“Where are you from?” a Spaniard once asked little 16-year-old me a few years ago. “You're not from around here”, he said. With my head up high I replied to him in my “bad” Spanish:
I am from the land where the sun rises dancing on Easter Sunday, a descendant of freed people, and a neighbor of the Caribbean Sea. I am from a place where it rains in summer and the daylight is even hotter in winter.
Where I come from you will always be greeted with a smile, offered fried fish, bun, sodacake, coconut bread, or rundown, and if it's end-of-year holidays you might even get some light cake, sorrel drink and beef soup.
I come from a place where we speak Creole, but also English, Miskito and Spanish—'cause that is also part of our heritage. Where I am from, we listen to reggae, soca, zouk-patua, country, mento and calypso, but also some Spanish tunes.
Where I am from, we dance Maypole, play landa, kitty ally and baseball, but we also play music, dance bachata, country and vallenato.
I am from the Caribbean gemstone, small in size but great in riches, where the water is crystal-clear and turquoise, always showering the white sand beaches that are so loved by many.
I am from a hidden treasure, a piece of heaven on earth, a place culturally and linguistically different, but still part of Nicaragua—and that just gives the country a better taste.
I am from the Corn Islands, a place like no other. A dream to many, but a place I can call my own.