moving my body with the music. Anyone looking at me would likely see the wrenched expression of a person who is trying too hard and void of salsa joy. It made me sad that my DNA didn’t bring with it natural dance moves or the ability to learn Spanish with ease. I thought the language might be hiding somewhere in my subconscious, but Duolingo crushed that prayer. I’m still hopeless to communicate below the basic greetings and the phrase, “Escribe tu nombre aqui,” translated, “Write your name here.”1

We cobble our identities from many sources, including the family we were raised in, our cultural beginnings, religious heritage, educational achievements, careers, friend groups, and even more nuanced derivations like neighborhoods, clothing choices, and musical tastes. Since the moment my DNA results came to my inbox five years ago, I’ve struggled with nailing down my identity. I do not speak Spanish, nor do I have a childhood that incorporated any aspect of Latino culture. I’ve asked myself what it means to know that half of my ancestral history comes from this island, and before that, the Basque region of Spain. Does that make me someone different now? Should there be a mysterious aura around my time here that pulls me toward the inevitable bond with my ethnicity? Maybe, but it hasn’t happened yet, and I’m not sure it ultimately works that way.

I’m the person I’ve been all along—now with a few additions: a Puerto Rican family, an island with a beach I’ve learned to love, and an ethnicity I will forever be unraveling with endless fascination. I am, and yet I am not. It’s a tenuous place to be, but it keeps me humble.

I’ve tried to write about my DNA search and discovery, only to be visited with a tiny mental breakdown after a few days. Therapy helped me process some things, but it didn’t help me with the fifty-foot writing block I can’t seem to hack my way through. So, I’ve set it aside and am waiting it out.

Writing our truth doesn’t come at the expense of our mental health. Sometimes, we have interior work to do first. This is a step we shouldn’t skip, even though it’s tempting to get all those emotions down on paper. I have stacks of hardbound journals that hold my emotions about the DNA, the searching and finding, the reunion, and its joys and complications. Those words will stay hidden there; I wouldn’t wish them on anyone. Writing that is helpful to someone going through this same challenge, or writing that illuminates the complexity of adoption and DNA discovery, is different than spewing out a story for shock effect and sympathy. It’s tempting, but readers don’t want this. “Take it up with your therapist,” they would say, slamming the book shut by page ten. I agree. The interior work comes first, then we can write our truth for those who can benefit from our story. Before opening my file on this subject again, I’ll likely make a block of appointments with my therapist and make a few more trips to the island.

Speaking of interior work, my book, The Reluctant Writer, will be out the first week in June. They say “write what you know,” and, although I wouldn’t have chosen it, this is my area of expertise. I devote a chapter to writing your truth as one of our creative allies. Coming to the page as our authentic self sounds scary, but this is how we shut down the voices of imposter syndrome, comparison, and the inner critic. My hope is that the book will be helpful for anyone who wants to write, but can’t seem to get started, keep going, or finish. It’s amazing how fear cloaks itself behind our reasons for not writing. Spoiler alert: Most of the time, not having enough time to write is fear in disguise.

I’ll have more information about the book release here.

In the meantime, enjoy this photo of the front of my great-grandfather, Martin Bellber y Gonzalez’s, house in Old San Juan. My father took me to Puerto Rico for the first time in 2019, and it was the most surreal seven days of my life.

1. I inexplicably retain this one Spanish phrase from a mission trip to Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, when I was 18 years old. My morning job was to ask children to write their names on a sticky tag before our daily Vacation Bible School. I have never once needed to use this phrase since.