Chapter 1
Between Worlds: A Journey Through Language, Faith, and Identity
A cup of water placed under a bed to ward off nightmares. A hidden clay dish filled with candy behind a boiler. Words that sound like marbles in the mouth. These are the quiet stories that unfold in Daisy Hernandez's memoir-stories that happened while Washington waged wars in Central America, built border walls, and signed NAFTA. The daughter of a Colombian mother and Cuban father, Hernandez navigates multiple worlds: Spanish and English, Catholicism and Santeria, straight and queer, working-class immigrant and educated professional. Her memoir has been celebrated by luminaries like Sandra Cisneros, who praised its "candid, funny, and moving" exploration of the American experience. Since its publication, it has become required reading in university courses on immigration, sexuality, and Latinx studies, offering readers a window into the complex intersections of identity that many Americans navigate daily. In a cultural moment obsessed with borders and boundaries, Hernandez's work reminds us that the most profound human experiences happen in the spaces between worlds.
Chapter 2
The Language of Belonging
At five years old, I was taken to Holy Family Catholic School where English sounded like marbles in the mouth. At home, Spanish-speaking aunties corrected my pronunciation, while my mother created compromises, mixing Spanish articles with English nouns: "el vacuum," "la teacher." The struggle between languages became a central tension in my life-I began resenting Spanish, blaming it for my struggles in English and my mother's factory work. To leave one language for another caused a gradual pain, like a parasite slowly consuming me from within.
I distanced myself from my family, watching American sitcoms about children raised by white people while convincing myself I had no history or culture. My father warned me to study hard to avoid factory work, yet I secretly longed for the Spanish conversations, cigars, and Walter Mercado on TV. In school, I excelled in English, checking out library books by the dozens and translating my family's Spanish sayings literally: "No te ahogues en un vaso de agua" became "Don't drown yourself in a cup of water."
After college, I entered book publishing-the supposed reward for mastering English-but found no happiness there. Later, I tried reclaiming Spanish through classes, discovering I spoke with English syntax and a child's vocabulary. Reading Spanish felt like meeting a loving stranger who shared my history but remained just beyond my complete understanding.
Twenty years after kindergarten, I returned to Holy Family School to find it transformed into El Centro de Guadalupe. The place where I'd begun becoming "white" had itself grown brown and Spanish, reminding me there are many languages, many kinds of Spanish and English, many borders that grow with every step we take. The journey between languages wasn't simply about communication-it was about identity, belonging, and the power to name one's own experience in a world that often demands we choose sides.
Chapter 3
Stories That Shape Us
My mother tells the same stories every night. In her queen-size bed, I lie beside her at age six, listening as she becomes the heroine of tales where she leaves Colombia. First for a factory job in Bogota at sixteen, where women curse and flaunt intimacies unlike her mother's generation. Then at twenty-eight for America, believing promises of dollars growing on trees, only to find factory work and loneliness.
Her stories feature monsters-cursing factory women, her sister Rosa who lent money for her journey, immigration officials-and the terrible choice between staying with family or seeking opportunity. She tells of marrying my Cuban father, using my pregnancy as proof of their legitimate marriage at the Canadian border. In one rare happy story, she recalls learning that mothers love their children regardless of appearance.
As I grow older, I try teaching her English with colorful magnetic letters, believing language will save her from factory foreladies and dental receptionists. Eventually, I discover feminism and writing, finding power in naming our experiences, though my mother squeezes the word "feminism" like an avocado she's inspecting at the market-suspicious of its ripeness, its potential to nourish or disappoint.
These stories become the foundation of my understanding of the world-tales of migration, sacrifice, and resilience passed down through generations. They shape my sense of self and my relationship to both my mother's homeland and the country where I was born. The act of storytelling itself becomes a form of survival, a way to make sense of displacement and transformation. Through her narratives, my mother teaches me that our histories are not just what happened to us, but how we choose to remember and retell them.
Chapter 4
Faith Beyond Words
My father keeps a candy dish in the shed, hidden behind the boiler. Since childhood, I've squeezed around the boiler to retrieve sweets from this clay plate filled with M&Ms and Tootsie Rolls, despite my parents' scolding. Nearby sits another clay plate with tiny iron toys that seem angry, and a ceramic cup of Cuban coffee. These hidden objects are part of my normal childhood, along with the tin rooster my mother places atop the kitchen cupboard.
