The issues of 2020 were seemingly, even before we knew it, packaged neatly into a one-year-long debacle. The virus acted as the first domino to fall in a long line of other issues. The world, having suffered through isolation, was perfectly primed for the unrest and hate that came in the following months. Fortunately by November, election results and hope of a vaccine slightly tempered the air of disunity in exchange for quiet holidays at home.

It has been nice, if not cathartic, to place blame on 2020 for all of these issues, when in reality, 2020 had nothing to do with it. The world turned around the sun the same way that it always has, rotating and tilting with precision for, in 2020’s case, 366 days.

In the delusion we constructed for ourselves, our problems could remain neatly intact and bound to 2020–a mentality that “2020 sucks” but that time always moves on. There was a sort of unspoken promise with 2020 that, when it passed, so too would our problems.

We find ourselves now in 2021, just one day older and few problems resolved. We can no longer displace the blame on 2020, because our issues outlasted it. 

I heard more than a few people ring in 2020 saying, “this is my year.” Ironically, it was no one’s. We now recognize statements like these as inappropriate and tone-deaf; in truth, they always were.

Here’s to hoping that 2021 is our year: a year of recovery, of change, of intention.

Didion said it better than I ever could: an unassuming disposition has its perks.

I’ve had a baby face, since I was--well, a baby. I got older and grew taller, but my large eyes never shrank and my round face never lengthened. Having child-resembling features means that I automatically look much younger than I am, something that strangers remind me “you’ll be very grateful for when you get older!,” usually to back-peddle after they’ve just asked what grade I’m in.

Waiters handed me kids’ menus well into my adolescence, and I’ve had my ID rejected as “fake” on multiple occasions. When the local mall announced in 2017 that anyone under 18 would not be allowed to stay past 8pm, security approached me while working my retail job to ask me to leave. (The latter presented an especially awkward situation.)

The accumulation of these small instances jaded me over time. Passers-by meant well by offering to help me with simple tasks (to carry groceries, for instance), but my pride shot them down every time. My stubborn spirit would rather give them a “no thank you” and spill my eggs on the ground than confirm their suspicions about my small frame. I grew averse to accepting help, even if I needed it.

But my apparently helpless demeanor does provide some unexpected benefits. People can be easily impressed when I do something normal, like speak my mind, eat my weight at a buffet, or lift anything heavier than 10 lbs. 

I tend to think that if I must battle these assumptions, I best use them to my advantage. To be extremely unintimidating, absolutely approachable, “cute,” swings some situations in my favor. It’s easier to treat rules as suggestions if no one incriminates you for breaking them. This proved especially useful in journalism school. 

“Oh, I’m not supposed to be here? I’m so sorry. I’ll leave now.” I’ve said this many times while photographing something, somewhere I knew I had no business.

Other well used phrases: “I would really appreciate the refund. Is there someone else I can speak with?” And famously, “You’re right, I was speeding. I won’t do it again.”

Flattery and humility (whether genuine or feigned) go a long way in getting what you want, but a baby face does too. When strangers remind me that I should be thankful for looking young, they have no idea why I already am.

Most two-year-olds are unfamiliar with Ani DiFranco. But the 1990s punk-folk rocker enraptured my mom’s attention and consistently filled our car and living room with angsty music. Mom stuffed my ears with earplugs and, refusing to let a child disrupt her rockstar dreams, drug me to a DiFranco show, my first concert.

The musical influence on my life did not slow with time. I spent afternoons in elementary school watching my dad mix tracks on Protools and direct local bands in his sound booth. My father, basically a musical prodigy from birth, owned a record label and music studio in my hometown.

It seems reasonable to assume that my parents’ combined rockstar and sound engineer genes would result in a musically-inclined super genius. Instead, they ended up with me.

Even my physicality demanded an interest in music, as I certainly wasn’t athletic. My fingers, unnaturally long, are perfect for gliding across a guitar fretboard or spreading across octaves of a piano. My parents’ friends in the music community would almost always ask if I played an instrument or--even more absurd--if I could sing. I’d developed an unspoken game between myself and them, the adults. 

“No,” I would respond confidently, somewhat satisfied that I’d broken their expectation. It felt like a tiny rebellion, and it was a sure-fire way to end any boring conversation with the grown-ups.

