FROM
Title
FROM
Creator
Sofia Vizcarra
Date
10/3/2022
Text
From
From. This one word, four letters, has followed me throughout my 19 years of living in Miami. From. As a Hispanic girl with an ambiguous face living in Miami, I am constantly berated with the million-dollar question: “Where are you from?” What does it mean to be from somewhere?
My World War II veteran great-grandfather, Diego, brought my grandmother, Yolanda, over to the Americas in the late 1940’s from Cuba. She would live in New York for most of her childhood and become the first member of my family to be an “American.” My mom’s mother, Teresa, would not get the chance to leave Cuba until the 1980’s after already giving birth to my mother and uncle. For her, the circumstances of her departure were less glamorous than that of my grandmother, Yolanda. For Teresa, fleeing to the United States was a matter of survival. In 2020, my two second cousins would come from Cuba to stay permanently; they would tell me stories about the beauty of Varadero Beach and how people dance in the street barefoot. “We have to take you someday.”
I am from Cuba; the country so beautiful you forget how broken it is; a country so impoverished yet so rich in life and music; the land too dangerous to stay in but with beaches too gorgeous to stay away from for too long. I am from Cuba; the country where my grandmothers were born and raised and fled. The country of which I have never stepped foot, yet its soil flows through my veins.
My aunt and I began the tradition of hosting a 4th of July Family Kickball Game every year. We would begin promptly at 8 a.m. to avoid the blistering Miami heat of the afternoon. After hours of playful banter and fierce competition, we would slug our exhausted, sweaty selves to the nearest restaurant to eat wings, burgers, hot dogs, and fries: the true American meal. After the sun went down and we were able to recuperate after the day’s activities, we would huddle together on a giant blanket, all 15 of us, to watch the fireworks nearby.
I am red, white, and blue. I am from America. I am an American who, like millions of other Americans, feels a disconnect with this country because every year on the 4th of July, I celebrate a history that isn’t mine. A history that didn’t involve people like me. I was born in the US and I participate in American traditions every 4th of July; organized sports, barbecues, and sparkling, thundering fireworks. Yes, I am American but I am red, white, and blue, like the Cuban flag as well.
I was born in late 2003 to an older brother, Diego, already pulling my hair and running toy race cars into my head. My parents brought me to the place I would call home for the next 19 years of my life; a yellow, wooden, 2 bedroom house in a cul-de-sac on 139th Place. In the years to come we would most definitely grow out of it, but could never find it in our hearts to leave. It wasn’t until 2010 that I would welcome my little brother as he made his entrance to the world and this family. We turned the garage into two rooms to give us space to stretch into. As a child, I learned to love the arts; a passion that runs in my family. Surrounded by musicians and artists, art became the lens through which I viewed the world. I could always be found with a pack of 24-count Crayola crayons, wrappers removed, reduced to nubs after ferocious doodling. On special occasions, my family could always expect to receive an original drawing signed in my best almost-cursive “With Love, from Sofi.”
I am from the yellow wooden house in the cul-de-sac on 139th place. The cul-de-sac where I am both Little and Big Sister. The yellow house whose foundation was built to support endless nights of dancing and music. Where the walls are decorated in my countless creations. I am from the house on 139th place where I was born and where I know my parents will grow old.
Every Saturday morning until I was about 12 years old, I would accompany my father to the grocery store. We would follow the same routine; pick out yellow tulips for Mommy, dairy aisle, fruits and vegetables, and then deli. Behind the deli, worked a man with cinnamon skin, arms decorated with tattoos, and a booming laugh. Gio had worked at the deli since the early 90’s. As we waited for our turkey and ham, Gio would ask me about my life, my interests. He would tell me how I reminded him of his own daughter who was years older. As I became a nocturnal teenager, it became impossible for me to see the light of the early morning. My trips to the grocery store with my father became less frequent. Almost a decade later, on a last minute grocery run before a long beach day, I heard the same booming voice. “Sofia! You’re so grown up! Say hi to your father for me.”
I am from the town where everyone knows my name. The town where the man at the deli can recognize me decades later and greet me as if no time had passed at all.
