In America, we don't do that.
Victor Rivera
I had just started my first job in New York. Young and unfamiliar with everything, including how people said hello.
My first client was Michelle. She walked in, and I stood up to greet her the way I would back home—with a kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t romantic or dramatic. Just natural. Just normal, where I come from. She was amused. The room was not.
Later, my boss pulled me aside and said, “In America, we don’t do that.”
No harm was meant. But something inside me went quiet that day. A slight, familiar shift happened—the kind that comes when the rules aren’t written, only understood once you’ve crossed them.
That same year, it rained on a particular day. A stormy afternoon after a client meeting—the kind that makes you wonder if Noah might show up with his ark.
In the lobby: a neat stack of branded red umbrellas—dry and ready. I lingered, said my goodbyes. Glanced at the client. Looked up at the sky. No one moved.
So I ran—into the rain, into the cold, onto the train. A wet contract clung to my chest, the NDA tighter still—sealing off parts of me others thought were foreign.
I didn’t stop being myself. But I did get better at tucking my instincts into sweet, M&M-sized pieces— the kind they let through when they’re standing at the door.
I learned the rules quickly—because fluency, in America, meant more than language. It meant stowing away the parts of myself that made people uncomfortable.
Over time, I began to wonder: maybe fluency isn’t about fitting in. Maybe it’s about holding both—the rules and the warmth. The part of you that adapts, learns the room, follows the script. And the other part that still wants to offer a smile, a gesture, a softness that doesn’t wait for invitation.
Some of us are still holding onto things we thought we’d left on an island. Standing by the door. Looking at the rain. And hoping someone will notice.
So, if no one’s offered you one lately—Here, take mine.
The parts of me that matter are still dry.
