Culture, a term that has continuously made me trip, stumble, and slip down my way through self-discovery. According to Tylor, as cited in Battle (2012), culture is defined as "a complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, art, morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits acquired by man as a member of society." However, for me, culture did not have a formal definition and even now, a straightforward answer almost seems impossible. Due to my understanding and awareness of my identity from early on, culture had always been a concept that I was aware of but could never explain. My culture would need to be defined by breaking down the tiny pieces that make me, me. So, let's start there.
Born into a family of six, three brothers, my mother, and father, it seemed that aspects of my identity were already predetermined. Whether I was prepared for it or not, I was born into a home where I learned about my parents' roots before I learned to speak English. My parents, immigrants from the Dominican Republic, arrived to the United States with a dream to provide their children with everything they did not have back home. My parents decided to settle in Washington Heights in New York City. Here, the early nuances of my culture smacked me right in the face. Nestled between 155th street to Dyckman street, once inside Washington Heights, Spanish becomes ubiquitous. Streets are filled with the blaring sounds of the guira, tambora, and the guitar with Dominican flags plastered on every window. Though definitive statistics are unavailable for the Dominican population living in Washington Heights, several sources provide insight on "Quisqueya Heights." In 2005, Washington Heights Dominican population was approximately 113,000, with a total of 115,000 Latinos living in the area (Fernandez, 2007; Hernandez, & Rivera-Batiz, 2003). With an influx of Dominicans dominating the neighborhood, it's no surprise that these immigrants planted their roots in a place away from home. Though not tropical by any means, this community is where I learned about being a Dominican. From observing my surroundings, I quickly learned how to play dominoes, peel a platano, and mimic the slang spoken (e.g., dimelo, que lo que, dame luz). These attributes though minuscule to some, are what connected me to the people who surrounded me. Living in Washington Heights was a constant reminder of where I came from and who I belong to. The sense of community was prominent throughout the neighborhood because everyone knew everyone. Washington Heights was more than living people with the same ethnicity, it was living with people that reminded me of home.
According to the U.S. Census Bureau (2016), 67% of Washington Heights' population identified as Hispanic. Thinking back, everyone looked, talked, and walked like me. Though we had different last names and distinct features, I always felt like them. Other statistics enlighten the notion that Washington Heights was more than I was aware of. The median household income for Washington Heights is $44,595, with the 2018 poverty line for a 6-household home income (Sperling's BestPlaces, 2016; U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 2018). My father, a butcher, worked every day of the year to pay for our two-bedroom apartment and to provide for the needs of growing children. This meant that although I did not feel it, my family struggled financially. However, growing up I had clothes, food, a home, and toys. Comparing my childhood with the people in my community, we never felt poor. Summers were spent running in front of open fire hydrants or sleeping on fire escapes during blackouts. When hot water was not available, my mother would warm up a few pots of water on the stove for our showers. These memories are still vivid and remind me of how much we made out of the little we had. I realized my status later on in life when others' privileges waved proudly. It was when I entered graduate school that I felt different. I was in classrooms sitting next to people who may have gotten their tuition paid for or who still received an allowance from their parents. Though these differences may have separated me from the majority of my cohort, it was a reminder of how far I have come.
Education was one thing I was never denied. My parents arrived to the U.S. with the highest level of education being middle school. They made it clear that going to school was going to be my way out of our tax bracket. I remember my mom sitting with me every day helping me complete my homework, even if it ended in tears when I did not want to do it. She entertained my ideas of being a lawyer, a doctor, and then a teacher. Wanting to provide my parents with some financial ease, I pursued college. I told myself that I would one day take them out of a high crime neighborhood and put them in a house with a yard and maybe a white fence too. Still pursuing higher education now, that is still a goal.
Aside from the geographical borders that connected me to my parents' roots, language was another element tied into my culture. Spanish quickly became part of me as the forty years in this country did not equip my parents with the ability to learn English. Spanish is a language filled with rhythm and a melodic intonation. It is a language that became my method of communication with my family, friends, and the vendor at the bodega down the street. This appreciation for my native language was not innate. For years I opted out of speaking Spanish because learning English was a new hobby. Because I was living in a neighborhood populated by those who spoke like me, being bilingual did not feel make me feel unique. When I removed myself from Washington Heights, Spanish no longer became my dominant language. However, quickly after arriving to Buffalo, I found myself seeking for people who spoke Spanish. With this came the realization that Spanish was not just a language I spoke, but was exclusive to those around me. Speaking Spanish had a new meaning, it meant that no matter how differently you celebrated holidays or baked your pastries, you connected with someone else. As a person who is constantly evolving through experiences and interactions, my need to connect with others in persistent. Being bilingual provides the opportunity to relate to others simply because we share a trilled 'r.'
Gender roles in the Dominican Republic are an uncompromising concept that dictates what behaviors are appropriate for men and women. Living in a household that thrived on its native roots meant that my idea of a woman was constantly challenged. My father was the epitome of the term machismo, a hard-working man who exerted his dominance in the home. According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, machismo is defined as "a strong sense of masculine pride; an exaggerated masculinity." My brothers were taught to be masculine, but remained sensitive and supportive of their younger sister. Despite their sensitivity, the masculine/feminine dichotomy was a thick line ever-present at home. Growing up, I was placed in dance and art, while my brothers played every sport available. I had Barbies, my brothers had trucks. I listened to Disney pop, my brothers listened to rap. Though I attempted to cross this line several times, I was quickly reverted back to the notion that females were too delicate to involve themselves in manly activities. My candid personality often questioned the restrictions my culture placed on me. The traditional gender roles at home fabricated someone who wanted to be everything else but that. I sought out independence and rebelled against my parents throughout my youth. Too young to understand the ingrained gender norms, it was in college as a women's studies major where I discovered that I did not fit into this cookie cutter label. I was introduced to topics that existed at home and in my community, but were never spoken about. Here, I challenged the idea of being a woman and sought out more than what was expected of me. In my family, there was a constant reminder that if I did not learn the role of a woman, I was incapable of being married. To them, taking care of the home was my job as a woman; however, to me, finding financial stability and securing an education was my prerogative. Though my role as a Dominican woman in my family continues to be questioned, today I realize that for some, caring and serving their families is as fulfilling as attaining the dreams I have and thinking otherwise was undeserved.
Growing up, the word culture was not a tangible concept nor a topic I thought about. Instead, I learned about culture indirectly from experiences with family, friends, school, and work. All these parts of my identity that make up my culture are elements that can relate to someone else. In the field of speech-language pathology, relating to people who may feel like the other is an attribute and a gift. Using these bits and pieces of myself will give me the opportunity to provide culturally-sensitive services to future clients. During my school placement, I realized the extent of my influence when these children made me their role model. The students often arrived to therapy with questions regarding my family, my move away from home, and college experience. The underlying message of their questions told me that these children could see someone like them reaching higher education and affirming that they could do it too. My school placement experience revealed the impact I could have on therapy simply by having a commonality with my clients. Today I know that culture is not a dichotomy and you are entitled to fall in between groups. At times I feel more attached to identifying as a Hispanic or being a woman, but for the most part, I'm in the gray area where all these parts come together. As I continue to evolve, I've grown to appreciate the importance of intersectionality and accepting all the groups you belong to. All these parts, sometimes muddled together have made up my identity and mean that I connect with different people, whether we share the same language, gender, or city.