Gallery of Human Migration Literary Award
2025 Honourable Mention
Awarded to the story
Twenty-Two Minute Car Rides: A Story of Identity and Home
Ana-Maria Posada-Borda
Total Reading Time: 11 minutes
Morning Anthems: A Colombian Heart in Montreal
“Colombia” is a word I first remember hearing on the radio every morning at 6:00 AM when my parents would help me get ready for school in Montreal. Either my father would turn on the radio to hear about the latest political fiasco in the Colombian Senate, or my mother would tune in to get caught up on the recent scientifical advances. Without fault, every morning, my parents would make me hear the national anthem. It resonated through the house, making it my first proper introduction to my Colombian heritage, growing up in Montréal. As my father would prepare seasoned eggs, arepas and coffee and my mother would set out my clothes, I would try to decipher what the anthem was about. Even though Spanish was my first language, as my parents always demanded I spoke it fluently, there were still words I couldn’t understand. Yet, a sense that this distant Colombia held something I was meant to discover. I didn’t know what it was, but the sound of my homeland calling through the radio and the anthem made me feel that I needed to connect with my roots. It took me many years to fully grasp the anthem’s message, mainly because I was also learning French and English in school.
As I worked on my trilingualism, my musical anthem mornings no longer began in the same kitchen. I still carried the anthem between my parent’s separate houses, constantly trying to unearth its cultural and historical references. Through my parent’s divorce, music carried me forward and became the bridge between my two homes. Even when I tried to take advantage of their differences, hoping one parent would allow what the other wouldn’t, I was reminded that they shared the same cultural roots and vision. Ultimately, they both strove to raise me with the same values. Just like they both contributed to music being a core part of my upbringing, their rules and convictions were always extremely similar.
Music became an even bigger part of my life when it was time for me to travel between downtown Montreal, where my father had moved, and the island’s South Shore, where my mother lived. The 22-minute ride was where I got to develop my Colombian heritage and discuss things with my father that picked my brain. All throughout my elementary, high school, and CEGEP, which is a pre-university institution all Québec students attend, my father shaped my view on Montreal’s multicultural environment, and my place in it. As I grew up and formed my own opinions, we would debate about polarizing topics. We would rarely ever fully agree, but those conversations would always teach me lessons on how to navigate cultural duality and the meaning of being an immigrant. The background of our conversations was always carried by Latin songs that he’d impatiently wait to show me every week. Some of those songs directly reflected my realizations on my experience as a Colombian born in Montreal.
“My father told me that carrying both cultures was not a weakness, but a gift. I should let them both live in me without fear of losing either.”
Beginnings in rhythm
“Ay, no hay que llorar, que la vida es un carnaval”
(Don’t cry, because life is a carnival)
– La Vida es un Carnaval, Celia Cruz
As much as I always thought that high school would bring me my most important and transformative years, I’ve come to realize that elementary school is an incredibly essential part of someone’s identity shaping. Interacting with everyone without the pressure of fitting in or being well-liked allowed me to develop my true and authentic personality. On some days, my father
would pick me up from school a bit early so that I had time to go to my dancing classes and my horse-back riding lessons. At school, all of my friends would share their own extracurricular activities free of judgment and expectations. Some would play soccer and others would go to religious groups, and we all relished in the simple act of telling fun anecdotes. Those recess conversations portrayed our youthful passions. We all found amusement in pursuing activities that fulfilled us, and it was all free of competition and comparison. Regardless of your economic or ethnic background, there wasn’t any limits to what we could do. I saw live as a carnival.
Going to school and thriving alongside a myriad of different cultures, the existence of prejudice and discrimination was unknown to me. I would’ve never conceived the idea of treating certain individuals differently based on the way they looked or where they came from. Ironically enough, the teachers that preached values of social equality and inclusion were the same ones that would sometime make comments that made me question my place in the classroom and the world around me. I could feel that something wasn’t right, but as a child, I didn’t yet have the words or perspective to fully understand the subtle biases being expressed. From teachers allowing that my curly-haired classmate’s hair is touched by boys when she clearly isn’t comfortable, to my Persian friend’s accent being infantilized by French teachers, an unsettling systemic oppression settled in class. Although these acts may seem insignificant and meaningless, they carried an enormous intention that was beyond my understanding. Nobody said anything, it passed as silly behaviour that was approved by the school.
