When the Host City Sustains You More Than the Country of Origin

Boston, Massachusetts

As long as one harbors hope for return, one never manages to settle in the host country. That's my conclusion after writing my essay: When Returning to One's Homeland Becomes a Myth.

There, I put into words what I had been avoiding accepting for years. That there is no familiar bed waiting for me, that my emotional anchors have dispersed or died, and that returning has ceased to be a possibility and has become a myth. That recognition through writing was both painful and liberating.

Letting go of the myth opened up an unexpected space. Suddenly, Boston—a city I describe as socially cold—stopped being a place of struggle, and I began to see it as a place of support. Boston didn't change overnight for me; it was me who changed my perspective. I accepted that Boston could be my support, almost without intending to, when I examined the cultural landscape that surrounds me.

Today, as I write this, I'm attending a Buena Vista Orchestra concert at the Colonial Theater, a musical group with a rich Cuban heritage that resonates throughout Massachusetts.

In November, the Boston Symphony Orchestra awaits me, this time with Verónica Robles, an artist who has become the most recognized mariachi icon in New England, acclaimed by both English speakers and Latin Americans, in a tribute to the Day of the Dead at Symphony Hall.

In December, I'll attend the Boston Pops Orchestra's Christmas concert, also at Symphony Hall—a native Boston tradition that adds to my cultural experience.

From Cuba to Mexico and then to American Christmas, that diversity in Boston—a little from here and there—sustains me more than any Puerto Rican bubble.

Puerto Rican culture in Boston also has its value, but not when it's fueled by a hollow, emotional patriotism limited to symbols, festivals, and films about independence leaders with no genuine will to fight. It's an empty patriotism that functions as a business, as the island reaps the benefits of the diaspora's nostalgia. At the same time, the political class shows no interest in governing to bring back that exodus.

Accepting that I won't return to Puerto Rico isn't a defeat, but rather the condition for being able to live here without nostalgia as a shackle. Boston isn't the perfect city, but it's no longer a daily battle. It's my city, the one that sustained me in my most vulnerable moments, much more than Puerto Rico would have done for me.

The U.S. citizenship enjoyed by Puerto Ricans helped me establish myself on the continent without legal complications. Still, I share this uprooting with the rest of the Latin Americans who migrate north, more than with the typical Puerto Rican who migrates, supported by networks of family or friends and always lives in anticipation of returning. My story is different: that of a migrant who, upon letting go of the dream of returning, learned to embrace Boston.