Carry Your Own Salt and Pepper

Dear one who's still waiting, it's Sunday Morning.

The day I left the island, one passport got the stamp, but two people arrived in New York City. One carried dreams, the other carried silence.

The dreams were vivid, but I didn’t notice the silence until the day I ordered a sandwich at the deli. I asked for avocado (avokaido), the way I thought it should sound here. Not the way it truly sounds in my native tongue.

The counter guy smirked, repeated it back, elongating my mistake: “avokeiiiido,” with a laugh, and the people in line chuckled along. Quick and harmless, they probably thought. But my ears burned. I had already bent the word away from its roots, and still it wasn’t enough.

That was the moment I understood: belonging, at least in this place, came at a cost. For years I paid it. I trimmed syllables. I sanded down vowels. I traded my roaring R for the limp r of English, the sound more like baby Simba than Mufasa. I practiced late at night, whispering new sounds into the dark.

But here’s the truth: the word is A-gua-ca-te—juicy, staccato, rhythmic, full of flavor. That’s how my mother said it, elegantly slicing it with a sharp knife in her open hands.

That’s the sound I carry.

I carry it now without apology, only grit and memory. Every syllable is a homecoming. Every vowel, a flag.

So if you feel like you're still waiting to arrive—waiting to be accepted for your voice, your background, your way of moving through the world. Try this: stop trimming.

Say the word the way your mother placed it on your tongue. Let them laugh. You'll still be standing. Because your sound carries its own salt and pepper.

Until next Sunday.