I shuffled through many schools during my first 6 years of schooling. At Kendale Elementary, I met Maria. She was too tall and too loud for the third grade classroom, just like me. We conquered third, fourth, and fifth grade together attached at the hip. When it came time to go our separate ways for middle school, we said our goodbyes and never saw each other again. After two years spent trying to fill the void Maria left, I found Victoria. Vicky and I took on middle school and rode out the ebbs and flows of high school together. I was invited to be Victoria’s Prom date at Killian Senior High. During one of the many reggaeton breakdowns, I bumped into a familiar face in an emerald dress on the dance floor. “I haven’t seen you since 5th grade!” we said in synchrony. Maria and I exchanged numbers and set a date to rekindle our friendship. After a few weeks of getting to know each other again, we discovered that we had been working next door to each other for a year, yet our paths had never crossed.
I am from Kendall; where I went to school and where I made friends of a lifetime. Where you can go your separate ways, but still know in your heart that you will never be far from each other. I am from Miami; a big city that’s pretty small after all. Where you can run parallel to your childhood friends for years without intersection, but finally meet just when you need each other the most.
To say you are “from” a single place negates all the other places and experiences that have made you who you are. Your identity is a complex combination of nature and nurture and to attribute your existence to a sole country or town is to erase all other facets of your life that have contributed to the person you are today. You can be from the land where your predecessors established their lives and know that even though you have never felt that soil beneath your feet, it is still a part of you. It is still a part of you because it is in your blood, it is embedded within you. You can be from a country to which you feel no connection yet immense pride once a year. A country that marginalizes people who look like you. A country where you are labeled as a “first generation.” You can be from your childhood home, where you learned valuable life lessons and were nurtured to become the person you are today. It is where you learned to love art. You are from your childhood home because it is where you became a sister, or a daughter, or a niece, or a cousin and those are titles more valuable than an ethnicity. You can be from the town where you grew up, where you went to school and where you met people who impacted your life. You are from your hometown because you would not have been the same person without it.
There is no definitive answer to the age-old question: “where are you from?” Though the intentions may be well-meaning, the truth behind asking the question is truly an attempt to lock you into a singular box. Where you are from is so much more than just pinpoint on a map. It is dependent on the people and experiences that fill the spaces you occupy. A more pressing and relevant question would be: who are you in this world and to those around you? Who are you to your country, or to your city, or your school, or your family? who are you?
From. This one word, four letters, has followed me throughout my 19 years of living in Miami. From. As a Hispanic girl with an ambiguous face living in Miami, I am constantly berated with the million-dollar question: “Where are you from?” What does it mean to be from somewhere?
My World War II veteran great-grandfather, Diego, brought my grandmother, Yolanda, over to the Americas in the late 1940’s from Cuba. She would live in New York for most of her childhood and become the first member of my family to be an “American.” My mom’s mother, Teresa, would not get the chance to leave Cuba until the 1980’s after already giving birth to my mother and uncle. For her, the circumstances of her departure were less glamorous than that of my grandmother, Yolanda. For Teresa, fleeing to the United States was a matter of survival. In 2020, my two second cousins would come from Cuba to stay permanently; they would tell me stories about the beauty of Varadero Beach and how people dance in the street barefoot. “We have to take you someday.”
I am from Cuba; the country so beautiful you forget how broken it is; a country so impoverished yet so rich in life and music; the land too dangerous to stay in but with beaches too gorgeous to stay away from for too long. I am from Cuba; the country where my grandmothers were born and raised and fled. The country of which I have never stepped foot, yet its soil flows through my veins.
My aunt and I began the tradition of hosting a 4th of July Family Kickball Game every year. We would begin promptly at 8 a.m. to avoid the blistering Miami heat of the afternoon. After hours of playful banter and fierce competition, we would slug our exhausted, sweaty selves to the nearest restaurant to eat wings, burgers, hot dogs, and fries: the true American meal. After the sun went down and we were able to recuperate after the day’s activities, we would huddle together on a giant blanket, all 15 of us, to watch the fireworks nearby.
I am red, white, and blue. I am from America. I am an American who, like millions of other Americans, feels a disconnect with this country because every year on the 4th of July, I celebrate a history that isn’t mine. A history that didn’t involve people like me. I was born in the US and I participate in American traditions every 4th of July; organized sports, barbecues, and sparkling, thundering fireworks. Yes, I am American but I am red, white, and blue, like the Cuban flag as well.
