“Daniella” was written in white on the green chalkboard in the section reserved for names of the misbehaved. It was 1989 and a late afternoon day in Mrs. Manne’s kindergarten class, where the shades were drawn to hide the brightness of the spring sun. Her classroom was two rooms over from the side entrance of Woerther Elementary — so very close to the blacktop playground where I used recess to daydream about flying cars and the future. At five, I was precocious, packaged up in a big-eyed, ochre-colored bundle of curiosity and imagination, with waist-length dark, curly hair wrapped up in a braided ponytail and a crooked-toothed smile.

Mrs. Manne wore purple eyeshadow that brought out the wrinkles around her eyes, highlighted by a hair sprayed dark bob that I imagined hadn’t changed in nearly a generation, from when she taught my older brother 23 years before in a one-room schoolhouse — and she doubted my mother’s assessment of her son’s learning skills. You could still smell the stale cigarette smoke through her floral perfume that wafted through the air whenever we left the classroom and she led us, her wide bottom swaying from left to right as we followed behind her in a straight line like ducklings after their mama.

As I looked at the board from my desk on that day, I felt perplexed and frustrated. The different clusters of desks in the room had all little white girls and white boys with names like “Kimberly” and “Emily” and “Sean.” Except for the two Black girls in my class — Anika and Minitra. They were part of a regional public school desegregation program, which launched in 1983 — the same year I was born — as a condition of a federal lawsuit settlement. In that moment, my five-year-old self was having an existential dilemma, a decade before I would even know what that was.

“That’s not me, Mrs. Manne,” I blurted aloud. “You misspelled my name.”

I watched in what felt like slow motion as Mrs. Manne went back to her grading book to check how my name was spelled. She walked to the board, angrily erased the extra “L” and added a checkmark next to my name for speaking out of turn. I could feel the heat rising through my body as my brows furrowed in anger because of the unjust punishment. Then the warmth spread to my cheeks as I looked around the room. I was filled with shame and embarrassment for correcting my teacher.

“How am I wrong for being right? Am I bad?” I wondered to myself.

The world I was raised in was a radical departure from the one my Puerto Rican-born parents came from. In 1967, my parents left Brooklyn’s mean streets for St. Louis. They later found themselves in Ballwin, Mo., where they bought a two-story house with white siding, a two-car garage, a green lawn and space for each of their children to have a room of their own — something they always wanted growing up but never had.

Ballwin was the epitome of the idealized American dream: middle-class, quality public schools, and safe subdivision neighborhoods. The American dream was also white. Very white.

In the 90s, a little under 22,000 people resided within Ballwin’s borders. Twenty-four of them were Puerto Rican. That meant my six-person family made up a quarter of its Puerto Rican population. Blacks and Asians together made up just 1.4 percent of the population. While I didn’t know these stats growing up, I knew no one else’s parents spoke Spanish or came from a house that smelled as garlicky as mine or had a mom who wore tight jeans and high heels to every classroom party and parent-teacher conference. No one had a name like my own — even outside of Ballwin. For most of my childhood, we were the only “Velazquez” in all of St. Louis’ Yellow Pages.

People came from all over the world to learn English in St. Louis, because of the natives’ enviable unaccented accent, a perfectly bland blend of American diction and enunciation. Growing up, I was obsessed with fitting in and trying to make my family follow, especially when it came to grammar. My mom moved from Puerto Rico to Brooklyn when she was 2; my dad when he was 12. Mom had a Nuyorican accent, while my dad sounded like he came from the island. Both talked in ways that embarrassed me. Conversations at home would go like this:

“Moommm, it’s sandwich, without a “g.”

“That’s what I said. Sangwich.”

“I don’t understand why you just can’t say anything right!”

The list went on: “Man-go,” not “Mahngo,” “Vacuum,” not “Viycuhm,” and the constant enforcement of no double negatives. Only later would I learn that double negatives are grammatically correct in Spanish.

I kept my tweenage assimilation dream going as I went from an elementary school classroom of 29 students to Selvidge Middle School, where I fell in love with dark colors like navy blue, hunter green and burgundy — the opposite of my mom’s tropically bright (and tight) clothing. I shopped at Old Navy and had an obsession with all things Eddie Bauer, including a $50 fair isle-style, short-sleeved polo shirt that I proudly wore for school pictures, smiling while curling my top lip halfway under, so they would appear thinner in my photo.

