As my mom pulls into my grandparents driveway, nine hours of failed brainstorming and sleeping finally come to an end. I groan as my parents collect their belongings to bring inside the old familiar house. I slowly pick up my computer, finally putting some of my attention towards it. I was supposed to write my essay in the car, but I mainly just “brainstormed” while watching the traffic going up North get progressively worse. This would’ve been a fun Christmas holiday if I wasn’t assigned an essay about, “Nostalgic memories.” I usually look forward to leaving North Carolina to come up North and enjoy a festive holiday filled with Puerto Rican traditions like, listening to reggaetón, eating flan, pasteles, and tostones, watching sports and playing card games, and overall spending time with my family, but instead I have this heavy weight on my shoulders. I simply couldn’t figure out what to write. I mentally previewed all the memories I could somewhat remember from when I was a kid, but nothing gave me that spark. As I hold my computer in hand, I walk up to my grandparents house. I open the already slightly cracked door and head up the stairs. As I walk up each stair the smell of the pernil gets stronger and the sound of salsa music gets louder. I walked past the second floor, where my tio and tia live and headed straight up to the third floor, where my grandparents lived. I pushed the doors open to the third floor and I’m immediately greeted with food scattered on the table, Puerto Rican flags hanging from the ceiling, El Gran Combo blasting, my family playing games, watching Spanish game shows, and my cousins running around and playing. I head towards the living room to greet my abuelo, who is in a deep slumber on the couch after putting up the Christmas lights on the outside of the house. My abuelo is a very humble, kind, loving man, who left Puerto Rico to make a better life in the Bronx, New York. I set my computer down on the table, then lightly tapped his shoulder, causing him to jolt right up. He saw me and smiled. 

“Oh my goodness, Hola Kendall, how are you?” he says in his broken English. 

“I'm good.” I say as I start to take a few steps back, walking towards my other family, allowing him to rest again. 

I greet my Tio Frankie, who is married to Titi Margie. Tio Frankie is my favorite uncle, he is sweet and super funny. Titi Margie is the middle child to my grandparents and has four children, Elyse, Dana, Victor, and Kassie. Elyse has four children as well, her two oldest children, Jaeden, and Madison. Jaeden is two years older than me and Madison is one year older, but we’re best friends since we’re all so close in age. The younger two Gabriel and Kyla, are also very close to me, but since they’re so young the connection isn’t as strong. Dana now has a son, who is slowly learning our long lasting family traditions. Victor has four children, just like his sister Elyse. There is Marlena, Savannah, Jada, and him and his wife's now three year old son Grayson. I am close to them as well, but not as close as I am to Elyse's kids. Her kids have always been my best friends, we did everything together. And last but not least, Kassie. Kassie is the youngest child. She wasn’t married and didn’t have kids, but I always bonded with her through movies and board games. As I go around the living and dining room I continue greeting my family members, while scanning for what foods have been made. I then enter the kitchen where my abuela is cooking. I mentally take note that Arroz con gandulez (rice and beans), potato salad, pernil (pork), lasagna, apple pie, cookies, escaveche (plantain salad), green salad, pastelitos, ham, Spanish flan, and coquito (Spanish eggnog) have already been prepped. My abuela quickly senses I’m in the kitchen and she turns around smiling at me. 

“Aye mira quién está aquí (Aye look who 's here).” She says, while holding her arms out signaling for me to hug her. 

As I hug her I catch a quick glimpse of a small bowl of lipton soup right by the stove. She pulls apart from the hug, flashing me a sweet smile, then quickly turning around to attend the food in front of her.

“I made you your favorite sopa.” She says, while gesturing to the bowl of lipton soup. 

“Gracias abuela.” I say, as I grab a spoon to start eating the soup. As I am eating the soup, I am reminded with the memory of the first time my abuela introduced this soup to me. I was a toddler when she first handed me a bowl of lipton soup. Ever since then I’ve fallen in love with soup. Every time I’d go to my grandparents house I’d immediately ask for “sopa”, specifically lipton chicken noodle soup. The most special part about it though, is that the salty chicken broth and the swirly noodles always tasted the same. As I was finishing up my soup I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and was greeted by my Titi Iris. She is the oldest daughter of my grandparents. She is also a very classy lady. 

“Hey!” She says, while pulling me into a tight embrace. 

