My earliest memories are a vivid mosaic of life on the beautiful island of Puerto Rico, from the innocence of toddlerhood to the brink of adolescence. The island’s beauty and the constant adventures with my family every other weekend are etched in my heart. My mother and grandmother are paragons of legend and sacrifice, and I've always strived to follow their footsteps and make them proud.
At my dad's mom's house, my days were a mix of peaceful and wild. I would sit for hours doing puzzles, the melodies of music providing the only backdrop that allowed me to focus. When not engrossed in puzzles, I would channel my energy into friendly rivalry with my male cousins, challenging them to tree-climbing contests. Inevitably, I would get thrown out of the tree, only to climb back up and throw them down one by one.
At my mom's mom's house, my escapades took a different turn. I remember hunting for iguanas in her backyard, a task driven by my grandma's love for iguana soup. One day, my middle sister wanted to hold an iguana but was too scared. Tired of her incessant cries and recalling my mother's lessons on sharing, I decided to break the iguana in half and give her a piece. This led to a chaotic scene where my grandma, thinking I was hurt, called my mom at work. My mom, upon arriving and finding me playing with the two parts, admonished my grandma to always check what’s going on before rushing to conclusions, all while I continued being my mischievous self.
These moments, filled with adventure, love, and a bit of chaos, are the essence of my childhood in Puerto Rico—a time that shaped who I am and a testament to the legacy of my mother and grandmother.
