When I was the age of one, my family left our native Cuba and headed to Madrid, Spain where we lived for two years. On May of 1970, we arrived in America and settled (like most Cuban exiles) in Miami, Florida – as close to the island as possible. That was nearly 40 years ago.
When I was around 14 years young I made a life-long decision. My choice was to either live a Cuban lifestyle or an American one. I chose the latter. All my friends growing were mainly Caucasian or (like myself) very Americanized. I do not consider myself a Cuban-American but an American-Cuban. All I know Is American, the only country I have ever known. I do not have any memories of a life in Cuban: No binding cord to that country whatsoever. I learnt Spanish on the streets of Miami and I speak it horribly; I can’t even read or write it, that’s sad.
On paper I am Cuban, but in heart and soul I’m an American. My (Spanish) name does not fit me at all. It’s far from the right fit, it’s not me, it’s wrong. My English name (if I decide to officially change it) is going to be a direct translation so I will not change (really) the name my parents gave me, it will just be in English. I see no harm in that. I mean I will live and die in the good old USA, so changing my name in the way I want is fine, right? It proclaims the real me. I feel strongly that Carl Rivers (Carl might be the winner) is who I truly am, now and forever.
I am Carl Rivers already…I feel it so.