“You’ve gotten so big since the last time I saw you.” She mumbles, while letting go. 

I giggled hearing these words from her, she seemed to tell me them every time I saw her.

“Your mother wanted me to give this to you, she knows you need to complete that assignment for school.” She says as she hands me my computer, which causes me to remember my assignment. 

“Thanks.” I mumble, before grabbing my computer. I grab my bowl and put it in the sink. With my computer in hand, I head down the hall and into my moms old room. I shut and lock the door in an attempt to block out the noise of my family, the music, the tv, and the disturbance of my little cousins running in and out of the room. I laid on the bed and opened my computer. I re-opened my essay tab and stared at the blinking cursor. A single thought couldn’t come to my mind. I just kept staring, hoping the computer would automatically start writing for me. Time started to go by and I still hadn’t written anything. I turned my attention to the ceiling, now not focusing on my computer. I just stared. My mind started to race, due to the stress of the assignment. I was starting to sweat. My curls were starting to stick to my forehead. I suddenly snapped out of my trance when I heard a knock on the door. 

“Who is it?” I asked, slowly sitting up. 

“It's your mom and Jaeden.” 

I got up from the bed and unlocked the door, allowing for the both of them to walk into the room. 

“How is the essay coming along?” My mother asks me, while closing the door and standing against it. 

“Terrible, I can’t come to terms on what I should write.” I say, as Jaeden and I walk over to the bed, taking a seat beside one another. 

“How come? We have plenty of nostalgic memories.” Jaeden replies.

“Yeah, but nothing gives me that spark. Everything seems to be the same as my friends. The same childhood Christmas stories everyone and their mother have experienced." I say, rolling my eyes in annoyance thinking about the basic stories everyone shares.  

Silence. No words were shared. 

Jaeden then suddenly says, "That's the thing, you don’t see a spark in sharing our Christmas stories because it reminds you of all your southern classmates, but we’re different. Sure everyone is going to be writing about a favorite Christmas of theirs, but ours is unique. You forget that we’re raised in a Puerto Rican household. This comes with many different traditions. Your Christmas story would be interesting, because nobody has the same experiences as you.” 

I just look at him, processing the deep words he just shared with me. 

“He is absolutely right. You should write about Puerto Rican traditions. Write about our family. Explain how our Christmas traditions have been passed down from generation to generation. Talk about Abuelo coming to the Bronx, New York, and giving each generation an opportunity to spend Christmas with family, in this beautiful three story home. Talk about the salsa music always playing on one of the speakers. Mention every conversation about baseball and soccer. Speak about your cousins and the games you guys play, how you guys always sit in your designated seats, how you kids used to run up and down the halls and stairs. Include our pajama exchange and opening gifts at midnight.” My mom proudly exclaims. 

“You can even write about Abuela's cooking, each individual dish she makes. Write about all of our tios and tias. Write about your dad and how he gets to tag along on the tradition, even though he is Jewish. And don’t forget to add the part where abuelo decorates the outside with exotic christmas lights, while abuela is cooking, and while we’re hanging up Puerto Rican flags. Oh and how he comes right back in and immediately falls asleep to a Spanish game show playing in the background.” Jaeden says with a laugh. 

“See, all you needed to do was dig a little deeper and think outside the box. These are all such great ideas. Show pride in being Puerto Rican and getting to live all these experiences.” My mom quickly adds on. 

The pride and joy of speaking about our family traditions hangs in the air for another moment. 

“Well Jaeden and I should probably get going so you can quickly write, but don’t take too long, we should all spend time as a family.” My mom says, while signaling for Jaeden to get up. 

I nod my head and wave goodbye as the two of them leave. I turn my attention back to the computer. The door then opens again.
“Don’t forget how much we end up regretting not taking pictures at the end of each holiday.” Jaeden says, peaking his head in the room and then quickly closing the door. 

I chuckle at his true words. I now stare at the computer full of wonderful ideas. It hit me that the best pride in the world is being Puerto Rican and enjoying the traditional family holiday. So, before I start writing about my unique, nostalgic Christmas, I get up to open the door. I catch a glimpse of my family playing games, running around, watching tv, and eating. I smell the delicious food and hear the loud music blasting. I didn’t need to take a picture of this memory to know it was a great, prideful one, all I needed to do was soak in the feeling and be who I was, a proud third generation Puerto Rican who lives on the mainland.