“Your dad is black.”

“What? No he’s not”

“Yes he is. I saw you with him. He’s black.”

“Last time I checked, I’m not black. I’m SOUTH African, and my dad is not black.”

“oh okay… wait, so why aren’t you black?”

This was a conversation that epitomized my childhood. At a very young age, I learned the power of labels and segregation. I learned about the ignorance that surrounded racism. I learned about the need for people to place divisions on others and categorize accordingly.

It is perhaps, for this reason, that I feel repelled by immersing myself in one culture or ethnic community. I can’t say that I feel any deep connection to any of my ethnic backgrounds: South African, Russian, Austrian-Hungarian, Lithuanian and British. These are ethnic backgrounds that feel so far off to me and have had no influence on shaping the person I am. I do not speak Russian. I have never been to South Africa. I can’t even properly identify where Lithuania is on a map.

Growing up my group of friends ranged from Puerto Rican to Native American to Chinese to Indian. I tended to stay away from ethnic cliques in my High School and just roamed around with those who felt as out of the loop as I did. Yet, perhaps it is my lack of culture that has made me extremely interested in other people’s cultures. I love traveling to different countries and experiencing new things. Just the other day, I went to the Chinatown with my friend who is Chinese and tried chicken feet. This is not abnormal for me. I’ve tasted so many unique foods and have traveled to as many different countries as I possibly can. So although I don’t identify with a single culture, I feel as if there is no lack of culture in my life.

Some people may also feel a strong connection to their religion in place of their ethnicities. My family is Jewish and although I was brought up going to Hebrew School and had a bat-mitzvah, I also feel that I am detracted from my own religion and interested more in other people’s beliefs. Although at times religion can promote a lot of good in the world, I believe it can be equally as destructive and is another social construct that can keep us divided.

So once again, I felt that I did not fit in with the adamant Jews that went to my Chabad.

Where do I belong? Good question. I tend to feel that I belong with anyone who shares a similar open-mindedness to me. I like surrounding myself in a culture of people who don’t care too much about culture, if that makes any sense. I gravitate towards people from different walks of life, but also share a similar sense of acceptance of others.

A song that I believe fits my beliefs perfectly is Imagine by John Lennon. In his wise words:

“Imagine there’s no countries
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace ”

The song perfectly depicts how I have felt towards group divisions. If we look past the color of our skins, past the name of the “god” we pray to, past the language we speak, we are actually very similar in the end.

When I first meet a person they always ask, “Who are you and where are you from?” I say, “My name is Aamir and although my family is Pakistani I was born and raised here in Queens my whole life.” The first thing they always say is, “Pakistani? Really? You don’t look it.”

I can’t really consider myself to be Pakistani for a number of reasons. First of all, I was born here and not there. Secondly, I have never gone there. My mom and dad’s family were able to immigrate because both of my grandfathers worked for the U.S. embassy in Pakistan and no one has gone back since! My parents like to joke and push the blame on me by saying that “It costs a lot of money and we can’t afford it because we need to put you and your brother through school.” Thirdly, I can’t fluently speak Urdu which is Pakistan’s official language. I can understand it nearly perfectly and can communicate well with my grandparents but if I try speaking in Urdu it just doesn’t sound right. Fortunately there’s an acronym for a group that kids like me belong to. It’s called ABCD and it stands for American Born Confused Desi.

I used a strange word “Desi” that has developed into a word that defines people who originate in the Indian subcontinent. These Desi people are people from India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, and Bangladesh. There is a general Desi culture which brings people from all of these neighboring countries together. This culture can be stereotypically be defined by one song that has seeped into the mind of any Desi person in the world. The name of the song is Kuch Kuch Hota Hai http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qOa5t_es0s8. It’s not very surprising that this song is from a Bollywood movie (Indian cinema) of the same name that has defined the industry for a generation. To understand the scale and importance of this song to Desi culture the actor in the song Sharukh Khan is now known as King Khan, the superstar of Bollywood. Everyone knows this guy as an icon of Indian cinema. His movies have a big role in defining this Desi culture that many people, including myself, have grown up with.

