Colombian Odyssey

But my parents also grew to love America. They became U.S. citizens. They gave their three children American names: Daniel, Lucy and Nancy. (In fact, I was named after Nancy Reagan because they liked Ronald Reagan, then a rising star in the Republican Party.) They have voted in every election, and, since September 11, 2001, they've had a bumper sticker that reads "God Bless America."

They had the foresight -- I say that given the anti-immigrant climate we are living in today -- to make sure that Daniel, Lucy and I learned perfect English by encouraging us to speak it to one another. The truth is, they didn't want us to be like them. They wanted us to get good educations, to not be teased for mispronouncing words, to not be passed over for jobs because we were not American.

They wanted us to be American. And we were, simply because they had made that journey to America and secured for us what they could never have for themselves -- birth certificates showing we were born in New York City.

I left my parents' home to attend Georgetown, a culture shock. Most of my classmates were white and upper middle class or just plain rich. There were many foreign students, but most of them had affluent parents back home financing their studies abroad.

I wanted to fit into this world. I lost my New York accent. I spoke Spanish only during my weekly phone calls to my parents. I threw parties where we sat around drinking beer and listening to the Dave Matthews Band -- and never danced, a fact that shocked my parents. I dated non-Hispanic boys who took me out to nice restaurants.

I grew increasingly detached from my parents, becoming annoyed when they visited me and wanted to sleep on the floor of my group house instead of going to a hotel as most of my classmates' parents did. I rolled my eyes when they couldn't pronounce my roommates' names. Why could they not say Kristin? Why did she always have to be Kristina? Why did they call Mitch Meech?

I graduated from Georgetown in 1998 and started making my own money, interning at The Post and later securing a permanent job there. I frequented Starbucks and shopped at Ann Taylor, drank chardonnay, ate halibut and stayed away from rice because low-carbohydrate diets were in. I bought, and later sold, a fancy loft-like condo in one of those new Logan Circle buildings. I hired a cleaning lady -- a Latina cleaning lady.

My transformation to yuppiness was complete.

So, whenever I am on the No. 42 bus, I think, yes, I am a Latina, but I am also an American. To be honest, for years now, I have felt more American than Latina. And I feel guilty about that. I feel that perhaps I have sacrificed my Hispanic self to become this person. The truth is: I don't feel Hispanic enough.

When those feelings surface, I think: Is this not what my parents wanted for me? They worked long hours in blue-collar jobs so that I could get a good education, have a successful white-collar career and live a comfortable life. Am I not the product of their American dream? Perhaps this trip would help me sort out my identity.

Something else happened to propel me to Colombia. Just four months before I landed in Pereira, I had found my live-in boyfriend in a hotel room with another woman, which prompted a period of self-examination. And this is what I realized: I had spent most of my 20s too preoccupied with my boyfriends, my job and my friends. Now, having passed 30, I wanted to make my family a priority.

But first I needed to understand my father's former life.