Uncle Ben's Uncle Sam

My birth was a status symbol for my family. Out of all the nieces and nephews and kids, I was the first to be born in America. Ahhhhmerica...So proud my mama was she gave me an American name: Alexander. As my father's second child, I was to inherit his second (middle) name, Alejandro. The Anglo version was just as fine I suppose, except that it came with an incredible burden.

Anytime the gringo kids at school asked where my family was from (which was usually followed with "go back to Cuba on a boat!"--and my family came here on planes, thank you) I added "but I was born here," just as my mama taught me to add. But they laughed it off and loudly caleld off lists of all the reasons why I wasn't American: the food, the clothes, the way I spoke, the way my parents spoke, and the Cuban flag dangling behind my mother's windshield.

I was sure then that being an American was a commodity. I refused to listen to latin music or to shake my hips; I succeeded in getting rid of most of my Cuban-Miami accent; and I dreamed of the day when I could replace all things Cuban with their fancy American counterparts.

Roasted Pork for Christmas? NO! TURKEY!!!!.

Button-down shirts and pants? Please, I need ripped jeans, and old t-shirts!

Arroz Goya? Duh! Uncle Ben's!

More than anything I wanted Uncle Ben's. Tommy Dunmire and Troy Boman always ate Uncle Ben's and scoffed at the sticky Cuban-style rice my mom would pack in my lunch. Uncle Ben was Lord of the Rice Paddies. His followers ruled this nation. They had the power, they had the last laugh, they had the converse shoes.

Mama caved in and bought me some Uncle Ben's in a box, which I argued I needed for a science project. This was it. I would begin to turn blonder, my skin would freckle over and turn pink as carnations and I'd really be a gringo! Tommy and Troy and Shannon and Nicki would all play with me. The power of the rice would make English flow off my parents' tongues. We'd wear blue jeans all the time and we'd listen to Cindy Lauper and Prince at family parties and my mom would bake chocolate chip cookies and drink Maxwell House. I was ready to set the packages of Bustelo on fire.

Uncle Ben's tastes like shoelaces. It's dry and each individual grain is separate from the rest and it's all chewy and stupid. Uncle Ben's put the tropics back in my heart. Those freckled blonds didn't know what they were missing.