A very important point, which is the most confusing part of this culture, is the difference between Desi culture and Desi reality. Going back to the song a bunch of contradictions arise. First of all it’s a love song. My parents’ marriage was arranged! It’s not just my parents, almost all of the Desi parents I know have had arranged marriages. This really confuses me considering that every Bollywood movie is primarily a love story. People think of these movies as fantasies and in real life do the exact opposite of what happens in the movie. The second thing that’s confusing about this song is that there are two girls and one guy and they are all out on the field singing about this love triangle that they are in. In real life it’s considered shameless to have pre-marital affairs and someone would kill that guy for making two girls fall in love with him. It’s these things that I really don’t understand.

I am confused. I strongly hope that there are actually other kids like me who grew up with all this culture in their face that resulted in their confusion. I find it very difficult to come up with a straight definition but American Born Confused Desi sounds pretty good to me.

Living in a diverse community often ignited fear within my mother. She worried that the whirlpool of diversity would suck in our culture and give back lost traditions and diluted values. To prevent her fear from turning into reality, my mom made every effort to prevent her children from this subtle tornado. I grew up in a culturally enriched environment, where my language, dressing, food and values were carefully delivered.

My family has indeed become successful in their undying struggle to keep my culture alive within me. I stand today incapable of living my life without a heavy impact of my Pakistani culture. My ethnic background truly dictates my lifestyle and gives me an identity. I mix Urdu and English when I speak. Despite speaking Urdu with an accent, I make sure to practice the language with a wide range of difficult vocabulary. I don’t need a translator to speak to my grandmother. There’s a unique sense of warmth and joy in being able to understand her loving words on my own.

I have my moody days when I either listen to American or Pakistani music. Listening to the music of my country introduces me to the thoughts and mindsets of my Pakistani people. I get to experience the expression of love, friendship, family, and poverty from a different corner of the world. I can relate to my parents and my fellow Pakistanis on the level of music and expression, despite being distant from them.

My closet is divided into sections of American and Pakistani outfits. The clothing of my culture has a distinctive style too. Colorful cottons and silks are heavily embroidered with jewels and gems, as decorative needlework floods the borders of outfits. Colors play a crucial role in the clothing of Pakistan. As seen in Pakistani movies, the bright colors of clothing signify the festivals and celebrations of the culture. This includes Eid ul-Fitr(celebrating the end of the holy month of Ramadan), Eid ul-Adha(day of sacrifice), Basant(Kite festival), and even marriages. Pakistani marriages are a three-day ceremony, Mehndi, Barat and Walima. Mehndi is the henna ceremony, which traditionally consists of yellow, green, and orange clothing. Barat is the main wedding day on which the bride wears red to symbolize the bond of love that she is creating with her beloved. Walima is the ceremony held by the groom’s family in celebration of the entire marriage. All sorts of bright colored clothing with jewels are worn on this day.

Although I appreciate and respect all of my traditions deeply, Mehndi, henna is a cultural custom that I’ve grown extremely fond of.  Henna is art on its own. Its dark dye and elaborate designs are very appealing to the women of my culture. Henna is just like jewelry in Pakistan. Along with earrings and necklaces, Pakistani women ornament themselves with henna on celebrations. Dark colored henna would be like an expensive necklace. The importance and love of henna is sewn into every Pakistani tradition. The first day of a wedding is a Henna ceremony, on which henna is put on a bride and groom. Older Pakistani women use henna as a hair dye as well. The brownish red color of henna dyed hair is preferred over the whitening hair of old age. Many Pakistani people use henna as a cooling reagent. Elderly people cool their hands and feet down by putting henna on them.

