Prologue

I’m sitting at a decrepit fruit juice bar in Soho, sipping the perfect combination of carrot and apple juice while reading the crappiest chick lit (I’m in heaven!) when this guy starts chatting me up. I smile dryly and try to get back to my book, but, no, Mr. Middle-management executive has decided to embark on a speech. Politics… blablabla… economics… blablabla. I try to act like I’m listening but can’t stop looking at my new shoes (new shoes are so much more interesting than platitudes) until I hear… “you and your people…” Oh, not again, please. I’ve had it from American boyfriends, coworkers, acquaintances and even from a lovely couple I was traveling with for a few days in China (honey, I voted to support you and your people.)

You and your people. What sort of sentence is this? Who are my people? My family? My friends? Hispanics? Do people forget how many people speak Spanish around the world and how different they are?

Even worse: how do you know I’m even Latina. Because in my case, I’m actually Belgian… Well, sort of. I was born in Brussels from a Belgian father and a Spanish mother. One grandfather is a Spaniard; the other two are Belgians (don’t ask me why I have three grandfathers, it’s a long story). One grandmother came from Cadiz and the other was born in Cologne. I grew up in Venezuela, where I have a bunch of Venezuelan cousins, and now live in NY. I have family living in 5 different countries and speaking at least three different languages. So, I ask again, who are my people?

But when you are wearing new shoes and the sky is blue, why even go there. The best thing is just to smile and sweetly say: ‘Can I have another fabulous juice, pleeeeasssse? Oh…A make it extra large’… And let the bastard pay.