Celia Feliciano
PAIN PERDU/FRENCH TOAST
September 19, 2016

 

Are you Native?

“Are you native? Where are you from? What is your nationality?”

Whenever, I first meet people, these are the questions I inevitably get asked by Non- Latino and Latino people alike.

My response usually starts with, “I am American,” which typically shocks people.

“No.... Really? So, Where are you from, then?”

"I was born in New York." I tell them.

Still not satisfied, they implore, “But, What is your background?”

This is when I like to turn the tables on them, especially Latinos, and ask them,

“What do you think I am?”

They reply,

“Native American?”

“No.”

“Philippino?”

“Noo.”

“Jamaican?”

“Noooo.”

“Egyptian?”

“Noooooooooooooo!”

Then, realizing after their rounds of futile guesses that they are not going to recognize the Latina in me without me spelling it out, I cave in and fill in the blanks for them.

With a tone of exasperation, I admit, “I’m Puerto Rican and Bolivian,”

“What? Wow! Ohhhhhhhh. You’re Latina!!!!!!! That is a rare combination-South American and Caribbean. That's beautiful!”

“Yes. It is. Gracias.” I reply with pride.

However, this ethnic pride is not something that came automatically to me. It was a journey to get to the place of affirming my rare beauty and feeling accepted by my own culture and family of origin.

When I was younger, I remember feeling like I did not belong. I felt different. I remember growing up with my cousins and all the girls being short and petite, having long curly hair and big brown eyes. They were the epitome of “ninas Bonitas” the pretty girls. I, on the other hand, was tall and skinny with long pin straight black hair, and slanted eyes. I never felt pretty, because I did not look like them, and no one told me so. Instead, relatives would call me China, because of my eyes or chinita because of my hair. I always wanted to put curlers in my hair, but my hair was so straight the curlers would never take. My native Bolivian ancestry prevented my hair from curling.  So from a very young age I had to come to terms with accepting that this was just who I was-the Bolivian China Doll from Spanish Harlem.

I grew up in  Spanish Harlem, from 1970-74. My mother's side of the family lived on Lexington between 103rd-116th. My brother looked like my mom, and all her Puerto Rican relatives, so he fit right in.  My dad was Bolivian and had no siblings or extended family living in NYC, furthermore, his citizenship status prevented us from traveling to Bolivia. So, besides listening to my Dad's native music, some relics in our home decor, and dinner table stories of my dad’s childhood in Bolivia, there were no other cultural mirrors for me to see myself in that reflected my unique appearance.

To further imprint my dominant Puerto Rican heritage, during my early years, we traveled to PR every other summer. My fondest childhood memories growing up were in the mountains on my grandfather's farm. I loved my grandmother’s mulatta skin, high cheek bones and nappy hair. Her mixed Taino, African and Spanish origins resulted in an external appearance more akin to mine. Because she looked so different from my Puerto Rican family, I felt very much apart of her tribe. My grandfather, composed of the same ethnicities as my grandmother, also had interesting and distinct features- wide nose, caramel skin color and the most crystal blue eyes that you could get lost in.

Spending summers in PR working on the farm, helping my grandmother cook and having daily adventures playing with my cousins in such a rural landscape was so essential to developing my connection to and pride in my Puerto Rican culture. At the end of every summer, it would be such a culture shock coming back home to the city and adjusting to the subway screeching instead of the coqui's singing at night; Sleeping all in one bed, in a one room home inside of a mosquito net to protect ourselves from getting eaten alive, instead of sleeping alone in my own canopy bed in my own private room with a nightlight; Waking up to roosters crowing at 6am, instead of the Spanish radio station blaring the news. After a while of settling in, I would realize how grateful I was for running water, a bathroom, a shower and a telephone. However, I would miss living on the island, the smell of sweet island air, the lush trees full of mangoes, bathing in creeks and fun nights listening to my uncles play their guitars and sing their folk songs while we drifted into our dreams. Even my Bolivian father would come join in the night jams. He loved the island, the culture, the food and the music as much as I did.
 

Our summers in PR became few and far between in my teens.  In 1981, we left the projects in Queens for the suburbs in New Jersey because my mom got a teaching job after putting herself through college. I can still remember the day we moved. I can see the moving van parked out in front of our building in the middle of the courtyard and all my friends with their arms and heads hanging out the barred windows of their apartments curious as to what was going on. One of the block bullies called out and asked, “Where are you moving to?” I answered, “New Jersey.” He said, “You got out! Good luck! You got out!”

We did get out, but the move from city to suburb created yet another form of culture shock. In school, the kids would say I talked funny and spoke “black English.” In the projects, all my friends were Black. That was all I knew. In the suburbs, oddly, only the white kids befriended me.  I didn't look Black, Latino or White, so no one knew quite how to categorize me. The Blacks and Latinos just didn't claim me, I believe, simply because I did not look like them. The white kids, however, were open to me as the new kid on the block and although I was still an “other” to them, that otherness actually allowed me to be myself in a whole new way.

In the projects, everybody was your “family,” the Blacks and Latinos in the suburbs did not have the same family vibe as they did in the city. They were more segregated. There was no sense of “the block” or the “the neighborhood” in New Jersey. There were no courtyards or common hangout spots where everybody just hung out together. There were individual houses and kids would just stay at each other's homes. My mother was not fond of this and was always asking me, “Are they ever going home? Do their parents know that they are still here?”  More often than not, my mom would end up making them dinner before sending them home. Everybody loved my mother's cooking. And since I was her right hand, always there to help with cooking, cleaning and attending to my brothers, I got to learn from the best. I took a lot of pride in learning how to cook Puerto Rican food authentically. I loved watching her make reccao, the basis for the flavor behind all Puerto Rican food! Cooking was our way of keeping the island alive in our home and our hearts. And while we cooked, knives chopping, pestle and mortar grinding, we would have merengue and salsa playing in the background, blending melodies, shaking maracas, mixing African and island rhythms with congas. My first dance lessons were on the kitchen floor 1,2,3...5,6,7!