Growing up, I was obsessed with henna. Missing an opportunity to have henna put on my hands would really depress me. I was just so fascinated by the henna designs and color. My eyes would gaze at the swirls and curls of flowers on my hands. The color of my henna always concerned me, also. I made sure I kept the henna on my hands for the longest time, because that would give my hands a darker color. I tried all these remedies of lemon and sugar water on my hands because I wanted my henna color to be dark. I would compete with my cousins to see whose henna came out the darkest. According to old tales, dark henna meant true love in the future. Although the concept of true love was blurry in my head, just the fact that my henna was dark and that I would be getting this “true love”, amazed me. Luckily, my henna would always turn out to be the darkest amongst my cousins. I’d run around the house showing my hands to my aunts and uncles. Eid and weddings were joyous not because they were a celebration, but because I had henna on my hands.

I must bring to notice that this account of henna is extremely biased. As a girl, henna is jewelry to me and I’d love to adorn myself with it any day. To most boys however, henna isn’t as appealing. My brother would always run away from me when I had henna on because he found it smelly. He made sure he didn’t touch me because he didn’t want any dye on him either. Men don’t find much interest in henna because it is after all, a women’s accessory. Nevertheless, as a groom awaits his wife on his wedding night, he expects to find a beautiful woman not only ornamented with jewels, but with henna as well. The henna on a bride is different this time around in her life, for the color on her hands is for her husband. The henna on a bride is in the name of her groom. Her effort to beautify and ornament herself with henna and jewels is in celebration of her wedding, her union with her husband, and her eternal happiness.

I like to think of my culture as my identity, really. I am American, like everyone in this nation, but I’m different because I’m Pakistani. I’m different because I speak Urdu and adore Henna. Luckily for me, my henna will always speak more for my ethnic background than any jewel ever will. Your treasure chest of jewels will never reveal your true identity. Your diamond ring, your pearl necklace, and even your gold watch won’t tell me where you come from. My priceless henna, passed on from an endless thread of tradition, defines me. It tells you my cultural background. It tells you that I’ve adorned myself for a celebration, possibly my own marriage. It tells you that I’m happy.

Henna on a bride.

Pakistani Bride.

This blog topic actually started out as pretty challenging for me—my ethnicity doesn’t actually play much of a role in my day-to-day life, unfortunately.  My dad is German and Irish and my mom is Polish and Italian, but we really don’t observe any ethnic customs.  I also happen to come from what my younger brother described as “The whitest town this side of the Mason-Dixon line”.  According to the 2000 Census, Seaford is 96.80% white, 3.71% Hispanic, and 0.15% black (and the percentages only get smaller from there).  So as you can see…I don’t exactly belong to an “ethnic community”.  I’ve been pondering this topic for days, and just a few hours ago I finally decided what it is that brings my family together.  I was in my dorm’s kitchen making chicken salad while watching the Giants football game on TV.  I don’t even know what I was thinking about, but then it hit me—it was so simple, I was amazed it hadn’t hit me before.  My family’s dedication to football is our custom.

Now, it may seem kind of trivial, but let me explain.  Football really is a cultural thing in my family.  It’s a way to bring us all together, and not just physically—it bridges the gaps between generations.  I’ll start with my father.  He was born in 1945, 5 days before Franklin Roosevelt died.  He grew up with black and white TV, McCarthyism, the space race, and JFK (in other words, the stuff that seems light years away from what my younger brother and I grew up with).  Then my oldest brother Tommy was born in 1965, my sister Leslie in 1967, and my middle brother Chuck in 1969.  My dad got divorced from his first wife sometime in the 70’s and married my mom, who is almost 16 years younger than him, in 1991.  I was born in 1993 and my younger brother Brian came 2 years later.  Yeah, we’re kind of like the Pritchetts from Modern Family.  But like the Pritchetts, we all miraculously find a way to come together, and our way is football.

