Where Do I Belong? The Pastelitos Keep Calling Me Home.
Strained
Personal essays by Caribbean Americans whose food legacies have been interrupted.
Jonathan Custodio, 26, moved to Washington, D.C. from the Bronx to pursue a reporting internship. The relocation pushed him to question whether his dreams were worth the sacrifice of leaving his Dominican food, culture and community behind.
Mom was playing merengue at full blast on a Saturday morning. This could only mean one thing: She had begun cleaning and, consequently, I was now awake to help her clean. Just outside our five-story apartment building in the Bronx, I heard dominoes slamming against a table. The men, just as boisterous, were equivalent to the pleasant chatter of birds.
My family arrived here from the Dominican Republic in the 1980s. They were part of a great migration of Dominicans fleeing economic and political turmoil following the assassination of Rafael Trujillo, whose dictatorship lasted more than 30 years. Currently, more than 2 million Dominican-Americans live in the United States. Nearly 900,000 of us call New York home.
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Despite its growth, the Bronx faces some of the highest unemployment and poverty rates in the nation. But you’d never realize that by walking down the street.
If you were to walk the block, you’d pass a barbershop and a bodega each filled with a tune of its own bachata or dembow. Walk a few more minutes, just across the University Heights Bridge, and you’d pass DisFruta – the eatery on West 207th Street and 10th Avenue that sells the best Dominican pastelitos.
my neighborhood – my Dominican identity
Not to be confused with empanadas, Dominican pastelitos are these mini-tortilla-shaped disks that are folded and stuffed with cheese, seasoned meats or vegetables, then sealed by crimping the edges together with a fork. The crispy crust complements their soft warm centers. But even DisFruta’s pastelitos can’t touch the ones my mom makes during the holidays.
On Christmas Eves I scurry down our narrow hallway, pass my mother’s bedroom, to get to the kitchen, where I swipe pastelitos and stuff them into the folds of paper napkins when no one is looking. The goods get quickly transferred to the pockets of my basketball shorts. One on the left, maybe two on the right. I make this harrowing journey several times until I am satiated. (As a side note: I’m 26 years old. I’m a grown-ass man, and yes, I still do this.)
I imagine having similar experiences here in the Bronx with my own family one day. But jobs for budding political reporters aren’t posted on windowsills next to bodegas and barbershops. To pursue my dream, I’ll have to leave – maybe never to come back.
Jonathan Custodio, far left, with his family in the Bronx on Christmas Eve 2017. Mr. Custodio started missing his childhood home and his Dominican neighborhood after moving to Washington, D.C. for a reporting internship in 2020. COURTESY | ILLUSTRATION, TOP, BY EMILY GALLARDO FOR ISLAND AND SPICE MAGAZINE
A reporting internship brought me to Washington, D.C., in January. My new address was in Ward 7, where I rented a room in a two-story house in an area west of Lincoln Heights. My neighbors spent their weekends in plastic chairs on their front lawns. Instead of Toño Rosario’s “Dale Vieja Dale,” there’s 2Pac's "I Get Around" wafting from the speakers. I went searching one weekend for something familiar, pastelitos.
I ordered from a spot that was supposed to be “the best Dominican restaurant in D.C.” I begrudgingly finished a pastelito with cheese. I concluded that there were no pastelitos in D.C. At least, none as good as the ones back in the Bronx.
I went to the barbers for a shape-up. There was no music, no TV (much less a Dominican talk show playing in the background) and no juice lady strolling in to sell classic beverages like chinola and morir soñando – a drink made with orange juice and evaporated milk.
Cravings for tostones and chicharon de pollo began to Intensify.
If I thought I’d find solace here in black brotherhood, that was quickly dashed, too. The barber, not familiar with Afro-Dominican hair, grabbed at my curls, even attempted to brush them.
I left the shop knowing I would never return. This was a domino effect of another kind. Old memories crashed into new realities.
Cravings for other foods like chicharon de pollo (fried chicken chunks) and tostones (fried plantains) began to intensify. I began searching for old-school bachata songs to try to fill the void. Before I knew it, I was sweeping the floor of my room while singing to the same songs that my mom would blast on Saturdays. I had never enjoyed those rhythms so much. I had never known I needed them so much.
The last domino to fall was just flat-out speaking Spanish. Opportunities were rare. Aproveché de cualquiera oportunidad de hablar la lengua.
It took one month for homesickness to take hold. Maybe I could be a reporter in the Bronx? Maybe I could open a publication in the heart of the borough? Maybe I was going mad.
My internship ended in May.
I took the three-hour Amtrak ride from D.C. to Manhattan, then hopped onto the 1 train and then transferred to 207th Street. Before exiting the station, I placed my bookbag on the platform next to my maleta full of clothes that still held the aroma of Ward 7 in their fibers. I could see my apartment building in the distance.
I crossed over the University Heights Bridge, passed by DisFruta, the bodega and barbershop. Maybe it’s time the Bronx got a daily newspaper.
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This essay was co-edited by Ramona Hernández, the author of “The Mobility of Workers Under Advanced Capitalism: Dominican Migration to the United States.” Dr. Hernández is director of the Dominican Studies Institute at City College of New York.