When I was in third grade, I dressed-up as a mime with a moustache. I thought it looked silly, and I went to school, very proud of my make-up. However, I was confused by hearing a substitute teacher saying that I looked like a certain Pablo Escobar because of my drawn-in facial hair. Not knowing who they were referring to, I decided to ask my father what it meant the evening before going trick-or-treating. He was quick to stop our car ride. The music stopped as well. I didn’t understand what was going on, but I could tell he was beyond offended.
One thing my father always prided himself on was that he always explained the hard realities and truths of this world when needed, no matter how tough it would be for me to digest. After getting a summarized version of who my country’s most well-known criminal was, I realized the comment’s weight. I had been associated with a drug lord that had built a bloody empire, costing millions of lives. My existence had been narrowed down to someone else’s horrific legacy. My father was adamant on reporting this to the school board and taking action against this blatant racist act. My mother wasn’t happy to hear the news either. What had started as an entertaining and harmless costume had turned into a discrimination case.
My parents eventually decided not to act on their complaint, thinking that it wouldn’t change anything because it was a substitute teacher I wasn’t even able to identify. This was a first instance of me realizing that immigrants were sometimes powerless. It wasn’t a question of rightful justice. As demoralizing and upsetting as it sounded at the time, this instilled a powerful initiative in me. I was determined to understand where these types of comments came from. My carnival vision of the world started to slightly break.
As I continued to live my elementary school journey, I faced other challenges. In fact, I experienced cultural barriers as me and my friends grew older. When we were in fifth grade, as any regular childhood friend group, we wanted to have sleepovers. Up until that point in my life, I had never slept over anywhere. My parents had always been nitpicky about whose house they would allow me to play after school, so it had never occurred to me to ask permission to spend a night elsewhere. At the time, I was far too young to understand their strict reasons. My parents would always say that they didn’t trust other parental supervision, and that I should just invite my friends over to my house. The only instances where I was allowed to hangout, was if they personally knew the other child’s parents.
However, my friends were having a joint birthday party, so I thought the pretext would be convincing enough. I planned when and where I would ask for permission: during a car ride with my father. I waited so that he was in a good mood, and I asked in the nicest way possible. The car ride quickly turned into an argument about why all of my other friends were allowed to attend the event, and I wasn’t. My frustration was so strong that I started crying and saying I wished my parents weren’t so strict.
My father explained firmly that I couldn’t go because I still needed to understand responsibility and the consequences of following the crowd. He reminded me that priorities came first, and that wanting what others had before earning it was not acceptable. He spoke about preserving family honour, making careful choices, and knowing when to say no, even if it was difficult. Each of his arguments felt heavy, like a weight I couldn’t lift. I began to resent the ways my Colombian heritage set me apart from my friends. Being held to stricter rules made me feel like I didn’t fully belong in the world around me.
Meanwhile, my Québécois friends were allowed to go to friendly gatherings freely, their parents trusting them in ways my father said he couldn’t yet trust me. Watching them leave for the celebration while I stayed behind only deepened the sense that my life was stricter, more controlled, and less free because of my heritage and my Colombian origins.
It is safe to say that I navigated a few cultural barriers that influenced the way I saw myself in the multicultural elementary scene. The night that all my friends went to the sleepover and I stayed behind, my father put on Celia Cruz’s “Ay, no hay que llorar, que la vida es un carnaval”. The lyrics made me realize that life, even with its challenges, could be joyful and celebratory. He used the song to show me that navigating the immigrant journey meant dealing with certain adversities, like discrimination and balancing cultural differences. The song emphasized that even though life has its hardships, these challenges are not burdens, but part of what make me unique. My father reminded me that our heritage was richer than what others assumed, and that learning to adapt in unfamiliar environments would teach me to carry my culture confidently. Rather than shame, I should be proud of my heritage. In that moment, the music became a bridge between my life in elementary school and the one I was learning to claim as my own.
Becoming Both: Learning to Carry Two Cultures
“ Oye, latino; oye, hermano; oye, amigo
Nunca vendas tu destino por el oro ni la comodidad.