When I ask about these strange arrangements, my mother simply says, "Son cosas de tu papa." While I attend Catholic school and embrace its rituals, my father never goes to church. Instead, he drinks Coors beer until he becomes angry or passes out. My aunt Tia Chuchi arrives from Colombia when I'm fourteen and reveals the truth: these objects belong to my father's religion, Santeria. The rock with cowrie-shell eyes is Eleggua, a warrior spirit. I begin to see my father differently-not just as a man who drinks too much, but someone with a secret spiritual life.
At fifteen, I decide to leave Jesus. At Paramus Catholic High School, I learn Bible stories are parables, not literal truth. Outraged by this revelation, I confront Father Carroll who merely advises me not to lose faith. I reject Catholicism, only to suffer a devastating car accident that breaks my right arm and left leg-divine punishment, I believe. Though I've abandoned formal religion, I secretly pray to Eleggua for exams and driving tests.
In graduate school, I discover books explaining our home practices. Eleggua is an orisha, a Yoruban god of crossroads who traveled with enslaved people to Cuba. San Lazaro is Babalu-Aye, the tin rooster is Osun. These divine warriors protect our family. One day, I meet Ana, a santera who performs rituals in our basement. "El coco habla," she tells me as she cracks coconuts. She passes a small bird over my body, its wings fluttering against my skin before she slits its throat, feeding Eleggua with its blood.
The animal sacrifice feels normal, like Catholic communion. My father speaks to the deities in a tender voice I've never heard before. Though Ana invites me to receive my own Eleggua when I have my own home, I remain uncertain about my beliefs. Forgiveness and faith, like writing, require time and revision. After Ana leaves, my father sits smoking a cigar in the basement near the blood-stained Eleggua, whose cowrie shell eyes seem to smile.
Chapter 5
Messages in Water
I visit La Viejita Maria, a corn-faced elderly woman who reads tarot cards, with my Tia Chuchi. Her apartment overflows with religious items-carnations, rosary beads, saints with dollar bills at their feet. The old woman shuffles cards and tells me not to worry about money for college-it will come. Despite my skepticism, her prediction proves true when I receive a full scholarship.
New Jersey teems with such women who read cards, speak with spirits, and prescribe remedies. My family can't agree what to call them-brujas, witches, women who know-but they remain central to our lives. When these women diagnose envidia (envy) as the source of problems, my family performs cleansing rituals with coconuts and Florida water. My mother warns me not to tell anyone our business because "any little good you have someone else covets."
I long for knowledge that can be documented, indexed, made permanent-clear answers about my life and who to trust. But my mother knows cups of water talk-they ferry messages between us, the santos, and the dead. Our house fills with vasitos de agua-cups placed for dreaming of departed loved ones, for clarity in new paths, for healing the sick.
As a child, my mother bathes me in water with cologne and white carnation petals to rid me of malas energias. Though I shiver and wait, when I emerge smelling of cologne, something changes. Faith blooms alongside my doubts about the women who know. When nightmares plague me as a teenager, my mother places a cup of water under my bed near the headboard. Though skeptical, I find comfort in this small act of power.
Years later, I take my Filipino friend Geralen to see Conchita, a santera whose loud, brash style makes me doubt her. Yet in San Francisco, I meet Yvette, a santera whose husband Carlos reads cowrie shells for me. When Yvette tells me "Eleggua saw that. He was there" about my father's abuse, a knot in my chest loosens. I realize I wasn't seeking knowledge or truth, but the solace of a woman's words to fill the empty silence that follows painful moments.
Chapter 6
Love Beyond Boundaries
My mother and tias warn me about Colombian men: "Esos no sirven." They don't work. Growing up, I absorb twisted nursery rhymes about how Colombian men get drunk, cheat, and never earn enough money. At sixteen, I meet Julio at McDonald's where I work. Despite warnings, I fall for his winks and Spanish endearments.
The women in my family have their own complicated formula for men-my Cuban father's alcoholism is better than womanizing, my uncles have flaws but redeeming qualities. They advise me on love: college-educated men are best, white over black, forget Caribbean men, consider Argentinians. Julio confuses them with his hazel eyes and pale skin. When we break up later, I realize I've heeded my mother's warnings after all, choosing a college boy with a better car.
At college, a workshop on sexuality introduces me to lesbians for the first time. The idea of kissing a girl had never occurred to me before. Dating women feels both foreign and familiar. Without my mother's warnings about men, I navigate queer relationships through trial and error. When I fall for dark-haired Lisette, who carries my bags and whispers desires in dressing rooms, I believe love transcends gender. But after our breakup, I can't share my heartbreak with the first women I loved-my mother and tias.
