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His parents wanted him to build microchips. He opened restaurants instead.
There are only a couple things that are typically Argentinean that my dad taught me about: their love for dulce de leche (a delicious treat I use in baking), their obsession with soccer (although my dad was more of a basketball fan) and their love for meat -- specifically, steak. That's it. That's all I know. A huge chunk of me is missing and I don't know if I'll ever find it.
I grew up surrounded by friends and family members who looked like all of these races, but all I knew at three was that they were all Jamaican. When I'd visit from Canada and arrived at the airport in Kingston, Jamaica, we'd be picked up by my uncle who looked Chinese, go home to his kids who were mixed Chinese and black, get a visit from my cousin who was mostly white and then take a trip to see my dads side of the family who was pretty much all black.
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The question I've been asked consistently throughout my life is, "which side do you identify more with?" I hate this question. You are forcing me to choose between my Italian culture and my Filipino culture. It feels like you're asking me to decide between pasta and puncit. Between gelato and halo-halo. Between my mom and my dad.
The yearning desire I had to visit could not be explained. But stepping foot onto West African soil started to make things clearer for me. Upon arriving, I was instantly overcome with the feeling that I was home. I had last visited Ghana as a child many years ago, but the people, the culture, the way of life, even the very smell, brought up feelings of nostalgia.