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When I was a little girl, I wanted to turn into a boy. It was the only way I could become a sailor since girls weren’t allowed to be part of a ship’s crew. It never occurred to me that I might not be qualified. To my way of thinking, it just didn’t seem fair because I dreamed of sailing the oceans far, just as fervently as any boy could envision. I devoured the adventures of men in books I read. Marco Polo, Christopher Columbus, Sir Walter Scott, and Robert Louis Stevenson were among my heroes. Just because they were men, they could venture out to sea, while all I could do was long for adventure as I dreamed of visiting new lands, and meeting people of other cultures.

When I was a blooming teenager in the late forties, an adult confidante and the mother of one of my boyfriends, weary of listening to my wailing and frustration, decided to regale me with an age-old solution. “If you can kiss your elbow, you will turn into a boy.”

Aware that it was only an old wives’ tale, nevertheless, I wasn’t taking any chances and really did try, contorting myself, twisting into odd positions, lying upside down, leaning against a wall, stretching on my side, even standing on my head. Then one day, I discovered the delightful wonders of being a girl.

I was awakened to the charms of being feminine— the way it felt to swish around in a skirt; to swing my hips as I walked, one foot in front of the other; to be graceful when I danced; to style my hair, pluck my eyebrows, and touch my lips with color, trying to be pretty. I discovered the enchanting way it felt to flirt and the thrill of a kiss—so romantic and sweet. I figured only a girl could feel that way. Boys always seemed to have other interests.

But even as I came to accept the joyful wonders of being a girl, something was missing. I needed to find out more. How could I define who I really am? Where could I find the truth? Who should I become? What was my role in life? Where did I belong? Too many parts were unidentified. I needed to answer, “Who am I?”

My father was born in 1895 in the Southern Hemisphere—he was from Chile. My mother’s family, by contrast, came from the extreme north. Her parents were from Finland. If nothing else, the union of my parents proves the time-worn adage that opposites attract.

My life has gone on to reflect the essence of that union—the courageous vision of the Scandinavians and the spirited effervescence of the Latino culture.

Trying to reconcile those differences while I was growing up, I’ve been known to call myself a mongrel. Although the word mongrel is commonly used in reference to dogs, the Random House Dictionary of The English Language also defines the term as “any cross between different things…of mixed breed, nature or origin.”

That’s who I am.