To be a stereotypical Puerto Rican, there’s an unofficial universal background one must fall under. You must have a big family that is closer than close, yet there must be some leeway for those new primos (cousins) you seem to meet annually. You must represent Puerto Rico wherever you go, whether it’s by playing beloved Rican artists such as Marc Anthony or slapping on a bumper sticker of the traditional flag. But most importantly, to be a stereotypical Puerto Rican, you must love to eat.

Don’t get me wrong, my homeland has some of the most unique and mouth-watering dishes known to mankind. I do enjoy consuming many of the main courses such as Pernil (pork shoulder) and Bacalaíto (dried and salted cod fish fritters), but there was one mandatory side dish that I couldn’t get behind growing up. It’s white. It’s grainy. It goes beyond the word moist and comes packed with a terribly soft bite. It’s rice; the single cuisine that made me lose validity with my culture and race.

The first time I realized rice wasn’t for me was when I was six. I was sat at the dinner table with all of my cousins at our Abuela’s house, awaiting for her to be done with preparing the meal for the evening. While we all tried our best to keep our hands to ourselves and not blow bubbles into our cups of chocolate milk, our grandmother was gyrating her hips back and forth to the sound of Elvis Crespo’s “Suavemente” as she effortlessly stirred an absolutely ginormous pot of arroz y gandules (rice with pigeon peas and pork). My Abuela had made this dish countless times before and I was always willing to consume it without any hesitations, but on that particular day everything somehow changed.

As my Abuela made her way over to the table with the giant, metal pot in her hands, the first thing that turned me off was the smell. Maybe it was the various spices from the sofrito sauce, or perhaps it was the olive oil that swam beneath the grainy particles. But, whatever it could’ve been, it did not suit well with me. I watched in horror as she dumped a more than generous helping onto my plate with a twisted smile on her face as if she had poisoned the food herself. Staring at the mountain of rice and beans in front of me, I shakingly gripped my fork and scooped up a few pieces of the foul smelling dish. Inhaling deeply, I hesitantly shoved the fork in my mouth and as if in a blink of an eye, my face was scrunched up in disgust and the barely chewed up rice was spit back onto my plate.

For a while, my family members considered my rice phobia to be some sort of phase. I remember they would often force me to sit at the dinner table all by myself for hours until I would finally choke down a mere three bites of the mushy substance. It wasn’t until I was about 8 or 9 that my immediate family finally started to accept that rice just wasn’t my thing, and for that I was eternally grateful.

But, it was the holidays and vacations to the island that really made my dislike for rice turn into a shameful, guilty feeling. I would enter my great aunt’s home in San Sebastian, Puerto Rico and dread to see the look of shock and disapproval as I shy away from the pot of arroz (rice). I remember sobbing to my father whenever we would visit an elder’s home or visit a family friend of Puerto Rican descent because I knew I’d be judged mercilessly for refusing to consume rice.

I didn’t expect people to understand my distaste for the grain based meal. In fact, I never really understood it myself. Not liking rice turned me into a taboo among those who shared my culture. Whenever I was out in public with one of my Titi’s (aunts) or Tio’s (uncles) and we’d run into one of their peers, I’d almost always get introduced as “the skinny one who doesn’t eat right.”. There were so many nights I would stay up and pray to God that I would somehow miraculously develop a tolerance for rice so that I could just find some sense of belonging.

It wasn’t until I entered my pre-teen and early teen years where my self loathing for not liking rice turned into pure rage towards my entire culture and their customs. I would converse with my friends who were of different ethnic backgrounds about their flavorful likes and dislikes and would be in total awe at the fact they could talk so casually about something I got ridiculed for. As I started to become exposed to new cultures and experiences, I started to question why I was born into one that was so judgmental and rude over the simple fact I didn’t stick to the status quo with cuisine. I went from desperately wanting to belong, to haplessly wanting to distance myself from a group of people who we’re supposed to accept and love my unconditionally.

But, everything did a complete 180 when I was fourteen and my Abuela fell horrendously ill. It was if one day I was sitting in her bedroom watching telenovelas together and the next I was hovering over her obnoxiously tiny hospital bed bidding her farewell. My entire family went ballistic at the fact that our beloved matriarch had departed us and they all decided to band together in hopes to find some sort of strength. Yet, for me, her death opened up a cave of internal emptiness, one that was much bigger than the pitiful depths I felt with my own identity, and I had no strength to try and attempt to fill the void.

For about two months, I completely isolated myself from the world. I would only bother to leave my room to go to school, to eat, or to use the bathroom. It wasn’t until I reluctantly agreed to go eat at a new Latin restaurant with my father that I got a change of perspective. As I carelessly mumbled my ordered and sipped my Coke a little to quickly, I noticed a little girl at a table across from mine who was happily plowing through a plate full of simple rice and beans. My eyes fluttered shut and for a few moments I felt as though I was back in my Abuela’s kitchen on that day my body decided it didn’t like rice. Only this time, everything was how I had always wanted it to be. I savored in the sweet aroma of the various spices, and my tongue danced along the pungent, but exceptional combination of the moist grains and the tough beans.

When I opened my eyes, my father stared at me in dismay as to why I suddenly was so flustered. Too emotionally overwhelmed to explain to him my out of body experience, I excused myself to the bathroom to try and catch a grip as to what had just occurred. Staring at the ladies’ room stall door, I realized that my flashback wasn’t just about the rice, it was about my culture. My upbringing. My surroundings. My life.

For so long, I had focused on only the negatives I had around me and not on the positives. When we weren’t eating food, my family and I had great talks about my education, friends, past memories, and even politics. I knew if I ever needed anything from a ride home, to a jail bond, that they were all just one phone call away. Sure, they made me feel like garbage for not fulfilling the stereotypical Puerto Rican lifestyle, but they still loved me for me.

Putting things into present tense, today I actually occasionally eat rice. Primarily, it’s when I'm a friend's house or a restaraunt and I don't want to be rude and refuse the offer. I can firmly say that it still isn't fully my cup of tea, but I can eat if I have absolutely have to. Whenever I eat it now though, I think about how families are like rice. They’re made in so many different ways, and there may be some methods you don’t particularly enjoy. But, at the end of the day, they leave you with a mushy, warm feeling that always leaves you wanting more.