Coming out to Mami leaves her hyperventilating. "This doesn't happen in Colombia," she insists. Tia Chuchi accuses me of trying to kill my mother. My family settles into uncomfortable silence-the weight of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" feeling like death. With Kristina, I find familiarity-her mixed heritage, our shared language of chisme, and post-lovemaking dulce de leche ice cream.
Speaking to high school students about being bisexual, I give them the sanitized version: "I'm attracted to who the person is on the inside." But I know this oversimplification doesn't capture the truth-gender and sexuality do matter profoundly. This becomes clearer when I investigate Gwen Araujo's story, a transgender Chicana who defied her body's narrative with pearls and makeup, only to face tragic consequences.
In eighth grade Catholic school, a substitute teacher's casual revelation that someone could be with both men and women stunned me into silence. "You can be with both" opened a world of possibility beyond the rigid boundaries I'd been taught. This realization follows me into adulthood, where I discover that bisexuality isn't about having a closet-it's about shifting between worlds.
Chapter 7
The Language of Shame
My Tia Dora has stopped speaking to me because I admitted to kissing a woman. She cares deeply about words, about appearances, about what others will say. In Latin America, the worst insult for improper behavior is being called "una india." If I forget to kiss Tia Dora's cheek in the morning, lose my temper, or fail to say please and thank you, I am "una india." This has nothing to do with appearance-even someone with fair skin can be "una india" based on behavior. I learn early that belonging depends on what you do and say.
Tia Dora came to New Jersey in 1980 when I was five, suffering from Chagas disease-"the kiss of death." A parasite had invaded her intestines, causing her belly to swell as if pregnant. Dr. Markowitz in Manhattan operated multiple times, remarkably asking for her forgiveness in advance. The disease had no cure, only management through repeated surgeries.
After I told my mother about dating women, I called Tia Dora from a pay phone on Bergenline Avenue. Her voice tightened like someone had pulled a short string, and she told me not to call again. The problem wasn't that I'd fallen in love with a "femmy butch" but that I'd spoken about it-worse than being "una india."
The irony is that silence is actually an indigenous concept in Colombia's mountain regions. The real "india" might be my aunt who suffers in dignity and silence, though she insists an "india" behaves badly and loudly. We traffic in racial specters meant to keep women of all colors in their place.
Years earlier, Tia Dora worried about Central American immigrants in our neighborhood, calling them "indios" because of their appearance. Yet she married Jose from Peru, a dark-skinned man with indigenous features. But he wasn't a "real indio" because he wore dress pants, read newspapers, and responded properly when called.
Hatred requires intimacy-knowing something well enough to despise it. Sometimes Tia Dora called me "indiecita" affectionately, adding the diminutive "-ita" that Colombians use to make even hostile words endearing-transforming poverty and difference into something we can bear. This is what I admire about my people-we believe there is a way to love what bruises.
Chapter 8
The Economics of Belonging
At fifteen, I land my first job at McDonald's, quickly becoming what managers call "one of our fast cashiers." I love this job not as the American Dream exactly-I am American, so what other dream would I have?-but as my first step toward that country where rich people live without worrying about money or being treated badly for not knowing English words.
With my first paycheck of about $71, I head straight to the beauty store on Anderson Avenue, spending an hour examining lipsticks. The women in my family buy 99-cent lipstick-my mother a pale strawberry, Tia Dora a warm peach, Tia Chuchi a pomegranate, Tia Rosa a plum, and me a black raspberry. With my own money, I buy the $4.99 lipstick my mother would never approve of. I'm not buying makeup-I'm buying something to make myself feel better about class, racial, and sexual oppressions.
At eighteen, I fill out a credit card application on campus, not understanding what it is-my parents pay cash for everything. When the card arrives, I march into a shoe store and buy $100 Timberland boots without my hand shaking. My mother stares at my feet, puzzled by the expensive shoes. Tia Chuchi can't understand how I became such a materialist: "No one in our family is like that."
After college, I accumulate credit cards like trophies: Discover, Visa, MasterCard, store cards. Only ricos have credit, but here I am with a wallet full of plastic instead of dollars. I use them to fit in at my job, buying drinks and clothes and subscriptions to feel like I belong, while hiding that my family struggles financially. The bills become hieroglyphs I can't decipher as the debt grows.
Eventually, the thread in me snaps. I freeze my credit cards, join a support group, and begin tracking every expense. After a year, I save $1,000 and declare myself cured-only to charge over $1,000 in just five weeks. I return to my support group in tears, wishing I could be like bell hooks and reject consumer culture, but I love iPhones and organic lettuce and $22.50 lipstick.
