Elisabeth Casiano '00

Mi tierra. My nation. My world. My country. My land. My native country. My life. The Dominican Republic. The land of my dreams. My joy. D.R. R.D. La Republica Dominicana.

That land. The land in which I was born. From my beautiful homeland. From my holy homeland. That's where I come from. With pride I cry out to the skies, I am from the Caribbean. I am a mestiza, mulatta, Taina, Dominican, Dominicana, Dominican-American. Hell! Whatever it is you want to call me. Go ahead! I am still proud. You will not diminish me or my pride by calling me a spic. So what if I speak Spanish. At least I have the luxury to say I am bilingual. At least I have the luxury to say I speak another language better than I speak English. I can dream in Spanish. Often, I dream about my homeland; my native country. That land to which you have never been, but, you talk about it as a piece of dirt sitting in the Caribbean Sea. I am proud to tell you that I am from there. And, so what? What if I do not feel like speaking in English. What is the original language of the United States, anyways? Is there one? Why don't we speak the languages of the original indigenous tribes of the United States, now called Native Americans? Why don't we speak the Spanish that the conquistadores spoke when they settled in Florida and all over the southwestern United States? If I were you, I would not worry so much. If you keep nagging us about speaking English, you will upset us. It will be worse for you. I promise. I tell you. I can still hear the cry of the drums partying. Assimilation. Americanism. What is that? Is that a Science? Is that a new subject I should be learning about in school? Why should I assimilate? Assimilate to what? To your so-called American culture. Hell with you! I am also an American. I am from the Dominican Republic of America. I was also bom in the American continent. Do you know what is going on? I know. You are so caught up in owning and knowing everything that you went on and started calling your country, America. As if you were the entire continent. I am an American. An American from Latin America. An American from the Dominican Republic. And, why should I assimilate? Do you know that by assimilating to your so-called American culture I will be performing what is now known as WASPification. Assimilation to the culture of the White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestants. Why would I want to do that? I already have a culture, a set of beliefs, a way of life; I do not want to change. I can be proud and move my caderas to the merengue and salsa that always play in my head. Do you know how to dance that kind of music? I can teach you. I am not selfish. I will like to share my culture with you. However, I will not impose it on you; the same way you try to 'Americanize' me. I tell you. Many refrains are sung by my brothers and sisters whom live far from their homeland. We do not come to this country because it feels nice to be able to ride in an airplane. We have reasons to come here. Some of us have to escape the politics of our countries. And, I will give you credit. You have done a good job in creating a democratic kind of government. Our nations are still struggling to be able to have the luxury to say they have a government for e people and by the people. Some of us have to escape our countries' economic depressions. You are the owner of the economic world. You know it! Our countries' economies can not be compared to yours. memories make me cry. Every time I remember that I used to live there. I cry. I ay from desperation. Desperation of wanting everything under the sky for my country; my homeland Dios, Patna y Libertad. Above all, God, Nation and Liberty. I was born there. I grew up there. „ T ,, I would T like to die there. I would to be buried in ibp c*™ -h n

„„ — - would to be buried in the same sand that watch me pvpjuiin/r er'iJru fr" T .

e _ r fr°m Pain- Pain of knowing I can not offer my people ".w fm8' IHketosin8- I cry. I like to cry. I like to sing and cry. Ilike 3 sonS th?t sPnngs from my pain and my own tears. I like for you to hear me cry. I wonder if you would ever notice my agony. I wonder if you have ever felt the way I feel. walk harefnnilHUfKS' £ k°mel<»nd hurts me. It hurts not being there. It hurts not being able to me me. ShjffarfnrW She s far and I can .v! ;J? not be with her. : white and ever And, it hurts. y color ™ the world sand. She hurts

I know how my homeland feels. She feels remorse. She strikes my soul when I am gone. And, when I visit her, she cries of joy. She pushed me forth from its roots. But, she has faith in me. She knows that I will never forget where I come from or where I have been. My ancestry, my roots, my culture, my traditions. My homeland sighs when I am not there. And, I cry. A cry that comes from the pain that arises from not being able to be with her. The land that I was born, I will never forget. It holds my roots and everything I have left behind. My parents, the people responsible for my existence, are there. They were too proud. They were too attached to the homeland. They had to go back and they left me behind. I do not blame them. At their age, I will also go back. Back to where I belong. Is not that what you always say to me? Go back where you belong! I will, eventually, I will. As my life goes on, the melancholy continues. The refrains of pain are still sung. And, each night by the light of this American moon I cry. And, every night by the light of that Caribbean moon a country boy sings his song. His song that is a s-o-n. A song of joy of being able to be who he is and where he is. I remember my village. About three-hundred people that were somehow related to one another. Mi pueblo. My town. Mi campo. When will I see her scenery again? The rich land. The blue beaches. The red, yellow, white and every color sand. The green pastures. The white, black and brown faces of my people. Those people that have a past full of sadness. Each street that leads to my village, mi pueblo, has a cry, has a lament. A cry for all her sons and daughters that have opted to move far away. My town has a nostalgia, like the voice of the country boy. His song keeps repeating while I wish I was able to sing it. It flows in my blood. It gets stronger. And, it travels its way to my heart.

My homeland has a cry. My homeland has a lament. My home land has a nostalgia. I will never forget her. I will never forget my homeland. I carry her in my emotions; in my thoughts, my being. I hear her cry...My homeland. I carry her inside me. The memories live. She flows through my blood...My homeland. I sing of my homeland, beautiful and holy. I suffer the pain that's in her soul. Although I am far away, I can fell her. And one day I will return...I know it!

At night, I hear my homeland calling out my name. She tells me she loves me. She wants me to be with her; to be in her. She did not think I was ever going to leave her. She tells me that I have fallen in love with the new country. She tells me that I have adopted to this life. In her heart, she knows that I will just love her. I will just love to live in her. She feels lonely. She misses all my brothers and sisters that have opted to move away from their homeland. She knows Alejandra, Besenia, Bianka, Claudia, Damaris, Dioseli, Franklin, Frederick, Glenny, Indira, Luis, Kate, Kelli, Ozzy, Siddhartha, Sue, Sulaka, Tirso, Wilson, Vicente, Yesenia, and I will be back. She knows we will be back. And she tells us:

'Your soul will always be mine. You will never erase the memories. You will remember that no one will ever love you the way I do. You will be back. I will not try to keep you. But, your love for me and my love for you tell me that you will be back. I know you will be back!"