Music was always the common thread keeping our two cultures alive at home.

I felt the deep roots of my South American ancestors whenever my Dad played his native Bolivian pipe folk music.  Pipes, flutes, percussion, gongs, tambourines, it gave me the feeling of marching. It felt like a parade. When that music was playing, my imagination ran wild with colour, but there was always a tinge of sorrow. Bolivia was so far away, and my Dad was an island.   

I would always ask my parents about the origins of these two cultures that were so vastly different, yet shared the same language. My dad would always remind us that we had Incan Indian blood running in our veins  as he made us practice counting in Quechua, the native tongue of our Bolivian ancestors, during our dinner talks. It was important to him that we take pride in our heritage. I never forgot that and, as an adult, chose to pass the torch of my unique ancestry onto my children by cultivating a strong sense of cultural pride in them as well. So now when we hear the question, “Where are you from...are you native? You are beautiful.” “I’m from the US, but I'm Puerto Rican and Bolivian,” my daughter declares definitively with a smile and a twinkle in her eye before I can even respond.

As I grew into adulthood and motherhood, I came to love my uniqueness, and embrace my exotic features more and more.  I might not look Puerto Rican or have Puerto Rican eyes, but I can cook our soul food, dance to our music and speak our language. I can visit our mother island and feel like I am home. I can also feel my Bolivian ancestors whenever I see the vibrant colors of their ornate garments or hear the melodies of their native songs.  And, I can see myself in the eyes of the Incan Indians from my father’s native land. All of this culture, color, emotion, flavor and rhythm was deeply rooted within me, and was always a part of me, however, as the demands of life increased, I was less and less able to express this passion within. Fashion was one way, I expressed my individuality and cultural connections, until I rediscovered the painter within.  Now, I feel most connected to my ancestral origins when I paint.

Grit was the first work that brought me back to my origins as an artist, after 14 years of not painting. It was an assignment that was proposed by my boss as part of a Day of Inspiration to challenge our design team to think beyond our limitations. He asked us, “If money was no object, what would you do?” Immediately, I felt a burning desire to paint.  Over the years, I had ignored this desire and let the obligations of life take over. My boss set us up in a hotel in NYC to get inspired and explore our creative outlets. As I roamed the streets of SoHo, and passed the iconic Pearl Paint, where I had frequented as a college art student, I felt like I was home again. I was like a kid in a gigantic candy store.  I knew exactly what I wanted-primary colors of acrylic paint, a squeegee, wide brushes and 2 yards of canvas. Once I had my treasures in hand, I knew it was time to face the fear of letting go and dive in to this passion of expression.  Still, I felt overwhelmed and nervous by this opportunity to dive in so I spent the day walking the streets in the Village and recalling memories of my teenage years.

As a teenager, I was always attracted to uniqueness. I always looked for beauty in the more obscure things. What other people saw as ugly, or weird, I saw as beautiful. I felt connected to that which was different. The 80’s in NYC was a time of cultural revolution in fashion, music and art. There was such a diverse intersection of artistic expressions. It was the beginning of the punk scene and the preppy scene, girls were experimenting with expressing their sexuality openly, gay culture was on the rise, hip hop culture was taking a stand and I could identify with it all! And, all of it shaped who I am.

After my stroll down memory lane, I returned to meet up with my team back at the hotel. We all shared our experiences from the day. One person followed a couple, another took a photograph every five minutes and yet another visited the 9/11 Memorial. Fully inspired by the originality of everyone's explorations, I finally felt ready to dive into my paints and canvas. I excused myself from my teammates and announced, “I'm gonna go and have my baby now!”

I left them and went to my hotel room to stretch out the canvas in the narrow room. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. I called out to my ancestors to guide me. I started to draw from my divine inspiration the colors, the energy of city, its people, the scrapers, the spirit that was my home town. I instinctually started with yellow. As I grabbed the tube of paint and squeezed it hard, I heard my high school Art teacher, Mr Tag, in my head say, “Not so hard Celia. Relax and let it flow through... let the movement take you.” Mixing the red into the yellow, I heard the parade of my Dad’s tribal music pumping in my heart. I felt the fire of my Puerto Rican roots as I mixed the blue into the red. As I moved the squeegee one long stroke at a time blending the colors, I could feel the energy of the people walking the streets. I could smell the scent of urine and flowers. I could feel the coldness in between the buildings as the sun disappeared from one block only to reappear on the next. I was hot and euphoric and then I stopped and fell back to sit after being on my knees for hours. I looked at the canvas and started to weep. I had broken the barrier, I had finally released the bottled up passion that was within me. The joy was overwhelming!!!

This is who I am, my origin, my tribe, the grit of the city. Its diverse cultures, people, music, colors, textures, flavors and sounds. The light and dark of it. Its uniqueness and obscurity. Its passion for life.  Its hard, quiet beauty.  All captured in a moment of release and becoming one. Grit was just the beginning. It was the Gateway that opened me to creating one body of work after another. Over the past four years, I have been a part of three group exhibitions and this year celebrated my first solo exhibit. Now the art just pours out of me, connecting me to my inner source of creativity and cultural consciousness.

Acrylic on Paper
18x24

From Butterfly Effect