Finding Comfort in Being Different

Even from the first floor, the thump of music, the laughter of cousins echoed up the stairwell, reminding me of everything I both loved and dreaded about these family parties. As my mother, sister, and I began climbing the obnoxiously long flights of stairs up to the fourth floor, the rich scent of sancocho filled the hallways. The smell makes my mouth water, and I feel the impatience of wanting to eat right then and there. As I keep going, I prepare myself for the endless hellos and the questions about what’s going on in my life. Once I reached the door, I breathed deep and entered. And there it was–the loud noise flowing through the front door. The apartment was spacious and the ceilings were sky high but somehow it still felt so crowded, yet warm at the same time. My great-grandmother had six kids, which means endless aunts, uncles, cousins, and so many more titles. Most of the time, you meet a new person once a year, and everyone swears you’ve met them before. There are so many people that no one bothers to count or even attempt to make a family tree. This expresses why I dreaded the process of saying hello to every single person there.  

After I’m done with all my greetings, I can finally sit down and have fun. But I have this bad habit of listening in on conversations subconsciously and sometimes I can catch certain parts and remember it. While I’m hanging out with my cousins I hear my mother and aunts talking about me. They talk about the way I speak, how I act and the way I sound when I speak Spanish. I hear one of them say, “It’s because you put her in that white school. That’s why she don’t know Spanish.” I suddenly felt a weight almost like a rock in my throat and I wished that I didn’t hear it. I wanted to respond and say I do know Spanish. I didn’t respond because children shouldn’t be in adult conversations, that’s the rule. So I choked on the pain of hearing that and I never spoke Spanish around them again. They would’ve made fun of that again. I never sounded like anyone in my family. And this made me instantly feel different, more than I already did. 

As the party continues, I ignore what happened and try to have a good time. Dinner is finally ready, and the scent suddenly overflows the room. Once my food is in front of me, it looks too delicious to wait for it to cool down. I take a sip of the stew, and it burns my mouth just a little, but the hearty taste makes up for every bit of the sting. I go back with my older boy cousins, and usually, they let me play games. I see they’re playing on the Nintendo, and I ask to play. Both of them say, “Maybe later, Rhianny.” I waited and waited, but later never came. As I sat beside them, not even touching the controller, the game’s noises, coins, cheers just blurred together and I was feeling so numb and alone. Eventually I started watching everyone around me and thought about how different I was from them. I didn’t talk like anyone there, whether it was Spanish or English. Most of my cousins were at least three years older or five years younger than me, so even if I wanted to hang out with them, I would’ve been bored or denied from being there. I was the odd one out. There was no one my age. I wish that I wasn’t so much different from them. 

Over time, this event made me wish I was just like them. I was envious of who they were, where they went to school, and the friends they had. I wanted their lives. But as I grew older, I became grateful for the life I have. I love my friends and the people I surround myself with. Most importantly, I’ve learned to appreciate my school, the privilege, and experience that not many in my family have. 

The family gathering may have made me feel lonely and different, but isn’t it good to be different? Who wants to be like everyone else anyway? I realized I was never actually lonely, whether it felt that way or not. I just had to learn to appreciate the people in my life and our differences.