mujer soleadol/mwanamke ya joto

A Story by malaikamalele

A young Puerto Rican woman seeks to develop a relationship with her Kenyan father.

The familiar smell of arroz con pollo influenced me to leave my friends and come indoors after several hours. Nothing else had the effect on my decision to come in the house on such a beautiful Puerto Rican evening than la cocina de su madre. Even though I am a college student enthralled in my own social life in particular a guy I like named Miguel, my mother’s cooking can bring me to do things that I otherwise am reluctant to do. As I head back home, I offer mis amigos de infancia to join us for dinner. This time, surprisingly they decline the offer and instead choose returning to their own homes to eat. “Hola mami!” I say as I plant a kiss on her soft brown skin. “Hola mami nada,” she retorts. “My cooking should not be the only thing that convinces you to come home, but tu amor por tu madre is all that is necessary for you mi hija.” As she said this a wide smile spread across her aging, but still very gorgeous face.

“Awwwwww, mami you know I love you more than anything, but you also know how I can’t resist arroz con pollo con los platanos y jugo de las frutas tropicales.” “Mi hija, mi Soledad what will I do with you, tus hermanos y tu papi?” “Feeding all of you es como cocinar por una restaurante!” “Porque tu comida es muy delicioso!” chimed in my younger brother, Victor. The other family members two other younger twin brothers Luis y Pablo were still out either at work or with their novias, our papi on his way home from work having called a few minutes before while in the San Juan rush hour traffic. Alphonzo Ramirez is the father of my three younger brothers, but my real father a man that my mother Griselda met on his visit here 21 years ago is from Kenya, East Africa. A topic that is very seldom spoken of in the family. As is all too familiar in Puerto Rican culture a child by another man is not often accepted by the new man that comes in the life of the out of wedlock child’s mother. I am incredibly grateful that my step dad un hombre de Dios was not like so many other puertoriquenos who often don’t accept a child who they did not sire themselves especially since my real father was directly from Africa. In Puerto Rico and other Latin American nations the African culture is obvious, but is often downplayed by ignorance and archaic ideas centering around race and social class. Blackness especially being muy negro or dark is looked at as ‘no es bueno’ while being light or white is thought of as ‘es muy bueno.’ To marry light or white is to ‘mejorando de la raza.’ Improving of the ‘race.’ So when my (step) dad who is a lighter skinned black Puerto Rican man married my African looking, dark skinned Puerto Rican mom who had a child with a man from the ‘darkest’ part of Africa it was frowned upon as an ‘inappropriately disastrous’ decision especially for a man as handsome as papi who could have had any woman he wanted. What they meant by ‘any woman’ was a mujer blanca. In mi familia I always stood out for my darker smooth skin, much darker than even my mami’s and brothers. From looking at pics, I get my color from the Kenyan side of my family. Mi papi Keniano y mis abuelos Keniano todos son muy negro. Aside from skin color, another thing that is like my Kenyan family is my hair. A center of attention here as it is a mixture of Indian and African, but mostly African como mi familia en Africa. Parts of my hair are more softer and ‘manageable’ while the rest of my hair is very curly and kinky and grows wildly all over my head. At one time I had a total disdain for my hair and often desired to have it straight like everyone else here in Puerto Rico. Reluctantly, my mother who wore her own hair straightened like most every other Latina allowed me to straighten my hair. Yet, each and every time I’d go to the beauty salon, I’d have to listen to comments about my hair como “Tu pelo es malo!” or “Tu pelo no es como tu madre su pelo es muy hermosa y facil para peinar.” Years of hearing this damaged me to the point that I urged my mother to relax my hair instead of just having it pressed because whenever it was pressed my ‘real’ hair returned within a day or two back to it’s ‘uncontrollable’ and ‘unmanageable’ state. For some reason, my mami never allowed chemicals on my head something I am totally thankful for now that I am learning to embrace the naturally kinky curl pattern of my hair. My mother and my papi are both very unique people and taught me to embrace my skin color and hair. I guess by Puerto Rican standards they were and still are somewhat radical as they embrace the African part of themselves. Even though, my step papi doesn’t speak often of my biological father, he never speaks badly of him either or makes me feel less because of my Africanness. In fact, as a child, whenever I overheard him speaking with his relatives--all of whom were very light skinned--and they said something negative about my skin color or hair, my papi stood up for me and declared ‘mi hija es muy hermosa y su pelo es tambien. De hecho, ella es Africana, tu y yo tambien. Nosotros somos los Africanos. Punto.” While in the next room pretending to play and not hear what was being said, at his declaration of our ‘blackness,’ I’d laugh not so much at papi’ s boldness, but how those palabras often shut everyone up to the point that all left our home before the intended time. My mother looking at her husband, myself and brothers and say, “well I guess that leaves more food for us.”

My step dad, even accepted the fact that my mother desired to give me my real dad’s last name Kariuki at birth. I guess at the time my mother was a pan Africanist and wanted me to have my African last name even though things did not work out with my biological dad. My new father even after adopting me, agreed to allow his name Ramirez to be hyphenated with my Kenyan last name. So my legal name is Soledad Kariuki-Ramirez. I am as proud of both of those names as well as the cultures they represent. Although I don’t know much about my Kenyan side, I have a longing to learn and get to know my father and mi otra familia. As for my last name being African this was quite unusal in a place where most people’s names are ‘Latino’ and ‘Latino’ only. Being a student in high school often on my first day of class all my teachers had their own unique way of pronouncing Kariuki. Some said, “KAH-ROO-KEE” while others said, “KAH-REE-OO-KEE” either way it went I got a lot of questions to the origin of the name. When I proudly said, “Kenyan” I’d receive silence or strange looks or the comment, “La Kenia que es en Africa?” My Kenyan father I met him about three times during my youth all his visits several years apart seeing him one time since entering adulthood when he came aqui a la isla por Navidad a couple of years ago. His name is Elijah Kariuki, a marine biologist who traveled the world on research assignments the reason why he first visited Puerto Rico all those twenty one years ago a trip that resulted in him meeting my mother and my conception. The city where he has lived most of his life is a coastal city called Mombasa. However, it is to my understanding that he has relocated to Nairobi to accept a job there as a banker. A far cry from his scientist career. I only know as much as I do about Kenya from pictures that he sent me from time to time or reading up about it. I know it’s a busy place como aqui en San Juan where there are lots of cars and buses called matatus. On my research about my father’s home, I was surprised discovering that there were actual cities in Kenya and throughout Africa. What is often taught here about Africa is that it is a place full of animals, jungles, wars and starving people. One time talking to him on the phone a couple of years ago he asked me if I wanted to come and visit him and his family in Kenya. As he asked me the question a surge of excitement entered me the thought of not only seeing my real father, but actually going to Africa. He reminded me to talk to mi madre and mi step padre on the matter, yet when I approached them the response was often, “wait and see” or “we’ll think about it.” Now as a twenty one year old woman I can make my own decisions and am considering taking my dad up on his offer and traveling to Kenya to see him, his wife and my Kenyan brothers and sisters.