My first few years in Doralzuela
This year more than ever before I have thought back to 2008: the year my family and I moved to the U.S--more specifically to Doralzuela.
My seventh birthday was rather bittersweet. I had my birthday party at my go-to movie theater in El Tolón in Venezuela. We rented a room to watch Horton Hears a Who on the big screen. Pucca decorations embellished the movie theater party room. My friends from elementary school came and even my friends from daycare (yeah that’s how popular I was at seven years old I guess). Both my grandparents were there. I remember my grandmother Vivi distinctly showing my friends pictures from my family's recent trip to Los Llanos where we had the chance to feed wild crocodiles. It was such a fun day, filled with gifts, sweet treats, and so much love from my family and friends. My memory of this event, however, has soured throughout the years. That birthday party, in the moment, was entirely joyful. The bittersweet nature of the memory came later–years afterwards in fact.
My family moved to the United States just two weeks after the party. That day was the last time I saw all but one of my friends from elementary school; it was the last day all my grandparents were together for my birthday and it was the last time I ever celebrated my birthday in Venezuela–my home country. At the same time, I didn't know what was going on. I knew we were moving to the United States but at that age, I did not grasp the emotional turmoil and implications of moving to a new country. In my mind, I thought we were just moving to Disney World (which was basically the only thing I knew about the U.S). I was also excited by the fact that my cousins Andrea and Keko were going to live near us. But besides that, I did not know anything else or frankly could not really understand or question what was happening. My sister, who was four at the time, even less so. Today, she does not remember what our life was like when we lived in Venezuela.
We officially moved to Florida, on August 9th, 2008. For my sister and me, it was all an exciting adventure. During our first week in the states, we stayed at my cousin’s house in Weston, which I saw as a week-long sleepover. After that, we moved to a hotel for a few weeks before eventually renting a house in Doral.
Before I keep going, I want to emphasize, as it’s already obvious, that my emigration from Venezuela was extremely privileged. My father requested a transfer at Autodesk and was moved to Miami, where we already had family and my parents' college friends nearby in Weston. Furthermore, we came in 2008–when the economy and politics was still somewhat “stable” and one could live comfortably in Caracas, Venezuela. My parents also already knew some English thanks to their education at one of the top universities in Venezuela–La Universidad de Simon Bolivar– and my mom’s semester study abroad at Georgia Tech in Atlanta. Additionally, the transition was easier due to the fact that there were so many Venezuelans in Miami. More specifically in Doral.
We didn't know it at the time but we were part of a movement that led to a cultural shift in Doral. The city was officially founded in 20031 and was, essentially, a work in progress when we got there. The emerging city of Doral eventually became known as Doralzuela due to its expansive Venezuelan population2
“The steady influx of Venezuelan immigrants to the United States has resulted in the creation of a close-knit community of these immigrants in the city of Doral, Florida, now nicknamed Doralzuela given the strong imprint Venezuelan have left in this city.”
- Blanca Romero Pino from her work: “Doralzuelan: an emerging identity of the Venezuelan immigrant in Southern Florida”
This was made all the more clear when I entered elementary school at Dr. Rolando Espinosa. I was enrolled in ESOL (english as a second language) program. And, that classroom was a magnificent transition. Half of my classmates were Venezuelan while the other students were from many other Latin American countries including Ecuador, Colombia, and Mexico. I made friends easily and did really well in school that first year (I got better grades my first year in the U.S than first grade back in Venezuela). I talked to my friends in Spanish, my teachers in Spanish, and could even get by going to the grocery store or ordering food in a restaurant in my home town with no problem even though I spoke very poor English (this is still the case in Doral even today).
Things got more challenging when I got to second grade and finally got out ESOL. My mother started to realize that I was not getting anywhere being in a classroom filled with recently immigrated students and a teacher who herself was also a recently immigrated Venezuelan. That first year at school did not exactly teach me a whole lot of English but it did make me feel like I never left Venezuela. My mom acknowledged the emotional benefits of this and enjoyed seeing me thrive in a new school. But she also saw that my English was not getting any better. That year I was getting high honor rolls and endless praises from my teachers but also could not utter a complete sentence in English.
So, my mom took me out of ESOL and placed me in a “regular” classroom. The classroom was completely different from what I knew. I came in and my Cuban-American teacher greeted me in English. She sat me down in table with three other students who all had their noses in a book. I came in right on time for morning reading period. I was automatically intimated by the kids around me. The kids next to me were reading “grown up” books in my mind. They were reading books with 50+ pages. With some pages lacking pictures even. At the point, I was still reading picture books. Heck, I had just started earlier that year reading picture books only in English. In first grade, I relied reading exclusively picture books, especially the ones that included both English and Spanish. It was only the first day of second grade and I felt already behind.
