My old home in the Bronx was a Tower of Babel -- filled with the warble of more languages than the United Nations. Every house I walked past on my way home from dinner poured forth different sounds, different smells. The pungency of curry powder, the sun-baked scent of saffron, the strange fermented odor of kimchi -- none of these were of my culture, but all of these smells became part of my world, my soul, my sense of identity.

Then my family moved to the land of odorless bologna and tasteless white bread. I feared my Spanish heritage would become a social liability. What was I to do about my funny name, my parents with their heavy accents and unapologetic celebration of the ways of their homelands? I was an extrovert in my old neighborhood. Now, suddenly I worried about making friends and being accepted. Bringing kids to my...
[ View Full Essay]