Despierta, ya es tiempo de cambiar,
De dejar de aparentar y ser tú mismo, entrar en la verdad.
No te dejes confundir, busca el fondo y su razón;
Recuerda, se ven las caras, pero nunca el corazón.
No te dejes confundir, busca el fondo y su razón;
Recuerda, se ven las caras, pero nunca el corazón.
Estudia, trabaja y sé gente primero; allí está la salvación.
Se ven las caras, se ven las caras, se ven las caras,
Pero nunca el corazón.”
(Listen, Latino; listen, brother; listen, friend
Never sell your destiny for gold or for comfort.
Wake up, it’s time to change,
To stop pretending and be yourself, to step into the truth.
Don’t let yourself be confused, seek the essence and its reason;
Remember, you see the faces, but never the heart.
Don’t let yourself be confused, seek the essence and its reason;
Remember, you see the faces, but never the heart.
Study, work, and be a decent human being first; there lies salvation.
You see the faces, you see the faces, you see the faces,
But never the heart.)
– Plastico, Rubén Blades and Willie Colon
In high school, my relationship with my father and our weekly car rides served as a lens where I explored my identity, my culture, and my belonging in Montreal. The only time I was exposed to my cultural origins were the summer visits to my Colombian cousins living in Toronto. I often felt like I belonged to the rules of my roots, but not the soul. My friends would often joke about the fact that I was white-washed and that I wasn’t authentically Colombian, since I enjoyed “white” things, like Taylor Swift and Starbucks. It felt like I had aspects of both cultures, but didn’t really belong in either of them. As an immigrant, you’re often faced with the reality of not having a perfectly formed cultural belonging.
One afternoon during a drive downtown with my father, I shared my frustration about feeling out of place at school and in social activities, where subtle prejudices often made me question my worth. The jokes about me being white, and my lack of Latino friends made me quite insecure. To help me connect with my Colombian roots, he suggested that I read books like One Hundred
Years of Solitude, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an iconic Colombian author. He started playing political podcasts during our car rides. My father helped me reconnect with my Latin identity and understand the broader Latin American context. We would often discuss the meaning of symbols in Garcia Marquez’s books, or the most recent development in Colombian political trials.
After immersing myself in literature and political landscape, I felt as though I was fully Colombian. Flaunting my newly found identity to my father, he was quick to correct me. I was offended at first, arguing that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be a part of any community. He reminded me gently that I didn’t need to pick sides. He explained that being Colombian didn’t erase the fact that Quebec had also shaped who I was ever since I was young. He told me that carrying both cultures was not a weakness, but a gift. I should let them both live in me without fear of losing either. These conversations motivated me to seek opportunities where I could give back to the society that welcomed us, merging my bicultural identity with meaningful community work.
Outside of my high school curriculum, I began tutoring newly arrived immigrants in French, helping them navigate language barriers and school routines. My trilingual abilities allowed me to connect in ways that went beyond simple communication, offering reassurance and guidance. In one memorable encounter at a food pantry, I assisted a recently arrived Mexican family by explaining the local grocery system and suggesting familiar product alternatives. Speaking Spanish with them, I saw their relief and gratitude, realizing how powerful a shared language and cultural understanding could be in easing the immigrant experience.
At the same time, I embraced Québécois culture through volunteering at local festivals that celebrated both French and Latin heritage. I contributed to activities ranging from coordinating children’s areas to assisting vendors and guiding visitors. These experiences deepened my appreciation for multiculturalism while allowing me to integrate my own identity, demonstrating that it was possible to honour both my Colombian roots and my life in Quebec. Also, my work with elderly residents, festival-goers, and students reinforced the importance of empathy, resilience, and active engagement in creating inclusive spaces.
By combining personal reflection during car rides, cultural exploration, and tangible acts of service, I grew more confident in my ability to navigate the duality of my immigrant experience. I learned that being Colombian in Montreal was not a limitation, but a perspective that enriched both my life and the communities I served. These high school experiences shaped my understanding of identity as something dynamic and actionable: a source of pride, a reason to serve, and a lens through which I could impact others positively.
