Mangia: learning to love and eat like an italian
LATIN, LATINO, LATINA, AUTHENTIC, WRITING, WRITER, MEMOIR, PUERTO RICO, PUERTO RICAN, BORICUA, JEWISH, CULTURE, BIRACIAL, MUTT, MIXED RACE, RELIGION, NYC, NEW YORK, COVID 19, LOCKDOWN, QUARANTINE Marie Myman LATIN, LATINO, LATINA, AUTHENTIC, WRITING, WRITER, MEMOIR, PUERTO RICO, PUERTO RICAN, BORICUA, JEWISH, CULTURE, BIRACIAL, MUTT, MIXED RACE, RELIGION, NYC, NEW YORK, COVID 19, LOCKDOWN, QUARANTINE Marie Myman

Mangia: learning to love and eat like an italian

Italian Sunday Lunch. There’s no way this isn’t going to be a big deal. Do I expect a scene straight out of the Sopranos — men in the finest Sergio Tacchini tracksuits and Carmella’s homemade lasagna steaming on the countertop? No. This is Italy. Real Italy. Not Jersey.

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Poem: A Study in Priorities
LATIN, LATINO, LATINA, AUTHENTIC, WRITING, WRITER, MEMOIR, PUERTO RICO, PUERTO RICAN, BORICUA, JEWISH, CULTURE, BIRACIAL, MUTT, MIXED RACE, RELIGION, NYC, NEW YORK, COVID 19, LOCKDOWN, QUARANTINE Marie Myman LATIN, LATINO, LATINA, AUTHENTIC, WRITING, WRITER, MEMOIR, PUERTO RICO, PUERTO RICAN, BORICUA, JEWISH, CULTURE, BIRACIAL, MUTT, MIXED RACE, RELIGION, NYC, NEW YORK, COVID 19, LOCKDOWN, QUARANTINE Marie Myman

Poem: A Study in Priorities

Are you too / certain that / underneath the gelatinous muck is / a mass?

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Mixed-Race Mutt: Growing up a Jewish Puerto Rican in New York City
LATIN, LATINO, LATINA, AUTHENTIC, WRITING, WRITER, ESSAY, MEMOIR, PUERTO RICO, PUERTO RICAN, BORICUA, JEWISH, CULTURE, BIRACIAL, MUTT, MIXED RACE, RELIGION, NYC, NEW YORK, CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES Marie Myman LATIN, LATINO, LATINA, AUTHENTIC, WRITING, WRITER, ESSAY, MEMOIR, PUERTO RICO, PUERTO RICAN, BORICUA, JEWISH, CULTURE, BIRACIAL, MUTT, MIXED RACE, RELIGION, NYC, NEW YORK, CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES Marie Myman

Mixed-Race Mutt: Growing up a Jewish Puerto Rican in New York City

Puffing out his chest with pride my older cousin meticulously ties the corners of the flag around his neck. “Boricua Man!” he shouts to the crammed subway passengers, his breath cloaked with the bitter smell of Bacardi. “Yo soy Boricua Man!” he bellows triumphantly, throwing his arms over his head and pretending to fly around the laughing commuters. My cousin isn’t the only one who is drunk on the early eight o’clock train for the parade. Old Puerto Rican men with leathered skin clutch open beers in their hands as they pin fold-up chairs in between their large stomachs and arms.

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