In eighth grade, I was still thinking of all the ways to blend into Ballwin. I ran for student class vice president by using a campaign strategy fueled by self-deprecation. I made several signs with my slogan written in colorful, bubble letters:

“Vote for the Name You Can’t Pronounce.”

Unfortunately, middle schoolers didn’t share my novel sense of humor, and, well, I lost that election. I took my teen angst and bruised ego and moved on, still feeling that sense of wanting to blend in, knowing I still stood out. I didn’t meet another Puerto Rican until high school. Nikki was wealthy, popular, had long, dark straight hair and an easy-to-pronounce, two-syllable last name. Her mother was a former Miss Puerto Rico that still turned high school heads. There was never a sisterhood. I wrapped up my unbelonging in awkwardness and moved on.

Or so I thought.

The 1990s Latin Explosion came to the pop charts and all of a sudden Puerto Ricans were everywhere. In between the boy bands on MTV, I watched Ricky Martin shake his hips in tight leather pants as he sang, “Livin’ La Vida Loca” and Jennifer Lopez suggestively gyrate her booty to “If You Had My Love” in my suburban living room. I was no Jenny from the Block.

Daniela from the ‘Burbs didn’t have a Bronx accent or high heels. My family and I ended up in St. Louis because of another “Latin Explosion” I was never taught about at my public school. My parents (and probably J. Lo’s too) were part of the “Great Migration” from Puerto Rico to the U.S. in the late 1940s and early 1950s. At least 300,000 Puerto Ricans moved to New York by 1953. The genesis for this exodus started in 1898 when the U.S. annexed what they called “Porto Rico” after the Spanish-American War. The natives of Boriquen (what Puerto Ricans call their beloved island) were granted U.S. citizenship in 1917, paving the way for many Puerto Ricans to deploy as troops into World War I. The Great Depression, World War II and the boom of the air travel industry created the factors for the movement from the island that brought my parents to Brooklyn when they were children.

Seeing these celebrities on TV inspired me to start asking questions about the land my parents came from, why they chose not to speak Spanish and how I too could be both Missourian and Puerto Rican.

But, first, back to my name. No one told me I’d been misspelling it. Sitting in my AP Art History class my junior year in high school, studying the renowned 17th century Spanish painter, Diego Velázquez, I noticed the accent mark on his last name. Wait, that was my name too, right?

When I got home from school, I started peppering my dad with questions. “Our last name has an accent? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why does no one use it?”

My dad just shrugged. The truth was, he didn’t think twice about dropping it when he moved from Puerto Rico at 12. In his Spanish schooling on the island, the accent was a part of the alphabet. On the mainland, it was not. He worked hard to learn English in his new, cold concrete home of Brooklyn. As the first one in the family to go to college, he pursued a different life from the rest of the Puerto Ricans he knew, who were often compelled to drop out of high school, usually spending the rest of their lives doing manual labor for minimal wages. If leaving the accent on his name behind was the price my dad had to pay for his dream of a better life, spending his days in an air-conditioned corporate office for a yearly salary, so be it.

With this newfound knowledge of my name, kindergarten Daniela was back. I insisted that the first “a” in my surname be spelled with its proper accent. I started using it on everything, all my papers and assignments. For graduation, I insisted on having it on my high school diploma. They made it look like Klingon. It read: Daniela Vela’Zquez.

I felt a certain indignity to it all: was it really that hard to figure out? Was that little accent more complex to spell than the assortment of hearty German names like Schmidt, Schneithorst, Heuermann and more that were so common in St. Louis? That would be the first of many times explaining to people how to spell my name, starting with the day I stood in a third-floor office at Marquette High School behind our class secretary, instructing her step-by-step how to use Microsoft Word’s “Insert Symbol” feature.

Step 1: From the Insert tab, click Symbol.

Step 2: Choose the symbol that you want from the drop-down list.

Step 3: In the font box, choose the font you are using, click the symbol you want to insert.

Step 4: Select Insert.

Step 5: Cultural competence and accuracy achievement unlocked (on paper).