My dad, my older siblings, and I are all ridiculous Giants fans (the Giants were the only New York football team when my dad was a kid).  My younger brother Brian, my brother-in-law Rob, and my nephew Robert are equally dedicated Jets fans.  The fact that we all don’t root for the same team is really what makes football season so much fun for us.  On most Sundays throughout the season, everyone except my brother Chuck (who lives in Ohio) gathers at my sister’s house to watch the Giants and Jets games.  We really treat each game like its own special holiday.  Leslie and I will bake, Rob and Brian endlessly discuss fantasy football, and my dad tries to keep us all from going off the deep end.  The taunting, cheering, and shouting is pretty much non-stop during the day.  It’s really quite a circus.  Sometimes we’ll also call Chuck to keep him in on the action and discuss the previous day’s Ohio State college football game.  We all know that whichever team wins that day gets bragging rights for the entire week; or, in the case of the 2007 Giants, the Super Bowl win is still used for bragging rights.  One of my favorite family memories is how insane we all went when the Giants won the Super Bowl.  My niece Kaylee and I were chanting “Go Eli!” at the top of our lungs as we all saw the improbable become reality.  I really appreciate those Sundays even more now that I live in the dorm, because so far I haven’t been able to watch any of the games with my family; I miss getting together and spending the entire day living and dying by football.  I love the fact that my four siblings and I, who theoretically should have very little in common, are brought together by our ridiculous passion for football.

One song I think describes the sense of unity my family finds in football is “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.  Coincidentally, it was also used this year in ads to promote the new NFL season.  The verses are playful banter, which reminds me of the teasing my siblings and I love to do to each other during games.  The chorus is simply, “Home, let me come home/ Home is whenever I’m with you”.  That really describes my family to a T—no matter how far away we may be from one another, we always feel like we’re right at home together when we’re watching football.  I felt it today when I watched the Giants by myself—when I was jumping up and down and cheering when the Giants scored the winning touchdown, it felt like I had my family right there beside me.  I knew my dad was laughing because it was so unlikely, Leslie and Tommy were shouting their heads off, and Chuck was saying “YEAH!”  So as you can see, the Jennings family takes football very seriously, but for a good reason—to us, football is home.

Home- Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

This was my family's Christmas card photo last year

First off let me say that I was born to a Filipino Family. My mother, father, and my brother were all born and raised in the Philippines, as well as all my aunts, uncles and several of my older cousins. As a result, when they all moved to America, they moved into a small Filipino neighborhood here in Hollis, NY. This soon came to be my neighborhood. As I was raised there, I inevitably became immersed in the Filipino culture. As a child, if anyone asked, I was Filipino. I wouldn’t even tell them that I was Filipino American.  When famous Filipino boxer Manny Pacquiao, won his matches, I applauded and cheered like a fan of a team that won the Superbowl. When a famous musician or actor appeared in a movie or song, I always barked to my friends about how my people were so awesome. I took pride in everything Filipino.

However, everything is different now that I’m older. I realize that I’ve never been to the Philippines nor do I know of its history. Embarrassingly enough, during a review session in my U.S. History class, my teacher randomly asked me what the independence day was for the Philippines, and I humiliatingly sat in silence with the “I don’t know” gesture. Heck, I can barely speak the language! This all raises the question: Am I really Filipino?

The answer to that question is yes. I am Filipino by ethnicity. I understand the culture, the language (despite being unable to speak it), and all the habits and subcultures. But because I understand these things does not necessarily mean I am Filipino. Culturally, I am American. I was born and raised with Filipino values and traditions, but I grew up in America. I went to an American school, watched American television, played American games, and listened to American music. I know American history, sympathize with American people, and celebrate American heroes and traditions. I belong to the American community.

One of the most important icons in the American community is the statue of liberty. The statue of liberty is representative of our freedom and our pursuit of happiness. Lady liberty is forever standing in New York, greeting those that come in. A long time ago, when immigrants sailed into the harbor, the Statue of Liberty came to be their beacon of hope. When they saw the statue, they knew that they were in America and that a new life of opportunity awaited them. In films that depict the end of civilization or the destruction of modern society, the director often chooses to show a sunken Statue of Liberty. They do this because the statue represents America itself.