In middle school I took free vocal lessons through a family friend. Aside from severe stage fright, I didn’t have a good reason not to try. I was more afraid to admit the fear than to face it, and my first performance was a disaster. Immediately prior, I’d hyperventilated and nearly fainted. The program director reminded me that I didn’t “have to do this.” But I did. My parents were musicians; I would be too. My sixth-grade self mustered through a rendition of Katrina and the Waves’ “Walkin’ on Sunshine” with extreme difficulty, and in a brand new Limited Too outfit, I battled through the longest four minutes of my life. 

Something, probably High School Musical, prompted me to attempt singing again a few years later. Half-expectant that he would recognize my undiscovered talent, I pressured my dad for studio time. He never offered me that record deal, despite recording countless karaoke versions of Vanessa Anne Hudgens’ solo in “Breaking Free.”

Realizing that singing would not be my life’s passion, I gave my vocal cords a break in favor of piano lessons from my dad. These sessions resulted in more time debating whether or not I’d practiced, an argument that’s easier to win with a non-resident instructor. The cycle merely resulted in a pile of unused sheet music, a dusty piano, and a building resentment toward creating music of my own.

Moving to college removed the exceptional influence, and pressure, of making music from my daily life. It reappears now only when I listen to my dad play the mandolin outside on summer nights or attend a concert of my mom’s rock cover band. 

While I can’t call myself a musician, I possess an intense appreciation for music, which I attribute to my parents. I have two blown-out car speakers, my favorite bands’ set lists and autographs, a growing vinyl collection, and carefully-curated Spotify playlists to prove it. Part of me is proud of my younger, defiant self, unwilling to accept the “expected” identity of my parents’ friends, yet I cannot deny how instrumental it still is in my character.

Spend more than five minutes in any airport, and you’ll hear a woman’s voice over the intercom calmly warning you against unattended baggage. When a young man requested that Alyse and I keep his bag while he stepped outside of the JFK airport to smoke, it raised a red flag in both of our minds. 

We declined, reluctant to engage in any small talk, but he asked where we were headed.

“Pakistan.”

“Oh,” he replied, weirdly. “You know, people tell me to be safe, but I won’t tell you that. God will keep me safe.”

This man was shorter than I am, muscular, Korean-American. He wore a backpack larger than his whole body and sported a snapback and bro tank--not exactly the criminal-type, but his vibe caused us to be suspicious nonetheless. 

“I’m going to India,” he said without any prompting. “I’m going to find myself.”

“Is it a one-way-ticket situation?” I asked. I figured that would sound at least more flattering than a trite “Eat, Pray, Love situation.”

“How did you know?,” he asked with a stern glare. He looked at me like I had just caught him committing a crime. “Are you following me?”

I surveyed his appearance in greater detail (in the event that an account to the police would be necessary in the future) and noticed that he had a spray can of electronic coolant in his backpack. I didn’t know what that was, but it seemed unusual.

We made three attempts to alert airport personnel to double security check this man. The first two airline staff members said, “talk to the pilot” or “we’ll look into it,” obviously complacent.

By the time we spoke to the flight attendant, we’d built him up as a terrorist in our heads. Our panic increased over time, and the impending 15 hour flight with him intensified our worries. 

“He’s um--short--and Asian.”

“Asian like me or Asian like this?,” the sassy flight attendant asked, making an offensive gesture with her eyes.

“Asian like--East Asian!,” I replied, unable to replicate her politically incorrect gesture. We may have been physically on US soil, but American cultural norms were already obsolete.

I found it difficult to indirectly explain my concerns to the flight attendant. How do I say “I think this guy might have a bomb in his backpack” without sounding rude?

She found him almost immediately. Alyse and I watched her signal to us behind his back as she followed him into the aircraft. She came around moments later and said “I think he’s okay. He’s just weird.” I appreciated her directness.

We settled into our seats for the next 15 hours and heard nothing from or about the strange backpacking man. En route, I realized that what I thought was a spray can of electronic coolant (surely a dangerous substance, if it does exist) was actually a cooling towel, something that, Alyse explained, athletes use at the gym. It wasn’t until the last few hours of the flight that the man reappeared right beside Alyse.

“So how is your flight going?”

“Um. Good?”

“What have you been doing?”

“Sitting.” She was clearly not participating. 

The drink cart made its way down the aisle, so he lapped the airplane to return for another talk. This time he knelt beside her seat, clearly getting comfortable for a longer chat.

“How’s your flight been?,” Alyse asked flatly. She averted eye contact by busying herself with an interactive map of the flight path on the screen in front of her.