My senior year of high school, my father saw how far I had traveled. He saw how I had embraced both sides of my identity through literature, service, and community. One evening, riding with him during one of our drives, he introduced me to the song Plástico by Rubén Blades and Willie Colón. When the lyrics warned against losing oneself in appearances and summoned Latinos to seek authenticity, I could have sworn that the song was for me. My father’s choice was no coincidence. In fact, it was his gesture to me that I had gone beyond the surface, that I had found the heart of the matter behind the face. Hearing Plástico then was not only a music lesson, but it was recognition that I had finally learned to reconcile my Colombian and Québécois identities with pride. All that, without endangering the loss of either.
Belonging Redefined: When the Anthem Finally Made Sense
At CEGEP, my father’s words meant more than ever before. His own experience of immigrating from Colombia had taken strength, courage, and the ability to keep holding on to his origins while building a new life in Quebec. My own path was reflective of much the same, in a different landscape. While he left his country behind to build a better future for me, I was learning to tackle independence in my world that was characterized by two cultures. I was striving to turn that duality into a strength of mine.
My experiences at my CEGEP, Brébeuf, have become milestones to this process. Model UN was one of the first such spaces where I found my voice. In this amazingly stimulating committee, I started to feel like I finally belonged. At every conference, I was standing with a placard, representing a country that was not mine, but one to whose problems I owed an argument. This taught me to speak authoritatively and how to fight for what is right. At first, my speeches were tense, with my voice trembling while I tried to negotiate with experienced delegates. But as a year have gone by, I’ve come to understand that my speech’s power was not just in my words, but in my presence. This was the same lesson that my father struggled to teach me in those rides when we debated Colombian politics. With each solution I drafted, each negotiation I facilitated, I felt not only like a delegate, but like a person who could bring her cultural voice to a global dialogue.
Mock Trial in CEGEP offered another arena for growth. Within the courtroom, I had to think on my feet, argue effectively, and balance reason with empathy. The experience made me realize the myriads of layers of identity. It exposed me to how justice, equity, and laws meet the cultural values I had inherited. It was there too that I began to view my independence more realistically.
Just as my dad used to have to rationalize his choices in traveling to Canada, I was learning to rationalize my own mind and stand up for myself.
Away from school this past summer, I’ve been teaching French to newly arrived Latino immigrants Each day, I watched the bewilderment in their eyes as they struggled with new systems and unfamiliar tongues. Guiding them in language and discourse, I learned that trilingualism was not only a gift, it was a bridge. I remembered the lesson from my father at Plástico: not to live on the surface, not to exchange my fate, but to be rooted in truth and service. Helping others to integrate in Quebec, I was not only reconnecting with my heritage, I was also promising hope, showing them that they could belong too.
At the same time, my CEGEP social community exposed me to Québécois culture on a more personal level. I was learning new identities, such as Quebec’s independentists, whose voices challenged me to think about what belonging truly meant. Rather than see their fervor as a negation of my own heritage, I realized that it was another form of cultural pride. It was one with which I needed to learn to coexist, and which could even enrich my own Colombian heritage. This consciousness was very liberating. Identity isn’t someone’s choice over the other, but the beginning of a dialogue between them.
All these activities, culminated into a larger story of growth. My independence did not mean leaving behind my father’s guidance. It meant instead using his lessons in new contexts, so that they might guide the person I was to become.
One evening, on yet another of our outings, the Colombian national anthem came on the radio. Its familiar melody caught our attention. I looked at my father and asked him what he thought it really meant now that I was an adult. He smiled patiently, as if waiting years to hear me ask. “It’s not about victory or fighting,” he spoke softly. “It’s holding on to hope even when you’re broken
and keeping in mind that freedom isn’t all about countries, it’s keeping alive who you are.” In that moment, the anthem’s message was evident. It was a story of my father’s sacrifice, my mother’s strength, and my own struggle for beckoning, beginning, becoming and belonging.
Belonging, I realized, wasn’t about forgetting the past but accepting it. It is the instant when a location becomes home, not because you cut yourself off from where you came from, but because you allow it to take hold along with others. My dad’s melodies, my homework, my service, and our car rides had all led me to this discovery. Identity is not set but is in constant movement, and when you share it with others, it is hope.