That accent mark was a symbol of my awakening. It was like the seed of the diaspora sprouting in front of me. What greater acknowledgment than to show up in how we determine our identity, by name. It was my duty to plant my authenticity and recognition of where I came from no matter where I went. It appeared on my University of Missouri college diploma, took shape on every business card, materialized in the signature of each email I sent. As a newspaper reporter, I showed the copy editing desk at each news outlet how to insert the accent, just like I did in high school, reminding them that the accent moved like an 45-degree incline, as much as it felt like an uphill climb just to get my proper byline.

Velázquez, spelled with an accent over the “a”. That accent has served as a reminder of my family’s origin story, of the people who came before me. Living in a world that routinely ignores these nuances is a marker of the oppressively invisible state of whiteness. Choosing to embrace my heritage is a sign of the privilege I have to stand up and stand out.

Radical is being who you are. As children, authenticity is instinct. The lesson my teacher taught me was that I was entering a world that would try and mold me into who it thought I should be. Radical is seeking the truth of our human existence. Radical is remembering who we are, time and time again.

You can buy a copy of “Radical: An Unapologetic Anthology By Women & Gender Non-Conforming Storytellers of Color,” co-edited by Nicole Shawan Junior & Chanel Glover on Amazon.com.

That’s what I told someone here in Mexico City the other day.

I was following advice I received before leaving St. Louis: practice speaking Spanish, no matter what. No matter how I thought I sounded, or whether or not I conjugated the verb correctly.

The consejo was a wrench in the heart and brain for me, a recovering perfectionist. My entire professional life rests on my ability to understand grammar, context and nuance. None of which I currently possess in the Spanish language.

I wanted to come to a Spanish-speaking country for exactly this: no more excuses. I needed to adapt. I needed to learn.

So, con gusto, I’ve jumped right in — speaking my broken Spanish at every turn, with as little perfectionism as I can muster. My hope each time is that the person I’m speaking to will provide me grace and have patience with a dash of sense of humor.

It also means I fail every day. That’s how I accidentally called my friend a hat, instead of awesome.

“Tú eres asombrero!”

“You are a hat!”

(A sombrero = a hat. Asombroso = Awesome.)

Getting out of my comfort zone has been simultaneously liberating and anxiety-inducing. It’s refreshing to not have to know everything and to have the luxury to simply learn, listen and observe. I don’t have to be an expert or know the historical context of a situation.

I also feel more vulnerable in my daily life. As an anxious overachiever, there’s a part of me that’s terrified to not do anything well. The reality, however, is that doing something new usually means doing it badly before becoming better. Every day, I find myself facing a choice: Do I want to learn and fail? Or do I fail to learn?

Lately, I’ve been embracing my failures with humor. I’ve started a list of my most hilarious language mishaps:

“Mi amigo y yo vivimos en el mismo cuaderno.”

“My friend and I live on the same notebook.”

(Cuaderno = notebook. Cuadra = street block.)

“Cuando estábamos en el restaurante, pedimos anteojos.”

“When we were at the restaurant, we ordered eyeglasses.”

(Anteojos = eyeglasses. Antojito = Mexican snack food.)

“Estoy gozando tú compañía.”

“I am enjoying your company.”

(Except in México, the verb gozar does not mean a friendly “enjoy.” It refers to, uh, a distinct sexual act.)

With each failure, I become more resilient and more confident in my ability to communicate — in any language, in any situation. When I was a reporter, I loved going out on breaking news assignments because I had to think quickly, be brave enough to to talk to anyone, and, then, somehow make sense of everything and write a story. In our modern world, it seems that there’s less time for spontaneity because we’ve scheduled our lives into agenda-filled, 15-minute increments.

A former yoga teacher of mine used to say, “There’s a reason it’s called a practice, not a perfect.” She was describing how we often get stuck in fear and anxiety and forget that we just need to show up — whether it’s for yoga class or for life.

The only way to get good at something is to make it a habit, a practice. In the meantime, I will just keep on practicing failing so eventually I’ll be able to tell a joke in Spanish. On purpose.

So, as we say in the U.S., “What had happened was…”

As magical México would have it, my friend and neighbor from St. Louis planned a trip to visit his family in Juárez de Oaxaca, a quaint town known for its gastronomical delights, abundance of mezcalerias, and all-around artsy vibras.