Now when someone asks me what I am, I tell them that I’m American. Of course, right after we both laugh it off, I tell them that I am Filipino. I still believe that I belong to both. I am, rightly named, Filipino-American. I still take pride in my Filipino background, and I still cheer like a fool when Manny Pacquiao gets a win. I celebrate both Filipino and American traditions, and I embrace both cultures. As so, I’ve adopted the unique language of “Taglish,” (Tagalog and English!) something I can use to jokingly communicate to those like me. Maybe I’m just a confused individual. Either way, I know who I associate with, and I know who my family is. Put together, it’s just good ‘ol wonderful cultural diffusion.

Growing up, and being born in the United States, my native Bengali parents always wanted for me to carry on the traditions and cultural values of a Bengali. Although I was born in the United States, I have incorporated the values of my culture into who I am today. Through the continuous exposure to these traditions and my adaptations to this community, I myself have become a part of this community that I initially did not consider myself a part of because I was naïve and thought that to be a part of a community, you had to live inside of it.

I’m always excited when it comes to exploring new things and going to new places but this upcoming December, I am even more excited because for the first time ever, I am going to my country, Bangladesh. Every time I tell a fellow Bengali that I will be going to Bangladesh for the first time this December, they are always amazed at the fact that I have never actually been to my home country. Even though I have heard many negative things about the living conditions and the political corruption back home, I will take the adventure as a learning experience where I can truly appreciate my culture and traditions. Hopefully, when I get there, I will finally be able to read and write

What I appreciate the most about my Bengali heritage is the role that family, especially parents play. My parents have taught me mostly everything I know about my heritage as they are always afraid that I will get engulfed by the American lifestyle and completely forget about my origins. I often jovially joke around with my parents, always criticizing the movies they watch because they are often ludicrously fake with the sound effects and there is too much excessive dramatization but I know that it is a part of who they are.

Once piece of art that particularly come to mind when I think of my country and my origins would be a song by George Harrison from The Beatles. Although the song is not sung in my native language, it reminds me of the freedom struggle that we had to go through in the early 1970’s to achieve our independence which we finally got on December 16, 1971. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZZ96J_PVbk

On a VERY IMPORTANT side note: GOOO YANKEES!!!!!!!!!!!!

If you ask me “what is your ethnicity?” numerous answers come to mind. I could say I’m half Italian, a little Austrian, German, Czechzlovokian, basically I am a descendant from every white nation in Europe. I don’t know anyone who is as white as I am; my last name even means “white” in Italian. Despite the fact that I’m the King of the Caucasians, I most truly and deeply believe that I am American. I was born and raised in Bayside as an American, I never followed a religion, never took part in any traditions that relate back to my family’s ethnicity, I just lived my life as an American. Everywhere I look I see everyone trying to bring their culture to New York City, which is not a bad thing. I love the fact that I can walk a couple of blocks from my house and find cuisine from across the world ranging from China, to Mexico, to India, to Italy, anywhere I can imagine. But sometimes I feel like everyone forgets that America has a culture of its own, and its always overlooked or taken for granted. In order for Queens to be truly diverse I feel someone has to represent America’s culture along with everyone else who incorporates their ethnicities into the community.

In my eyes, the best way to express a culture is by sharing their fine culinary arts. Food represents culture in a form that can be enjoyed by everyone. You may not like how it tastes, but you can still learn a lot about the culture. Living in a predominantly Asian community, I have eaten some very eccentric foods to say the least. Over the course of my life I have consumed chicken feet, jellyfish stingers, frog legs, goat thighs, and many more dishes that some people might find undesirable. Surprisingly, I quite enjoyed most of the foods that I ate, and more importantly I learned a lot about the culture, even a little bit of the language. This got me thinking about American cuisine. When you think about it, we never say “I’m in the mood for American tonight.” There is nothing more American than a tender, succulent burger with lettuce, tomato, onions, pickles, cheese, and ketchup, perfectly layered between two soft sesame seed buns. Mmm, I love American culture. The world could learn so much just by simply eating one of these heavenly patties.

