Dimitri Niko Ignazio Amendola

UWRT 1101
Jamie Burgess
El Alambre Fino a Casa
Like Nick Caraway at one of Gatsbys parties, I excused myself to the bath room to wash
my face ensuring I still looked presentable after the nights hurricane of events. Upon reentering
the room I stumbled over to the arm of a leather couch, where I sat down awkwardly to finish the
remainder of my drink. As the alcohol singed my esophagus, I began to scrutinize the act
unfolding before me, which was nothing more than depressing. The Colombian Salsa music
blared to the point where my eardrums cowered away in fear. Littered all across the small room,
Colombian couples danced to the music while an old man helplessly played the accordion. In
most circumstances I would be right up there on the dance floor making a fool of myself as
usual; however at this moment I was pissed, disappointed, and depressed. This event, this fiasco
before me, was supposed to be an enlightening experience revealing the truths of Colombian
culture. However it was nothing more than another party, one of those parties I was all too
familiar with. I began to feel hopeless. It seemed that every time I had asked a Colombian to
provide me with an authentic cultural experience it resulted in an entertaining yet worthless
occasion where I would end up hugging a plastic toilet seat, crying for forgiveness.
Despite all the wasted efforts I remained determined and optimistic. It would have been
shameful to conclude that Simon Bolivar liberated Colombia from Spain so that all the natives
could produce as a people and as a culture, were elaborate parties. So I decided to reorganize my
investigation of these flamboyant yet internally elusive people. I began asking ordinary North

Carolinians what was the first thought that came to mind when I said Colombia. Not to my
surprise almost all of the confused participants said Cocaine or Sexy Women however; some
did rant about how much of it was destroyed in the civil war by the burnings of General
Sherman, forcing me to painfully remind them that I was speaking of Colombia, South America
not Columbia, South Carolina.
The interviews I conducted on random bystanders revealed the sad truth about
Colombias reputation; it is forever flawed. Colombian Americans are constantly reminded that
their country is notorious for the lucrative yet global cocaine trade. As a Colombian American, it
is impossible to escape the white lines that have left a permanent sting, not in the nostrils, but in
the hearts of these optimistic people. Being Italian, I considered my experience with stereotypes
to be extensive. However, when I spoke to Colombians across Charlotte, it was apparent that
stereotypes about their community have left a visible scar across their emotional faces. This
scar permeates through the flesh where it rests painfully on their soul. Every interview I
conducted in the Colombian discourse community began with this painful reality.
To me, there is nothing more appetizing than the smell of freshly baked bread, and as I
entered the local Panera Bread, the nostalgia of having lived in Europe kicked in. But I was not
here to experience what could be considered a culinary orgasm; I was here to conduct an
interview with one of my peers who also happened to be Colombian. As I searched for the 510
olive skinned Colombiana I was pleasantly surprised to find her sitting down at my favorite
seat next to the fireplace. I greeted her with the typical, Scarlett its nice to see you again and
sat down comfortably after hugging the eager interviewee. Not to my surprise, Scarlett was quick
to assert her dominance during the interview Lets get the worst out of the way Italiano she
exclaimed as she winked Colombia is no doubt the worlds largest Cocaine producer but things

are much better now. Scarlett sipped her lemonade and then exclaimed We Colombians
alienate ourselves from drug dealers; its almost as if they are a different breed of people. I was
eager to move past the topic and swiftly changed the subject to more elusive matters. We began
talking about the different types of groups in Colombia. Scarlett made it very clear that she is
from Barranquilla, a coastal city south of the Caribbean. As a member of a globally recognized,
yet domestically fractured country myself; it was easy for me to understand how fragmented the
Colombian community functioned. The only thing that remains consistent across the expansive
country is, the tri colored, Colombian flag itself. Otherwise, the people, language, music, and
geography are extremely different.
This fact made it difficult to truly analyze Colombian Americans as a discourse
community. It seemed that Colombians cling very tightly to their local culture and dont think
much of a national image other than the recently successful Colombian soccer team. There is
however a fine string that connects Colombians as a community. Despite their proud differences
the multiple cultural groups in Colombia have the same structure of beliefs and passions. The
Colombian discourse community has a very clear set of common goals. After numerous parties
and countless conversations, it became evident that Colombians take pride in their ability to
entertain. I have never met a people so welcoming to strangers and so eager to be loved.
Despite my initial criticisms of their partying nature, it would be a disservice not to
regard them as the masters of festive occasions. On cold overcast days in charlotte Colombians
are eager to find any and every excuse to go out and party with their fellow Colombians.
According to Scarlett, it is a means in which the Colombian community holds itself together in
foreign areas such as charlotte. Having experienced these events first hand several times, parties
in a Colombian house hold are driven to the beat of the music. The music often reflects the mood

of the party. However despite their welcoming nature, an outsider would most likely feel
pressured to behave as they do.
Aside from the countless drinks and songs, the core of these parties is, dancing. Much
like the pistons in a combustion engine, the party cannot exist without dancing. Party, in their
vocabulary, is defined by dancing, as opposed to the ornament exchanges middle class, white
American housewives partake in. From my perspective, the festive event that always unfolds
before me is very intimidating. If you are an outsider, it would be recommended that you know
how to dance otherwise you will be sitting on the couch alone, taking another depressing shot of
aguardiente. Music is the Colombians most used form of communication. It surpasses all
linguistic barriers and sends a specific emotional message encoded in the various beats and
instruments. If you are not Colombian, it will take years to understand or even appreciate the
way in which they are attached to music. This being said, in conversations, the ability to recall
numerous songs is a trait widely respected by Colombians and it is one that I have personal
experience with. Having been on multiple Latin Dance squads across Miami and Charlotte, I
became very familiar with respected artists and genres. Following my knowledge I began to
notice that I received much more respect from the Colombian discourse community.
This is the catch, more importantly, the hidden truth about Colombians; despite their
welcoming nature, it is very hard to penetrate the cultural barrier that they hide themselves
behind. A conversation with an average gringo can only go so far. In some sense they are they
are the most welcoming hypocrites, as they hate unfair criticisms but relish in the opportunity to
discuss their isolated view on the world. In a normal discussion, Colombians often hide their
thoughts and ideas behind Spanish slang, as if viewing the world harmlessly from the clear side
of a one way window.

I always save the best for last and as I knocked on the wooden door before me, I would
be welcomed by a young couple whose names were, Zenia and Guido. As I entered their house, I
was immediately overpowered by the aroma which seemed to be a delicate mix of spices, and
vanilla bean candles from Marshalls. I ignored my urge to sneeze and sat down to begin my
interview. Before me, Zenia began telling delicate stories without notice. Soon after, I was lost in
words. She and her husband had taken me on a linguistic journey through the most intricate
workings of Colombian society. However the most memorable and enjoyable parts of the
interview were those of comical stories and family events. Zenia and Guido would tell stories
such as, During the rain seasons, large roads in Barranquilla would flood to the point where we
would sit hopelessly on the top of our car as the water channeled us down the street.
Overwhelmed with enjoyment and entertainment, I began to distance myself from the
conversation before me. There were no longer sounds, but pure clarity as their lips uttered words
of indirect sentimental clarity. I was in a moment of deep introspection, oblivious to the syntactic
structures unfolding before me. I began to feel the delicate but potent powers of nostalgia. It was
a pleasant pain, a twinge in the heart; with more meaning than any memories. It is the way the
Colombian people speak, the way they engage the emotions, which takes one to a common yet
confusing place; a place where, when removed, we ache to go again. It is the definition of Home,
a place we know we are loved. The Colombians in conclusion, are a discourse community
begging to be heard, and loved back.