During my first few days of my extended weekend trip, Alejandro and I walked around the colonial city, taking photos with the brightly-colored casas and edificios in the background. I met his family and friends, and really, really tried to love mezcal as much as I love tequila. At this beautiful, high-end, art deco-meets-tropical bar called Selva, a mixologist specially made a custom mezcal cocktail for me. In between outings, I worked remotely from my hotel.

When I travel, I like to leave room for both spontaneity and activity. (I also have an innate fear of being somewhere I don’t know and being bored. Blame my Gemini-ness.) On Saturday, I had booked a hike up to La Cumbre de Ixtepeji, a stunning, mountainous and wooded region outside of Oaxaca in Región Sierra Norte. It would be the peak (pun intended) of my trip — then the next day I’d fly to Puerto Escondido, a beach town in the state of Oaxaca, about 140 miles from the city of Juárez de Oaxaca. I’d stay until Tuesday and then fly back to CDMX.

Ixtepeji is in one of México’s richest zones of biodiversity. The region, with 400 species of birds and 350 species of butterflies, is a gorgeous eco-tourism spot that feels as if you found yourself in an earthly version of “Where the Wild Things Are.” The paths are slim and steep. An assortment of tall trees provide a gorgeous backdrop for rolling, greenery-filled hills dotted with brightly colored, wild flowers and an assortment of cartoonish mushrooms in a hazy, wet cloud. It’s almost pure wilderness. There is no cell phone service. (This detail becomes important later.)

The mountain’s 1,600-foot elevation had Pandemic Daniela, who is not in nearly as good shape as Powerlifting Daniela, huffing and puffing all the way to La Cumbre. When I got to the top, I was shivering as my sweat seemed more wet on the cooler mountaintop. We were about halfway through the 10-kilometer/6-mile hike — but the descent was a different kind of strenuous — running down parts of trails commonly used by extreme mountain bikers, including one named “Double Stroke,” after a biker had two strokes following a crash into a tree.

In the final 1–2 mile stretch, the rain cascaded on top of us from the clouds above. I had put on my rain jacket, but it was no match for the downpour. At the time, I felt great. “This is what being alive is all about!” I exclaimed to myself as I trudged through the muddy trail. “This is what you wanted to experience!”

An hour later, I felt like a drowned rat. Sitting in a mountainside cafeteria, I tried to warm myself up with hot atole, a pre-Columbian drink made of corn and cinnamon, and soup. I reminded myself that the shivering, uncomfortable cold feeling is also part of life — I should be equally grateful to feel it, though I was keenly aware of my wet socks and soppy hiking boots and daydreaming of a long, hot shower.

I had booked the tour through an adventure travel agency. Our party of four — the guide and two other solo travellers — had met at the adventure tour shop early in the morning. The guide had driven us up through the mountains where we stopped for breakfast, then hiked and then finished up our lunch. I took my single, leftover chicken taco to go — para llevar — at this rustic mountain eatery, that meant I was carrying a taco wrapped up in a piece of pink construction paper. It looked like a taco-sized, homemade telescope that a child would use for pirate cosplay.

As we were talking on the ride down, I was chatting with one of my fellow hikers, a powerlifter-CrossFit-yoga teacher-graphic designer from the Netherlands, who was traveling through Mexico by herself. She told me about a Dutch expression that she thinks about often:

“We suffer more when we fear the uncertainty of life — and life is always uncertain. We do better to accept it than to suffer from worry.”

Just a few minutes later, I finally had cell service again. A flurry of text messages in Spanish came through from my hotel:

“Hola, this is the hotel. Today is your check-out date. At noon.”

“We can hold your things until 2 p.m., but if it’s after then, we will have to clean out your room and pack up your things to prepare your room for someone else.”

It was 3:15 p.m.

I immediately replied. “Is there another room available?”

“No.”

“Well, I won’t return for another 45 minutes or so.”

I sat in the car, with these three strangers riding down from the mountains on the way back to Oaxaca, half laughing to myself and half wondering: “WTF? How did I manage to not book the right amount of days?” “Do I try to explain everything?” “And what am I going to do with this taco wrapped up in paper?” It was slowly becoming more and more limp in my hand. “Maybe it’s still edible?” I had another three-quarter-mile walk back from the tour shop to the hotel and I was, as they say in Spanish, empapada — soaked.

