What Makes Me
‘Too Latina to be Arab. Too Arab to be Latina. Too ethnic to be American.’ Valeria Ali explores the complexity of personal identity.
This work is part of a series of essays written by the Lede New Orleans’ Fall 2021 Community Reporting Fellows exploring the intersection of food, family and identity. The fellows are telling stories about food access in and around New Orleans this fall.
By Valeria Ali
It’s 2006 and I am 8 years old. It’s a cool, breezy day in November. The clock is just striking 5 p.m. I am standing at the door to my family’s tiny apartment in Kenner, welcoming tías and tíos, neighbors and friends as they start to trickle in. They hand me gifts, and wrap me with warm hugs and kisses. Then instantly and inevitably, the chattering guests smell the sweet aroma of freshly baked tres leches and follow it back to my kitchen where Mama Sonia, my Honduran grandmother, is making food with love.
Mama Sonia and I share a special bond on my birthday. She flew to the U.S from Honduras on the exact day I was born in 1998. She’s like a second mother to me. Mama Sonia settles the overly hype crowd and waves them away. “No está listo!” she says, her voice firm, but loving. “Bajanse!” Even then I knew Mama Sonia’s tres leches was the star of my birthday parties. Each November, she got out her notepad, packed with dozens of handwritten recipes collected over generations. Her libro de secretos, as my family called it. Mama Sonia would spend hours in the kitchen mixing the cream and condensed milk, the flour and eggs, all while singing along to Pedro Infante’s “Me Canse de Rogarle,” one of her favorite tunes. On this day, my humble birthday celebration is perfect. Laughter, the smell of freshly baked tres leches and Mama Sonia’s singing fill the room. La Lotería tablas are scattered over the dining room table. Guests shout in Spanish, rehashing the drama of politics and family lives back home in Honduras. I am 8 and I am at the center of it all, leaning into the conversations. Today, I own my Honduran roots.
It’s 2010 and I am 12 years old. It’s a Sunday in June and I’m riding in the passenger seat of Baba’s 1970s-era Cadillac. My parents separated eight years ago. Every other weekend my father comes to pick me up from mom’s house and take me out for a ride. Today, we ride around town with the windows down. The wind glides through my hair. An Arabic tune plays on the car stereo. “Where are we eating, Baba?” I ask, as if I’m expecting him to name a new restaurant. I know that we are driving to Lebanon’s Café on Carrollton Street in Uptown, as is tradition. Baba, who is Syrian, hasn’t found a place in the New Orleans area that serves authentic Syrian dishes. So we settle for Lebanese food, which uses similar ingredients: olive oil, aromatic spices and plenty of hummus. The food is delicious, so Baba and I have no complaints. Walking into Lebanon’s Café is magical, like being transported into another world. I’m immediately greeted by a young Middle Eastern woman whose smile is contagious. She calls me Nawal, which means gift in Arabic. Only she and Baba call me that. I feel accepted and a small part of me feels at home. More importantly, I feel connected with my father. I am 12 and surrounded by Arabic culture and food. I bite into my gyro with soft pita bread, lamb and garlic sauce. Today, I own my Syrian roots.
It’s 2013 and I am 15 years old. I’m going out with my two besties for a movie night at the AMC Theaters in the Elmwood Shopping Center. That is the place to be. It is where I can slip out from under Mama Sonia and Baba’s supervision and spend a few hours playing arcade games and gossiping about boys and celebrities. At the theater, I order a giant bag filled with buttery popcorn (free refills!!), a Coke and a chili cheese dog. Mama Sonia, Mom and Baba don’t like me eating like this. But they’re not here now. I somehow manage to gather my delicacies in my hands, and carry them to my theater seat leaving a trail of popcorn kernels behind me. The buttery smell connects me to giggling with friends, to that unsteady, butterfly feeling of leaving home and figuring it out on your own. I hear a whisper in the dark theater. “Pssst. Valeria. Pass the popcorn?” I smile. Today, I own my American roots.
It’s 2021 and I am 23. I’ve always struggled with my identity. I have always felt too Latina to be Arab. Too Arab to be Latina. Too ethnic to be American.
My mother is Honduran. My father is Syrian. I am a first-generation American. I have learned that there is so much nuance to what makes me me. I am still learning.
I live in a world that wants to put me in a box based on the food I eat, the way I look, the languages I speak and the people I love. But I don’t need your boxes. I need my family. I need my friends. I need tres leches on my birthday and a warm gyro on a Sunday afternoon. The familiar comfort of movie theater popcorn smell. I need to be connected to the past and firm in the present, rooted in community, but also aware that there’s a big world out there. I am here. I am Valeria Isabel Ali.
Valeria Ali is a Fall 2021 Community Reporting Fellow. Ali, born and raised in Kenner, graduated from Loyola University New Orleans in 2021. She is a writer, storyteller and marketing professional based in New Orleans.
Lede New Orleans is a nonprofit that trains emerging BIPOC and LGBTQ storytellers and equips them with skills and tools to tell the stories of communities in and around New Orleans often overlooked in the media. For more info on our mission and programs, visit www.ledenola.org.
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