Question
I spent a lot of time trying to find it in me, but usually I couldn’t. I felt more American than anything, but even that was up for debate according to the kids at school who’d taunted me over the years, asking me if I was related to Noriega, telling me to go back through the canal. The truth was that I didn’t know which I was. I wasn’t allowed to claim the thing I felt and I didn’t feel the thing I was supposed to claim.
We never went back to Panamá, not even for a visit. It would have taken us forever to save enough money for plane tickets. Besides, my dad never wanted to take time off from his job. He probably could’ve asked for a few days of vacation time, but even after years of being there, making omelets and flipping pancakes, he knew—we all knew—that he was on the low end of the food chain. He could be replaced in a heartbeat. He didn’t want to risk it.
My mom was as excited about the trip as I don’t know what. She went to Sears to buy a new dress and had giddy phone conversations with my aunt about seeing each other again and what they would be able to pack into our eighteen hours on the ground. She started laying out her clothes weeks in advance even though my dad kept telling her she only needed two outfits—one to go and one to come home. “And why do you have ten pairs of shoes here?” he asked, pointing to the sandals and leather high heels my mom had lined up along the baseboard in the bedroom. “Ten!” my mom scoffed. “I don’t even own ten pairs of shoes.” My father counted them.
My mom stood in the kitchen, a soapy pot in her hand, and looked at me, baffled. “What just happened?” she asked.
When I told her everything I’d been able to gather, she walked out to the balcony and closed the door behind her. At the commotion, Enrique came out of his room.
“We’re not going anymore,” I told him.
“Huh?”
“On the trip.”
“Are you serious?” Enrique asked.
My brother and I huddled together, listening through the front door. I heard my mom say, “Please, Rafa. He doesn’t know anything about us. We can still go. You’ll see. Once we get there . . . All your friends . . . And everyone will love you.” I imagined her reaching out to touch his shoulder, the way she did sometimes when she was asking for something. “Don’t you miss it?” she asked. “Can’t you imagine landing there, being there again? You know how it smells? The air there. And seeing everyone again. Please, Rafa.”
But my dad wasn’t swayed.
The following year, we talked about going back, too. My dad’s anger over being cast as a holier-than-thou gringo had finally simmered down, and my mom, who couldn’t bring herself to return the new dress she’d bought and who hadn’t gotten over the disappointment of not being able to see her sister after all, had been dropping hints ever since that she would still like to go even if the trip was only for one night again. She’d become a genius at turning any and every little thing into a way to talk about Panamá. She would get a mosquito bite on her ankle and point out the welt to us, reminiscing about the bites she used to get in Panamá and wondering aloud “what the mosquitoes there looked like now,” as if they were old friends. She would make rice and start talking about the gallo pinto at El Trapiche, which was her favorite restaurant, saying things like “I wonder how Cristóbal—wasn’t that the owner’s name?—is doing. Wouldn’t it be nice to find out?” We would drive over a bridge and suddenly she was talking about the Bridge of the Americas near the canal. “Do you remember, Enrique? That time we took the ferry back from Taboga at night and it was all lit up? It was so beautiful. Mayor, I wish you could have seen it.” She sighed. “Maybe one day.” And my dad would sometimes shake his head at her melodrama and other times would just stay quiet, like he’d fallen into the haze of a particular memory himself.
y mom said, “What?”
“They think we’re Americans now. And maybe we are! Maybe we don’t belong there anymore after all.” My dad went out on the balcony, which he did whenever he was really upset.
My mom stood in the kitchen, a soapy pot in her hand, and looked at me, baffled. “What just happened?” she asked.
When I told her everything I’d been able to gather, she walked out to the balcony and closed the door behind her. At the commotion, Enrique came out of his room.
“We’re not going anymore,” I told him.
“Huh?”
“On the trip.”
“Are you serious?” Enrique asked.
My brother and I huddled together, listening through the front door. I heard my mom say, “Please, Rafa. He doesn’t know anything about us. We can still go. You’ll see. Once we get there . . . All your friends . . . And everyone will love you.” I imagined her reaching out to touch his shoulder, the way she did sometimes when she was asking for something. “Don’t you miss it?” she asked. “Can’t you imagine landing there, being there again? You know how it smells? The air there. And seeing everyone again. Please, Rafa.”
But my dad wasn’t swayed.
The following year, we talked about going back, too. My dad’s anger over being cast as a holier-than-thou gringo had finally simmered down, and my mom, who couldn’t bring herself to return the new dress she’d bought and who hadn’t gotten over the disappointment of not being able to see her sister. It didn’t take long before everyone in our building was knocking on each other’s doors and convening out on the balcony, standing around stunned and shaking with fear. Nelia Zafón just kept repeating, “What is happening? What is happening? What is happening?” I heard my mom say to someone, “We moved here because it was supposed to be safer! Where can we go after this?” All day long she kept herself no more than an arm’s length from me and my brother, hugging us against her and then letting us go, like she wanted to assure herself that we were still there and that we were okay. Enrique, who was old enough by then that he usually squirmed away from my mom’s embraces, must have known the situation was serious, because he let her do it. I let her, too, even though every time she did, instead of comforting me, it only made me more scared.