“Productive.” I found this answer to be vague and bizarre. Productive in your evil scheme?

He made another lap around the plane, as he fully blocked the aisle now. Other passengers surely sat squirming, waiting for their chances to finally access the lavatory. While he’d left to make space for the incoming garbage cart, Alyse and I decided that he must be in love with her. He was not an assassin--just bad at flirting.

The backpacker made another appearance, and this time reached over Alyse to turn off her screen. He may have intended to be smooth, but Alyse found him more annoying every moment. This audacious move could only precede an even bolder question: “What’s your purpose in life?”

He’d blindsided us. While we wanted to say “to make you go away,” we just sat in silence and exhaustion.

“Well--I’m just reading this book,” he said, revealing a book the size of a dictionary, A Man Thinketh. “Do you believe that we have free will?”

After another awkward silence, he volunteered, “I believe in Jesus. Do you have a good relationship with Jesus?”

At that moment, it all became clear. This man was not a terrorist, nor was he making horrible attempts to flirt with Alyse. Instead, he knelt beside us on this flight to Abu Dhabi in order to convert us to Christianity, a religion we’d both already accepted.

“Yes,” Alyse responded for both of us. I said nothing, too dumbfounded for words. This man was not a criminal, nor a player, just an evangelist.

“Then my work here is done,” he said chipperly, immediately standing up to leave. “See you in Heaven, I guess.”

Alyse looked at me and whispered, “hopefully not before.”

I decided one evening to spice up the small talk around our family dinner table and breached the topic of interracial marriage. 

“You’re not interracial,” my mom replied.

I almost dropped my fork. Emmanuel and I looked at each other, unsure of what to say.

“Mom, we literally are.”

“I mean--you are a little bit, but not really.”

I wanted to unleash years’ worth of anecdotal proof, but her comments were well-intentioned. I joke at times that she loves him even more than she loves me, her only biological daughter. Emmanuel took the reins instead and stated the obvious: I’m white; he’s not.

While my mom certainly knows that I’m white and understands the definition of race, she was not recognizing that our differences run much deeper. The fact that, after a week on the beach, we might look nearly the same color, is irrelevant. It is our cultures and racial experiences that have made all the difference.

It would be incorrect to ignore the effect that our skin colors have on our lives. Our education, housing, healthcare, citizenship, and even social opportunities started as distantly as possible on the spectrum of availability. What has impacted us more so, however, are the cultural differences that accompany our races. Cuban culture is especially unique in that it borrows from both African and Spanish tradition, resulting in a beautiful Afro-Carribean blend of values and traditions. When I met Emmanuel just after spending five months in Peru, I thought I was more than prepared to enter into a white/Latino relationship. Experiencing, through him, the diversity of culture within Latin America both jarred and humbled me necessarily.

To my mom’s credit, it’s deceiving on the surface. Emmanuel speaks English perfectly, wears vintage sweaters, shoots 35mm film, and listens to Tame Impala. We share many of the same interests and preferences. Those factors, however, make him no less Latino. He also wears Aeropostale flip flops around the house, washes all of our dishes with ultra speed, stays listening to salsa music, eats rice with every possible meal, infinitely values his family, etc. It still amazes me how he manages to hug every single person in almost every room he enters. (Disclaimer: I’m aware that these stereotypes do not represent every Latino person or country, but I use them as examples of the culture that I have witnessed. Plus I think they’re cute.)

Our internal differences were especially pronounced while dating. We responded differently during meal times: I’d never ask for food at his house, whereas he felt welcome to treat mi casa as su casa. For our first official month of dating, I gave him a belated card, and he showered me with thoughtful gifts--so much so that I ultimately asked him to pare down his generosity.

Even I underestimated, and still do at times, the effect that our cultural heritage has had on our worldviews, values, personalities, habits, and everything else. It is pronounced in obvious ways, like when I’m clingy at a family event because I need a translator, and in those more discreet, like the way that we process emotion within our families. In dating and marriage, it has meant and will mean constant compromises from both of us.

He must extend grace when I can’t shake my American individualist attitude, or even more commonly, when I walk into a room of Cubans and forget to kiss someone’s cheek. (Admittedly, this happens often. And as someone who’s really into personal space, I can find it uncomfortable.) I must understand when Emmanuel invites himself into a friend’s house or speaks too directly when asking for a favor. (We’ve had at-length discussions about the importance of  “softening phrases” in English, like “possibly,” “maybe” or “would you mind if.”)