Eating the burger is just one small factor in the quest to learn about American culture. The cheeseburger brings Americans together whether it’s for lunch, dinner, holidays, parties, anything. On very patriotic holidays, you will always find families throwing a barbeque and frying up some burgers on the grill. Barbecues are a huge tradition that Americans hold true to our hearts and will continue be a tradition for the rest of our lives. I will never forget those hot summer days when my dad would fire up some burgers on the grill and play baseball with my brothers and I in the backyard, memories that can only be made in America. Even Baseball, America’s favorite pastime, can make its way back to the cheeseburger. Starting with the food could teach you everything about a culture; in America you have to start with the cheeseburger.

A cheeseburger is a work of art to say the least

Considering I spent much of my time the past 3 days in synagogue for Rosh Hashana, it was pretty clear to me that I was going to write about my Jewish culture for this blog. But Jewish culture means something different to everyone, so the exact details took me a while to figure out.

At first it seems strange that I’m calling a religion my culture. If you want to be picky, I’m German, Polish, and Hungarian, but within all those places, my grandparents were part of the smaller, self contained, community of Jews.  They really did not interact with the culture around them.

Even in America, I grew up in a town with a lot of Jews. I went to Jewish schools, Jewish camps, and the same synagogue every week. Despite being in the cultural melting pot that is America, I saw a pretty isolated view of the world. My Judaism has been the defining culture in my life.

So what do I feel is a piece of art that defines that culture? Actually, it’s a song. But nothing fancy, sung by performers. Appropriately enough, it’s a prayer. But oddly, it’s not the meaning of the prayer that speaks to me or the beauty of the composition. In fact, looking for a clip of it on YouTube was rather disappointing. All the videos are opera singers, or groups trying to add some pop to the song. The real beauty of the song lies in the true setting.

Every time I’ve heard the song “Etz Chaim Hi” in synagogue, I feel an instant connection to everyone in the room. It’s a slow and low song. Everyone in the room comes together to sing it. No matter where you are, there is always one person who will harmonize beautifully. For the two minutes that the song is being sung (when the torah scroll is being returned to the ark) nothing else is going on in the room. There is absolutely no side conversation. Everyone is just wholly invested in singing.

To me, this has always been so beautiful. No matter what your life is outside of synagogue, for those few moments, you are a part of a greater community. I’m not usually one to find spiritual meaning in everyday life, but for some reason the song has always given me chills.

(Here’s the basic idea of the song : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1T8SMZ2qsk  Sadly, much of the beauty is lost when sung by only one person.)

When there’s a lot of information in my head to process, I tend to use lists to organize it all. So here goes.

I am:

1. Jewish

2. Israeli

3. Yemenite

4. Tunisian

I believe the best way to go about this list would be to explain how I feel about each of the communities I belong to, in an attempt to make sense of how the four coexist.

Being Jewish–it comes first to me, automatically, unconsciously.  The fact that I’m Jewish grants me a sense of stability, a sense of direction in my day to day actions.  While it’s a religion, and not necessarily a cultural or ethnic community, I so heavily rely on it that a sense of community is created.  Furthermore, the reason I categorize it as a community is specifically because of where I live: New York City.  NYC has one of the highest Jewish populations in the entire world, not including Israel; subsequently, a Jewish ‘community’ has been established here.  The community branches off into numerous smaller communities depending on the town one lives in, but there is a sense of community as a whole, and each person can find a sense of belonging in this whole.  It’s beautiful to me how the Jewish community in New York thrives, and how people are always there for each other.  It gives me pride to see how such a small percentage of people (.2% of the world’s population?) come together and build a community.