When my phone gets shut off for an unpaid bill, my mother worries I'll end up on the street. But I'm learning, slowly, to face my relationship with money without fear-to understand that my desire for material things is deeply connected to my need for belonging in a country that often makes me feel like an outsider.
Chapter 9
Hands That Tell Stories
Parts of my father's hands are dead. The skin has hardened into a terrain of calluses and scars, with deep lines scattered across his palms like dirt roads that never intersect. It's a beautiful but unforgiving landscape, like the aftermath of a hurricane when people search through ruins for familiar pieces of their lives.
Born in 1932 near Fomento, Cuba, my father was a teenager when he first admired a government soldier's uniform. Not wanting to be a farmer like his relatives, "pissing in the fields," he sought purpose and eventually got that government uniform-fighting against Fidel Castro. He left Cuba in 1961 as the U.S. closed its embassy in Havana, arriving in New York as a thin young man. After cutting hair, opening and closing a bakery, and chopping wood, he settled into factory work in New Jersey in the seventies.
His job was managing textile machines-doll houses that could be opened and closed, with choreographed dances of steel needles pulling thread. But in the late eighties, the world shifted. Factory hours dwindled until there was no work at all. My father began marking job listings in Spanish newspapers, sitting alongside immigrants at unemployment offices, learning English words for his skills: embroidery worker, machine operator.
As a child who translated, I moved from reciting nursery rhymes to interpreting at the dentist to filling out my father's unemployment forms. I became the bridge between his world and the system that both sustained and diminished him. When I drove him to the unemployment agency, I wondered if I should skip class to accompany him inside, but always drove away-fulfilling what was expected of me: to avoid manual labor, graduate college, work with white people.
My father found new work washing floors and dishes at the Meadowlands Sports Complex at age sixty-three. Service work differed from factory labor-not just the absence of machines or union benefits, but the distance from home, requiring two buses. Sometimes on weekends, I'd wake early to drive him despite his protests that I needed rest. I'd watch him walk toward that fist of a building, his thin body protected from the wind, doubting whether my work arranging words made any difference. Years later, I'd understand that writing made everything else possible-how I learned to love my father, how I left him while taking him with me.
Chapter 10
Coming Undone, Coming Together
When my mother tailors a skirt, she turns it inside out and examines the seams. In English, we'd say she's removing stitching, but in Spanish, she's "desbaratandola"-not taking away but taking apart. This is what I've been doing with these stories-turning them inside out, taking them apart with silver dedos to reassemble them in ways that make sense now.
After leaving the Times, I packed three suitcases bulging with books and a map of San Francisco. I'd discovered ColorLines magazine-unlike mainstream publications, it featured brown people not connected to crimes but to social justice. The morning I left, the driver's car couldn't fit both my mother and my three suitcases. Standing under silver streetlight, I cried and hugged her, choosing to take my belongings and leave my mother behind.
In Oakland, working at ColorLines felt like joining a big family-always something to do, stories to tell about murdered transgender teens and immigrant raids. My mother and aunties didn't fight my move to California, perhaps because they understood migration themselves. In San Francisco, 2004, the city exploded with same-sex couples in white dresses and tuxedos getting married at city hall. I pleaded with my mother to visit my new life, but my sister advised me to stop. Mami was seeing enough of "el famoso" San Francisco already on Telemundo and Univision.
After I left, we unraveled, my family and me. My parents sold our house and moved to Hialeah, Florida. My sister went to Albany, then DC. My mother's sisters scattered-Tia Rosa to Colombia, Tia Chuchi to her own apartment filled with cups of water for the muertos. Only Tia Dora refused to come undone, even as her health failed.
When Tia Dora needed heart surgery, we gathered at her hospital bedside, forming a circle and praying the Hail Mary together. After she died, we called her brother in Colombia. "Se nos fue," Tia Chuchi wailed, though what she needed to say was that Tia Dora hadn't left us-she had died.
In Florida, my mother transformed herself again. When factory jobs failed her, she started an alterations business. Women from all over Hialeah brought her their lives in plastic bags: skirts to hem, pants to take in, complaints about sales and life's disappointments. My father, meanwhile, returned to his Cuban roots, growing mangoes and avocados in the backyard.
Writing is how I leave my family and how I take them with me. In San Francisco, I searched for the place I came from-the botanicas, the bodegas, the mothers and aunties. One day on a crowded bus, a woman's voice broke through, hollering at the driver to stop. Her voice, and the way everyone joined her to help me get off at my stop, made me realize I was home after all. It wasn't about a place-it was about us, about knowing what it's like trying to get off the bus, about recognizing the shared humanity in our struggles to be seen and heard in a world that often refuses to acknowledge our existence.