These differences and compromises are real and true and deep. We see them manifest daily. There have been times that I resented our differences and wished that we could think or act more similarly. But compromising makes us better. It makes us more empathetic and adaptable towards other people and, strangely, more unified together. Thanks to Emmanuel, I understand a piece of the world a little bit more, a privilege no upbringing could have afforded me.

The way that Emmanuel and I trudged through the Dana Valley in Jordan, you’d have thought we were climbing up a mountain at a 90 degree-incline. In reality, we were walking entirely downhill for eight miles.

I’d championed the idea, and Emmanuel went along with it. He’d sigh and say, “I can’t believe you convinced a Cuban to do this,” between long breaths. What he really meant was, “I told you this would be miserable.”

Just when the hike became not only exhausting but also monotonous, we found ourselves face to face with wild sheep. There were at least one hundred, plus a few mountain goats. Beyond the wildlife, we caught a glimpse of two men, the sheep herders.

They waved, motioning us to join them off of the path. I hesitated but followed Emmanuel as he made small talk with them. By “small talk,” I mean there was very little talking and a whole lot of pointing.

“Sheep,” Emmanuel said, motioning to the sheep.

The herders nodded. “Good.”

It is amazing, though, how much is communicable without words. They somehow asked if we wanted tea.

We sat down, while the two men began their preparations. One made a fire from dirt and sticks; the other took out a teapot and various ingredients from his bag.

I gave Emmanuel a side glance, hoping, like the Bedouins, to say as much as possible with few words. Apparently he was a master of non-verbal communication. I looked at him again, motioning with my eyes towards their stash of items.

“Emmanuel, they have cocaine!!!,” I wanted to yell. I could not believe he’d missed the small bag of white powder lying plainly in front of us.

My panic intensified, especially as the men proceeded to pour their mysterious powder into glasses.

“He must just be playing it cool,” I thought. “I’m sure we’ll make our quick departure any second.”

But to my surprise, Emmanuel took the glass and drank it.

“WHAT. Is he blind?!!” I was planning our exit.

Emmanuel passed the glass to me, and I shook my head with fervor. I finally whispered, “No!” and drew his attention towards the sketchy ingredients.

“You want it without sugar?,” he asked innocently.

I hung my head. Still skeptical, I reached for the glass, smelled it, and tasted the sweet black tea.

The herders thought it a good time to keep us entertained. One presented a flute and played the loudest, most dissonant noise possible. I could never enjoy such random notes together, but it was—quite literally—music to that man’s ears.

The situation was so strange at this point, I felt that I must actually be hallucinating. I managed to crack a joke about “falafel shawarma,” take a selfie, and exchange WhatsApp information before we said our goodbye’s.

We set out for five more deserted hours of hiking before reaching the end of the trail. At some points we found ourselves so tired that we were sure we must have been drugged after all. In the end, we figured that if we made it the whole way, it was probably just sugar. 

It’s difficult to decipher when trust is earned and when fear is warranted. In the middle of an empty trail, where the only other life that exists is in the form of a sheep, I would normally be more cautious. But this moment reminded us that the world is not all bad, that sometimes people want more than just money, that it’s possible the sheep herders’ only goal was to share hot tea and an experience under the desert sun.

This is a contextual & situational list of words I have collected so far: 

• cabello (hair): firmly noted after accidentally complimenting a woman on her "fur" instead

• pare (stop): don't at a party (I attribute this one to Pitbull.)

• gringa (female foreigner): a word often paired with a blank stare or creepy grin

• billetera (wallet): searching fervently for my cash and cards after this was stollen

• altura (altitude): because Peru's mountain landscapes are unmatched

• enferma (sick): no one is immune to at least one bout of food poisoning

• falso (false): unknowingly attempting to spend a counterfeit bill

• respirar (breathe): when you're on a train so tight that you just can't even

• camote (sweet potato): I need another order, obviously

• costo (cost): negotiating for just one more alpaca sweater

• no te preocupes (don't worry): running late? No worries! We're on a Peruvian timetable

• pastilla (pill / chewable tablet): after the phrase "a pill for to eat" did not translate well at the pharmacy

This list is extensive but not exclusive. I'm certain that my subconscious retains more words cada dia (everyday). But in the learning process, I've come to value even more the stories that help me remember them.