Being Israeli–I would say it comes second because it doesn’t govern my day-to-day actions like my religion does.  Nonetheless, it is an important part of who I am.  I belong to a community of zionists, those who believe in the State of Israel for the Jews.  I was born there, I was partially raised there, and I always have a connection to Israel. It is also encompassed by my “Jewish” communal identification because the community of Jews I belong to in New York City has a strong traditional tie to the land.  I was raised here with the outlook that Israel has importance and significance, and so my identification as an ‘Israeli’ really falls under the umbrella of “Jewish.”

Being Yemenite and Tunisian–I group the two together because they are of equal importance to me.  My mother is Yemenite, and my father is Tunisian, and there is no choosing sides for me.  I value both cultures equally, with their various customs and beliefs.  They are cultures that I love, and appreciate more and more as I get older. They too, fall under the big umbrella of “Jewish,” and it is why I put them third and fourth on my list of identities.

What stands out most in my mind about both cultures is their hospitality and warmth.  Anyone walking into either of my grandparents house is greeted with food, drinks, a place of comfort to sit and relax, and it’s a feature of the traditional people of those times that I awe-inspiring.  It is such a pleasure to identify with such cultures.

It’s difficult for me to choose one piece of art that has special significance to me, but there’s just something about Yemenite music that touches my core being.  While I was in Israel this past summer, my Yemenite grandparents took me to a Yemenite music festival, and I was simply mesmerized.  Listening to alluring music, staring at the exquisite costumes, watching the men and women dance; I felt so in tune with my culture. In lieu of that, the following song by Ofra Haza is one I believe has incredible meaning to me.  Ofra Haza was a well-known, traditional Yemenite singer of the 70s-90s, but passed away prematurely in 2000.  Every time my mom plays her CD, of which the first song is the one I am posting (Im Nin’alu), the music radiates within me.  The Yemenite culture I am somewhat detached from comes flooding back to me, and I feel it.  Ask me to explain what it means, and I’ll have no idea what to tell you.  But you know that feeling when you’re really feeling a song?  That’s how it is.

Ayiti peyi mwen, Haiti is my country.

Both my parents were born in Haiti. When they were in their early twenties they immigrated to New York where they met and had me. Even though I was born in Queens and hadn’t stepped a foot off the continent of North America until this summer, all my life I’ve still felt a close connection to Haiti. I’ve always considered my self more “Haitian” than “American.” And though visiting my homeland brought me some pain, through the rubbles I saw the beauty that used to stand there, and some of that beauty that still exists.

While I was visiting Haiti I got the opportunity to go visit a few places, and one of them was the National Palace, where the president used to live. I actually took this picture.

Now where it stands is a sad reminder of what the country has gone through, the earthquake, the cholera, and the political social turmoil.

Or maybe it can stand for something else.

You see Haiti has had a history of political corruption. In October of 1957, Francois “Papa Doc” Duvalier became President, nicknamed “Papa Doc” because before he served as president he was a physician. A little after his vote into presidency, he basically declared himself president for as long as he lived. His “reign” included a removal of the governments military, which led to the creation of rural militias, and the practice of voodoo. After “Papa Doc” died, there was a succession of power. His son Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” ruled for fifteen years until an uprising pulled him out of power.

During the Duvaliers’ dictatorships, money had been squandered, positions had been bribed, and large number of people had been imprisoned or put to death simply because they did not believe in what their leaders were doing to them. Now that was about twenty-five years ago, but Haiti has never really recovered.

This photo shows the ruins of the National Palace, but to me this photo represents a new beginning. The fall of the National Palace symbolizes a new start for the people of Haiti. I doubt all their problems will simply vanish, but hopefully this new chapter will bring about something that has never happened before. Currently, the people are putting all their hopes in their new leader, President Michel Martelly. This is fine I suppose, but what the people do not realize is that they cannot just wait around for change, they must also reach for it themselves. The people of Haiti must also work for it.