GIVING IT ANOTHER GO
For those of you who have been following my blog for a while now, you know that I’m descended from Puerto Ricans who moved to the United States during the Puerto Rican diaspora movement of the 20th century. My blog posts generally surround my personal exploration of Puerto Rican culture, as I’ve been removed from it almost completely.
What many of you probably don’t know, and what I didn’t know until literally 4 days ago, is that I may be a descendent of Venezuelans too.
“What?”
Yeah, that’s what I said too.
Something strange about my family’s history is how unclear it is. Not in just the fact that there are very few records and I have no one to ask about their stories, but in the fact that what has been passed down contradicts itself.
An old style steamship similar to those used to travel the seas in the last 19th century.
Everyone agrees Abuela is Puerto Rican. Her records show her being born and growing up on the island. I can trace her lineage back to the 1780s.
But Abuelo?
I’ve been told he was from Spain, Puerto Rico, and most recently, Venezuela. Each aunt and uncle has told me something different. As a bonus, when I researched Abuelo on Ancestry a year ago, I couldn’t find any records for immigration, birth, adoption, naturalization, etc. All I had was his burial information and a marriage license.
After hours of searching last summer, I came to the conclusion that I would never find anything else about Abuelo unless I hired somebody to look for him. Since he hadn’t been forthcoming about his personal information, I wasn’t even sure a professional could help. So what did I do?
I gave up. Sort of.
I listened to the stories people around me were willing to tell, and I synthesized my own understanding of my family’s background. I wrote my book. I tried to not dwell on the mysteries surrounding my family. I (more or less) came to terms with my mismatched heritage and cultural identity.
A black cup of coffee next to a laptop. On top of the laptop is a lined notepad and pen. Nothing is written on the notepad.
This past weekend, I had a unique opportunity to explore my friend’s subscription of Ancestry.com (the free version gets you almost nothing, just so you know). We looked over the records I searched a year ago, but this time, there were more clickable links.
On my grandparents’ marriage license, their parents’ names were clickable, so I clicked on my great grandpa’s (Abuelo’s side) information, and he listed his ethnicity as Venezuelan.
I quickly searched Ellis Island records to see if Abuelo’s name came up. While I can’t verify anything for sure, I found a record under one of the two birthdays Abuelo put on forms (he wasn’t very straight forward about his ethnicity OR his age. Thanks, Pops). I found a record for a five-year-old boy of Abuelo’s name who was Venezuelan that travelled to New York. The record also listed him as being from Puerto Rico.
Sunset over Caracas, Venezuela. There are forests and skyscrapers all mixed together.
Before this weekend, I was convinced Abuelo was a dishonest guy, or maybe someone who lied on forms to “keep the government in the dark” out of paranoia. Now though, I think the stories I’ve been told are all just partial truths. Abuelo was a descendant of Spanish colonizers. His family settled in Venezuela, and at some point, Grandpa ended up in Puerto Rico, another place heavily colonized by the Spanish. Then, somehow, he made it to New York. Spain, Venezuela, Puerto Rico.
It makes sense, at least in the ways that ambiguous records can make sense. Although I know this can all be disproven with the discovery of another document, this is what I have and this is what I know.
And then there’s that big question, the one that drives my novel and leaves me in a state of perpetual wondering: will I ever really know?
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