Grace tap-danced across the living room’s parquet floors in her black top hat, bow tie, and dance uniform.

I stared, marveled by her new talent.

She had just started lessons, and I already thought she was so good. But I wasn’t jealous. Rather, I was proud to be her younger cousin. Proud to be part of a family that had so much talent.

I bubbled with excitement about when it’d be my turn to share my talent.

Un aplauso por favor, my older cousin, Gretchen, said, mimicking Don Franscico, the host of our favorite Saturday Night talk show, Sábado Gigante.

Grace took her bow and I jumped up, asking her to join me for my turn in the family talent show. I cleared my throat and pressed play on the VCR, the Disney Sing-A-Long tape cued to exactly the right spot.

“I’m gonna be a mighty king, so enemies be ware,” Grace began (it was her turn to be Simba, afterall).

“Well, I’ve never seen a king of beast with quite so little hair,” I replied, mimicking the voice of Zazu.

And back and forth we sang, urging the ‘crowd’ (our parents) to sing along during the chorus, until we finished to cheering. 

Later, I watched Gretchen braid her jet black, straight hair and gingerly apply her makeup. I daydreamed about the day when I’d be old enough to get dolled up that way. 

Would I be as pretty as she is? As popular? (Because, obviously, she must be popular. If I thought she was cool, who wouldn’t?!). 

It was there, in my aunts’ 2-bedroom apartment that my weirdness and nerdiness didn’t matter. My pink-rimmed coke bottle glasses and crooked incisors didn’t make me stand out. 

In fact, those walls held space for all the character that we children–and even the adults–could muster. Our bold and boisterous personalities melded as seamlessly as the arroz con pollo in the pot.

It wasn’t weird that I spoke Spanglish, and the varying shades of our skin tones didn’t make any one of us an outsider. 

It was understood: that’s just how family is–everyone a different shade, different hair texture, a different quirk. 

My cousin’s green eyes were beautiful, and so were my brown ones. I never once thought about wanting to trade. 

I hadn’t yet learned to dislike the texture of my hair. 

I didn’t have hips to be embarrassed of. 

My lack of athletic ability wasn’t the center of attention. 

Unlike at school, weekends with my cousins focused on what I did offer rather than all the things I lacked.

Even though one of my cousins and I would inevitably end up bickering until the adults told us to callar, I always hated to leave.

Being around them reminded me of being home. The place I actually felt at home (not the house that we called home), surrounded by family that were friends.

People who loved and accepted me exactly as I was.

Where I felt seen and understood.

It’s been three decades and I can still remember every lyric to that song.

If I take a breath and close my eyes, I can even watch the sing-a-long tape play in my head. 

I can feel the comfort and joy of those weekends together, weekends when my sense of self was at ease. 

How I wish I could bottle the confidence of those moments. Preserve it in a bottle for when I find myself wading through self-doubt and second-guessing. Hold it close when I’m stuck…

Searching for memories that were too quickly replaced by a longing to fit in.

This piece is part of a 21-day writing challenge on exploring belonging.