By evening, everyone’s front doors were open and people were roaming in and out of each other’s units, watching each other’s televisions as if a different set would deliver different news, checking to see if anyone had heard anything new, getting tedious translations. Benny Quinto led prayer circles in his living room. Micho Alvarez paced up and down the balcony, talking on his cell phone and jotting things in his notebook. Gustavo Milhojas, who was half-Mexican and half-Guatemalan, wrote a letter to the army telling them that as of that day he was 100 percent American and that he was ready to serve the country and kill the cowards who had murdered his fellow paisanos At the end he wrote, “And here is a list of people who are willing to join me.” He drew a few blank lines and spent the afternoon trying to recruit everyone in the building. When my mom saw what it was, she said, “More killing? That’s what you want? More?” And Gustavo said, “Not killing. Justice.”
That year around the holidays we were all miserable. Holidays were always bad—my mom in particular got homesick sometimes like it was a genuine illness—but that Christmas was the worst. We were depressed and on edge, still shaken up about September 11, and then re-shaken when someone tried to blow up another plane by hiding a bomb in his shoes two days before Christmas Eve.
My aunt called, which cheered my mom up for a while, but once that wore off, she was more down than ever, shuffling around the house in her slippers, no makeup, her hair a disaster. She carried tissues in the pocket of her bathrobe and made a big show of dabbing her nose with them every so often. Eventually, my dad came up with an idea. “You want Panamá?” he said. “A beach is the closest thing you’re going to get.” He hustled us out the door and down the street, where we took a chain of buses for an hour and a half to Cape Henlopen in southern Delaware. It was snowing when we arrived—Enrique kept complaining that the snow was going to mess up his beloved Adidas sneakers—and everything was so colorless and barren that it looked like the moon. I had to hand it to my dad, though.
directions:using the themes graphic organizer as a guide, answer the following question: identify a theme from the excerpt "the book of the unknown Americans" by Cristina henriquez. provide evidence from the story to support answer.
Answers
GPT-4o mini
**Theme:** Identity and Belonging
**Evidence:**
1. The struggle with identity is evident in the narrator's feelings of being caught between two cultures. The narrator expresses uncertainty about their identity, stating, "I felt more American than anything, but even that was up for debate according to the kids at school who’d taunted me over the years." This highlights the conflict between their Panamanian heritage and their life in America, suggesting that their sense of belonging is questioned by both their peers and themselves.
2. The parents' contrasting views on returning to Panamá further illustrate the theme of identity. While the mother is excited and nostalgic, reminiscing about her homeland and the memories tied to it ("You know how it smells? The air there. And seeing everyone again. Please, Rafa."), the father's reluctance to return suggests a different understanding of their identity and place in America. He prioritizes stability and fears losing what they have built in the U.S. ("He knew—we all knew—that he was on the low end of the food chain. He could be replaced in a heartbeat.").
3. The ongoing internal and external conflicts culminate in moments when the family discusses their heritage and participation in the events around them. For instance, the narrator reflects, "They think we’re Americans now. And maybe we are! Maybe we don’t belong there anymore after all." This statement encapsulates the struggle of finding belonging in an increasingly uncertain world, illustrating how their identity is influenced both by external perceptions and their own experiences.
4. The holiday season, particularly the feelings of homesickness expressed by the mother, underscores how the characters navigate their sense of belonging. The mother's melancholic state ("shuffling around the house in her slippers, no makeup, her hair a disaster") and the family's collective misery during this time reflect how their longing for their homeland exacerbates their feelings of disconnection from their current life in America.
Overall, the theme of identity and belonging in "The Book of Unknown Americans" is woven throughout the characters' experiences and interactions, illustrating the complexity of immigrant identity and the challenges of reconciling one's past with the present.
**Evidence:**
1. The struggle with identity is evident in the narrator's feelings of being caught between two cultures. The narrator expresses uncertainty about their identity, stating, "I felt more American than anything, but even that was up for debate according to the kids at school who’d taunted me over the years." This highlights the conflict between their Panamanian heritage and their life in America, suggesting that their sense of belonging is questioned by both their peers and themselves.
2. The parents' contrasting views on returning to Panamá further illustrate the theme of identity. While the mother is excited and nostalgic, reminiscing about her homeland and the memories tied to it ("You know how it smells? The air there. And seeing everyone again. Please, Rafa."), the father's reluctance to return suggests a different understanding of their identity and place in America. He prioritizes stability and fears losing what they have built in the U.S. ("He knew—we all knew—that he was on the low end of the food chain. He could be replaced in a heartbeat.").
3. The ongoing internal and external conflicts culminate in moments when the family discusses their heritage and participation in the events around them. For instance, the narrator reflects, "They think we’re Americans now. And maybe we are! Maybe we don’t belong there anymore after all." This statement encapsulates the struggle of finding belonging in an increasingly uncertain world, illustrating how their identity is influenced both by external perceptions and their own experiences.
4. The holiday season, particularly the feelings of homesickness expressed by the mother, underscores how the characters navigate their sense of belonging. The mother's melancholic state ("shuffling around the house in her slippers, no makeup, her hair a disaster") and the family's collective misery during this time reflect how their longing for their homeland exacerbates their feelings of disconnection from their current life in America.
Overall, the theme of identity and belonging in "The Book of Unknown Americans" is woven throughout the characters' experiences and interactions, illustrating the complexity of immigrant identity and the challenges of reconciling one's past with the present.