I calmly got out of the car, said my goodbyes and started to trek back to the hotel in my mud-covered socks, damp leggings and wet sweatshirt. Then, I just had this feeling that I needed to come back to Mexico City as soon as I could. The past few days, I’d tried no less than six times to book a return flight from Puerto Escondido to CDMX — the internet timed out a few times and the website rejected my credit card twice. I had managed to reserve a seat but had to find an ATM and pay for it en efectivo (cash) before 5 a.m. The trip just felt all wrong.

Still holding the taco, I walked back to the Oaxaca hotel. I cancelled my hotel reservation for Puerto Escondido and told myself that a hot shower was on its way, followed by decisions. I could always book another room somewhere if I changed my mind.

Two blocks away from the hotel, it started to rain again. My first decision was that my leftover chicken taco was no longer appetizing, so I tossed it. I clomped a little bit faster in my hiking boots through the cobblestone streets and made my way to the hotel lobby. All my things were behind the front desk.

“Do you need a recommendation for another hotel?” The receptionist asked, before she gave me an additional bill for the maids packing up my things.

“Uh, no. I’ll find something.”

I quickly checked to see if everything was there (it was), used the restroom (after all, I’d only had the forest all day) and started searching for a hotel room. I hailed a taxi (no Uber in Oaxaca) and made my way to Las Amantes (The Lovers). I figured I’d love myself with a nice room.

I peeled off my wet clothes and took the longest hot shower ever, put on the lovely waffle-knit hotel robe and laid down in bed. What to do about tomorrow? I had a non-refundable flight from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido, no hotel room or return flight, and a weird, anxious feeling that I should skip the beach.

So, I called my mom.

“Yo, Ma, here’s what happened (we laughed as I told her not to tell my dad, who would panic). I have this flight and this feeling. I have an important work presentation that requires a good internet connection and I just think I should not be down there this weekend.”

“You’ve always had a strong intuition, hija. If it doesn’t feel right, don’t go.”

There’s an apt Mexican dicho, or saying: Más vale decir, aquí corrió que aquí murió. Translation: it ‘s better to run than to die.

It basically means that when there’s a risk, it’s better to do what you need to do in spite of what others may think of your decision.

After I got off the phone, I booked my flight back to Mexico City for the next morning. I then took myself out to a fancy dinner across the street.

56 hours later at 8:47 p.m., as I was sitting in my Airbnb in CDMX working on my laptop, I felt the building start to move back and forth. Immediately, I was confused with the unfamiliar feeling. I stood up and realized it was not in my mind. The building was indeed swaying. I braced my legs, and felt my apartment rocking from side to side. I was almost in a meditative state, I could see the movement happening beneath my feet, as if my legs were connected through the building’s foundation to the earth. Then, there was a bright flash of light. The alarms started to sound and the dogs across the city barked, creating a cacophony of sonidos.

This was an earthquake. A 7.1 earthquake that originated 230 miles away from Mexico City, under Acapulco — and was felt much more near Puerto Escondido, the beach town I had planned on visiting before my intuition kicked in and I canceled the flight.

The truth is, I’m obsessed. (O, en español, estoy obsesionada). Before I left St. Louis, I’d fallen down the rabbit hole of my latest novela love, currently airing on Telemundo. “Hercai: Amor Y Venganza,” is a Turkish soap dubbed in Spanish, and I know full well that me and all the aunties are tuning in live at 8 p.m. CST to watch the never-ending storyline. There’s just something that’s so unbelievably entertaining about novelas: the ridiculous emotional predictability, illogical plots, the tears, the kisses, the lines that are so over the top they make me swoon. (Let’s be honest: they may provide real-life inspiration.)

I try to tell myself that this pastime is actually productive. In addition to learning the international language of love (*wink*), it’s also helping me work on my Spanish language skills.

And really, everything I needed to learn is there, right? Like these very important phrases:

¡Bésame! (Kiss me!)

¡No me toques! (Don’t touch me!)

¡Suéltame! (Let go of me!)

¡Váyanse! (Leave now!)

¡Déjame en paz! (Leave me in peace!)

