This summer, we took our children to Puerto Rico, one of their ancestral homelands. They were very young the last time we were there. Returning to Puerto Rico offered another opportunity to connect them more deeply to the places and people who are part of their story.
The trip began with service. Hubby and the kids arrived several days before I did and spent that time participating in a community service activity. It was important to us that this visit involved giving something of themselves. Caring for people and communities, even if briefly, helped them understand that belonging to Puerto Rico is more than claiming its identity or enjoying its beauty.
When I finally joined them, we explored. We spent time on Vieques, a breathtaking island whose natural beauty exists alongside a complicated history. We visited abandoned military barracks, explored some of the wildlife refuge and the underwater sea life. These explorations spurred so many conversations and research to learn about the island’s history, its relationship with the U.S. military, and the resilience of its people.
As we traveled, I found myself observing our kids as much as I watched the scenery. It was deeply satisfying seeing them connect with their Boricua identity. The familiarity they felt with the food, the language, the music, and the rhythms of island life brought me tremendous joy. My children were discovering another dimension of themselves.
At one point, our son announced that he would like to live in Puerto Rico for a while. It warmed my heart, but the experience that I treasure the most with him was over the mango tree.
We were in Loíza, a town rich in Afro-Puerto Rican history, culture, and artistic traditions. Across the street from the humble home of a famed artist was a large mango tree, its branches heavy with fruit. Ripe mangoes were scattered beneath it that I could not eat, but there were even more mangoes on the branches, but too tall for me to jump to. My son managed to retrieve four ripe mangoes for me.
Standing there in the yard, eating those mangoes, I was suddenly a little girl in Haiti again. I could almost feel the warmth of my childhood, the familiarity of the landscape, and the simple pleasure of eating a ripe mango without a care in the world and with my own child in a very connected moment. I don’t know whether my son realized how much those four mangoes meant to me. They tasted like candy, but more importantly, they were also a little piece of home. I felt both nostalgic and sad.
Puerto Rico has a special place in my heart. I feel a deep connection to this island of enchantment. As much as I loved watching our children connect with Puerto Rico, I wished I could take them back to Haiti. When they were little, we took them to Haiti, but their memories of that visit have faded into vague impressions. I wished they could experience my homeland now, as young people old enough to appreciate its extraordinary history, its art, its language, its people, its food, and its beauty. I wish I could show them the places that shaped my earliest memories and introduce them to the Haiti that lives in my heart. Sadly, the conditions in Haiti make that impossible for us in the present and, likely, for the foreseeable future.
Our islands are distinct, with their own histories, identities, and traditions. Yet there are threads that connect us across the Caribbean. I felt those connections throughout our visit. There is a perennial sadness in loving a place deeply and not being able to return to it, especially when you want to share it with your children. I want them to experience the Haiti that helped make me who I am.
I want them to know its intellectual and artistic richness, its revolutionary history, its humor, its dignity, and the extraordinary resilience and creativity of its people. I take solace in knowing that we raised them singing Creole, French, and Spanish nursery rhymes. From very early on in their lives, we tried to anchor them in the places where they have roots. They have grown up multilingual, surrounded by some of different cultures, languages, foods, music, and traditions that make them who they are.
The trip was not without its regrets for me. I wish I had put the computer away more often. I wish I had spent more uninterrupted time exploring, laughing, and simply being with my family.