I was born in late 2003 to an older brother, Diego, already pulling my hair and running toy race cars into my head. My parents brought me to the place I would call home for the next 19 years of my life; a yellow, wooden, 2 bedroom house in a cul-de-sac on 139th Place. In the years to come we would most definitely grow out of it, but could never find it in our hearts to leave. It wasn’t until 2010 that I would welcome my little brother as he made his entrance to the world and this family. We turned the garage into two rooms to give us space to stretch into. As a child, I learned to love the arts; a passion that runs in my family. Surrounded by musicians and artists, art became the lens through which I viewed the world. I could always be found with a pack of 24-count Crayola crayons, wrappers removed, reduced to nubs after ferocious doodling. On special occasions, my family could always expect to receive an original drawing signed in my best almost-cursive “With Love, from Sofi.”
I am from the yellow wooden house in the cul-de-sac on 139th place. The cul-de-sac where I am both Little and Big Sister. The yellow house whose foundation was built to support endless nights of dancing and music. Where the walls are decorated in my countless creations. I am from the house on 139th place where I was born and where I know my parents will grow old.
Every Saturday morning until I was about 12 years old, I would accompany my father to the grocery store. We would follow the same routine; pick out yellow tulips for Mommy, dairy aisle, fruits and vegetables, and then deli. Behind the deli, worked a man with cinnamon skin, arms decorated with tattoos, and a booming laugh. Gio had worked at the deli since the early 90’s. As we waited for our turkey and ham, Gio would ask me about my life, my interests. He would tell me how I reminded him of his own daughter who was years older. As I became a nocturnal teenager, it became impossible for me to see the light of the early morning. My trips to the grocery store with my father became less frequent. Almost a decade later, on a last minute grocery run before a long beach day, I heard the same booming voice. “Sofia! You’re so grown up! Say hi to your father for me.”
I am from the town where everyone knows my name. The town where the man at the deli can recognize me decades later and greet me as if no time had passed at all.
I shuffled through many schools during my first 6 years of schooling. At Kendale Elementary, I met Maria. She was too tall and too loud for the third grade classroom, just like me. We conquered third, fourth, and fifth grade together attached at the hip. When it came time to go our separate ways for middle school, we said our goodbyes and never saw each other again. After two years spent trying to fill the void Maria left, I found Victoria. Vicky and I took on middle school and rode out the ebbs and flows of high school together. I was invited to be Victoria’s Prom date at Killian Senior High. During one of the many reggaeton breakdowns, I bumped into a familiar face in an emerald dress on the dance floor. “I haven’t seen you since 5th grade!” we said in synchrony. Maria and I exchanged numbers and set a date to rekindle our friendship. After a few weeks of getting to know each other again, we discovered that we had been working next door to each other for a year, yet our paths had never crossed.
I am from Kendall; where I went to school and where I made friends of a lifetime. Where you can go your separate ways, but still know in your heart that you will never be far from each other. I am from Miami; a big city that’s pretty small after all. Where you can run parallel to your childhood friends for years without intersection, but finally meet just when you need each other the most.
To say you are “from” a single place negates all the other places and experiences that have made you who you are. Your identity is a complex combination of nature and nurture and to attribute your existence to a sole country or town is to erase all other facets of your life that have contributed to the person you are today. You can be from the land where your predecessors established their lives and know that even though you have never felt that soil beneath your feet, it is still a part of you. It is still a part of you because it is in your blood, it is embedded within you. You can be from a country to which you feel no connection yet immense pride once a year. A country that marginalizes people who look like you. A country where you are labeled as a “first generation.” You can be from your childhood home, where you learned valuable life lessons and were nurtured to become the person you are today. It is where you learned to love art. You are from your childhood home because it is where you became a sister, or a daughter, or a niece, or a cousin and those are titles more valuable than an ethnicity. You can be from the town where you grew up, where you went to school and where you met people who impacted your life. You are from your hometown because you would not have been the same person without it.
There is no definitive answer to the age-old question: “where are you from?” Though the intentions may be well-meaning, the truth behind asking the question is truly an attempt to lock you into a singular box. Where you are from is so much more than just pinpoint on a map. It is dependent on the people and experiences that fill the spaces you occupy. A more pressing and relevant question would be: who are you in this world and to those around you? Who are you to your country, or to your city, or your school, or your family? who are you?
Collection
Citation
Sofia Vizcarra, “FROM,” Everything Speaks To Me , accessed September 18, 2026, https://everythingspeakstome.com/items/show/159.