¡Confie en me! (Trust me!)

¡Mírame a los ojos! (Look me in the eyes!)

¡Tranquila! (Calm down!)

Of course, in between the action, I’ve learned a lot of nouns too — which are also helpful when listening to canciónes en Español:

Venganza (Vengeance)

Odio (Hate)

Trampa (Trap)

Mentira (Lie)

Mentiroso/a (Liar)

Veneno (Venom/Poison)

Vibra (Viper — yeah, you know, like the Biblical brood of them.)

Lágrimas (Tears)

Poderosa (Powerful)

Dueña (Owner)

Armas (Guns)

…now let’s see how helpful these words are as I live in a Spanish-speaking país. Hopefully, the only drama I’ll find is in another novela or in an emotion-filled Juan Gabriel canción ranchera.

(September Mexico update: Hulu is not available here and thus I have not been able to follow Hercai for weeks. It probably is helping facilitate a real life.)

Como “Emily in Paris.”

Except my name is Daniela. And I work in public relations. And by ancestral inspiration, faith, and a little bit of moxie, I asked to live in Mexico City for three months. And the universe said yes.

Really. I woke up one morning in March and my first thought was: “I need to go to Mexico.”

“What?”

“You need to go to Mexico.”

“Que locura es esta?” I said to myself.

And so the adventure for the adventure started. I texted my friend, Diego, a Paraguayan native and my Latino Brother From Another Mother who always makes me work to get in a word during our fast-paced conversations.

“Go,” he said to me. “Learning Spanish is a game changer for you.”

Then, I started to think about it as I looked around my one-bedroom apartment in St. Louis. The knowledge I’d have my second Moderna vaccination in my arm by the end of the day emboldened me. The world was still WFH (working from home) with the pandemic, and, well, what better time to go than now? I didn’t know anyone in Mexico City, but I’d fallen in love with it when I visited in 2018. My phone plan worked. It was in the same time zone and the sprawling, cosmopolitan city had fast internet and Airbnbs to rent. What else would I need?

The truth is, I’d been dreaming about an international adventure most of my life, but just never had the guts — or ganas — to follow through on actually leaving for an extended period of time. And during the pandemic, I’d swapped my wanderlust for Spanish-language soap operas. It also helped me learn the language.

Last summer, I stumbled on La Reina del Sur, the hit novela that has inspired the English version of “Queen of the South” on the USA Network. Except Kate del Castillo’s version of Teresa Mendoza had way more gusto for me than the English version. She was raw, naively in love (been there, not with a narcotraficante, but…) and later found herself in danger. She was fierce and compassionate, even as she was fighting classism and the patriarchy. She took me to Spain, Morocco, Gibraltar — and I found myself learning about geography and culture I was never taught about in school. Teresa was successful because she did things her way.

During that time, I would take walks around Tower Grove Park in the summer evenings, listening to Latin pop music on my headphones, thinking about what if I were walking through the Bosque de Chapultepec, instead of TGP? What would it feel like? Smell like? What if those tropical looking-flowers could transport me to another place?

When I think about my wanderlust, I remember I am a child of the diaspora. I am connected to lands far away. I know that part of my life’s purpose is to reconnect to the language, the land and the traditions of the diaspora — including Puerto Rico, Latin America and Africa. My ancestors know this. In the roots of these cultures, it is understood that we stand on the shoulders of the ones who came before us. If we listen, they are here, trying to guide us with love and the lessons they learned so we don’t have to repeat them.

I recently learned my Abuela Lila had taken her pentecostal ministry to Guatemala in the 1970s. My cousin, Myra, lived in Mexico City for a couple of years in the 90s to work on her Spanish. And my sister took a six-month sabbatical to learn Spanish and travel across the Caribbean and Latin America in the early 2000s.

While my adventure may seem novel(a), I’m really just on track with my ancestral mission.

In short: I’d been dreaming about adventures afar. And yeah, they were inspired by some fictional chingonas. But as the heroine of my own story/novela/comedy-drama, I decided it was time for me to finally commit to learning Spanish, and taking the adult study abroad trip I’d wanted, but never knew how to make happen — or had the tetas to ask for — until this year.

Era como un leap de fé. Y por fin brinque.