by Susanne Gross

I am a Jewish/Catholic, Hungarian/Russian, Colombian/Irish American woman. How's that for PC terminology? I wasn't raised with any of these cultural influences -- save for some extraordinary meals and great music. Only a deep seated curiosity about where the hell I came from and why I didn't relate much to the extended family members that I knew of -- until two weeks ago when I went to Colombia and met the "other" side of the family. Not too surprisingly, what had been kept from me for my own good provided me with many answers to life's questions and a sense of connectedness to my roots. It all came down to family and the realization that where we come from really matters in understanding who we are.

My family history wasn't exactly a forbidden topic of discussion. Rather, it was simply considered unimportant information. All of my questions received thin answers and an accompanying shrug that said, "Oh Susanne, why do you need to know this stuff, why is it important?" At times my mother's actions crossed the line and showed some sort of denial. I remember coming home from grade school with the usual endless amount of beginning - of - the - school - year forms and asking my mother which ethnicity box to check. She said, "Susanne, you are Caucasian. You are always Caucasian."

When I was eight, I literally discovered that I had family other than the my father's side in New Jersey. My parents had decided to bring my maternal grandmother and my mother's sister and her son to the states because of the "situation in Colombia." I assume it was about politics, but who knows. From out of nowhere, lengthy long distance phone calls were made from the other room, and I heard Spanish being spoken in my house for the first time as they went about making travel arrangements. I can recall the day they arrived, down to the minute detail that they smelled like wool, coffee and spices. Much different from the sea salt breeze of the ocean that I had only known. I loved them on sight, but the point is that up until that time, I had no idea they even existed. But this is how it is in my family. No secrets in the formal sense, just total mystery about how life evolved to the point at which my sister and I were born. All I knew was that my parents met and were married and we traveled around the world and settled in Key Biscayne, Florida when I was four. I never understood why my father's side of the family showed love for my mom, but definitely harbored deep seated resentment of her, or why my mother literally despised her mother. One summer my Grandma opened up and painted the picture of a non-practicing, yet still very Jewish, family coming to terms with the fact that their second son had announced his engagement to a Polish Catholic woman. In the midst of this discussion a telegram arrived from my father in South America. A telegram stating that their eldest son has already married a 17-year-old Catholic Colombian woman whom no one has ever met. Passive chaos and stagnant fury evolved into resigned acceptance over the years for the sake of the family as a whole. Although, when I pulled this story out of my Grandma, she told me that my father had introduced my mother as "a beautiful woman who came from a prestigious Colombian family." She paused and added, "Yeah, that and a dime will get you on the subway."

My mother's shame and bitterness about her own bizarre upbringing prevented her from sharing any of it with me. She felt cheated from the inheritance she was entitled to because her mother had decided to use it. Moreover, she felt that knowing would make me feel insecure and think less of myself. Ironically, not knowing my family story did exactly that. I love the fact that my mother's mother had been an eccentric and wealthy woman who was married and widowed three or four times, that she bathed in milk so her skin would shine, speaks five languages, spent a lot of her time either spending money or figuring out ways to get more (all of which she partied away until there was nothing left). I think its amazing that my mom is incredibly well educated despite the fact that she was provided with only two years of formal schooling. I love that my mom escaped an arranged marriage and that my parents got married two weeks after they met. There are more stories but I don't share my mother's shame about them. To me, these stories give character and flavor to life and are what make families unique. They also provided me with a sense of self, a connection to my blood roots. Knowing made me understand so much more about myself.

When I met the family that had been quasi-kept from me, I felt like how I imagine a person would feel when they meet their twin for the first time. The fabled missing link to the hows and whys of my life. The pieces fell together when I looked into the faces of my Colombian family and saw myself. I finally met people who resembled my mother, who shared my passion and excitement for life, and who had similar expressions and mannerisms. The first time I danced to a cumbia, I just knew the steps. I jumped on a horse at my uncle's farm and I just knew how to ride. Spanish flowed out of my mouth almost effortlessly and I picked up local mannerisms without even noticing. In and of themselves, these are pretty regular experiences. However, growing up, I had instinctively known that I could do these things, but I had no reasoning for this knowledge. The connection was made, and I finally knew where I came from and where my roots lie. I have never before experienced such a catharsis of enlightenment, understanding and, finally, peace. I had come home.