Unsurprisingly, my grades took a toll in second grade. But, it was needed. For the first time, I started speaking English with my school friends. I began reading chapter books. I became obsessed with the Dork Diaries series and books like Miss Daisy is Crazy. I started getting better speaking English, leading me to eventually start talking with my own sister in English.
Then came third grade and my mom decided it was time for another change thanks to my academic progress. I was put in a group of students for EFL: a bilingual-gifted program. In the years that followed, my mom came to regret this decision since I failed to fully fit into this new environment. I have come to learn now that my mom was pressured into switching me into this program. She didn't know any better. She was an immigrant who came to the United States and was overwhelmed by the variety of choices. The paradox of choice hit her. Not knowing whether to take my sister and I out of ESOL, having us test for gifted because that’s the thing all kids have to do in the U.S if they seem kind of smart, and whether we should enter this new fancy bilingual program.
Somehow, the impact of immigration hit me at this time; two years after moving to the U.S. In EFL, I felt different and alone. All the kids there were Hispanic but not they were born in the U.S. After all, the program was designed for students whose first language is english (EFL: english as a first language) but are learnt Spanish while growing up/ I already felt a difference. And this difference was also bolstered by the fact that all the kids knew each other from kindergarten and had been in the same class for four years already. I was in EFL for my last three years of elementary school and I felt alone all those three years.
During those lonely years, I turned to art. Or more truthfully fell into art. I joined after-school art classes and I fell in love with it. I loved to draw and paint. And I was kind of good at it. At the start of fifth grade, my art teacher told my mom it was the perfect time for me to switch schools and attend a magnet school. So, my mom signed up for a portfolio preparation program in fifth grade in preparation for my audition to South Miami Performing Arts Middle School. I went to weekly art classes—three times a week at least—and looked forward to them every week. I would get to see Jose, my first ever crush there. But the classes eventually became stressful. My art teacher would reprimand me when I did not do my art homework well enough or when I failed to make enough progress before the big portfolio deadline. I would cry as she yelled at me for my inadequate shading and my poor watercolor craftsmanship. My art teacher told me it was normal to cry but if I wanted to survive the art world, I had to be stronger than this. Why was an 11 year old child forced to turn something that they loved and enjoyed into something they could make them stand out? Something they could eventually use to their advantage and find success? My art teacher kept telling my mom “going to a magnet school will help her, it’s much better than the public schools in the area.” It was so confusing for my mom I can imagine. Faced with a clashing of cultural values, opposing information, and generational change. She was confused why I as an eleven year old girl would stay up till 11 PM working on my artwork.
During this time, my mom thought back to the educational system she grew up with. In Venezuela, according to my mother, one would remain in the same classroom with all the other students for all 12 years of school (from first grade till the last year of high school.) They would form a community with others in the class. The parents would remain friends. Everyone knew everyone's name. Everyone took the same classes. No one was “deemed” gifted. No one was deemed as the natural athlete who had potential to get an athletic scholarship. No one was deemed as a gifted actress who should pursue a premium education in theater. Of course, this created a new hoax of problems that my mother was well aware of. This essentially created a bubble and was the perfect recipe for group polarization. And this type of system is what strengthened the strong class divisions in Venezuela and in most Latin America. And let’s not forget it also, essentially, left those kids with a lot of talent with a lack of opportunity.
But, in the United States, I moved to a country that never stopped. Even though I had a peaceful transition and had a very privileged move, I was faced by constant change in elementary school. And this continued well on into middle school, high school, and college (but more on that later). I went from ESOL, to regular classes, to EFL, and then eventually left for an art middle school 40 minutes away from my hometown–away from Doralzuela. Was this worth it? I don’t know. Is the United States system better since it led me to reach my highest potential and go to an elite university? Or did it worsen the loneliness? Would the Venezuelan model have been better for me? I would have definitely grown up in more of a bubble, but I might have also experienced a tight-knit community during my early years—without the stress of staying up until midnight in fifth grade to finish an art project.
In my next few blogs, I will continue to explore my Venezuelan-American identity and continue this fun little reflection journey through my years in middle school, high school, college, and post grad. Stay tuned!
Love it 👍 feel so connected!
Me encanta haberte conseguido! Can't wait to read more