The Island My Grandfather Left vs. The One I Found: Returning to Puerto Rico Through Blood and Reality
A personal journey into Puerto Rico’s identity crisis, diaspora tension and what it really means to come home.
My grandfather left Puerto Rico decades ago.
Now I’m back—with the same last name and a list of questions I didn’t know I was carrying.
This isn’t some Eat, Pray, Salsa journey.
I didn’t come here to find myself.
I came here to see what he left behind and what still lives in me.
You can inherit blood, culture, even a flag…
But stepping off that plane doesn’t make you local.
Especially when the place you’re returning to has changed.
This trip wasn’t a vacation.
It was a reckoning.
Because the Puerto Rico he left and the one I found?
They’re not the same.
But they rhyme.
And if you really pay attention, this island will show you more than beaches and Bad Bunny.
It’ll show you the future of America.
The cost of colonial neglect.
The weight of beauty.
And the truth about what it means to come home to a place you’ve never lived.
This isn’t just about identity.
It’s about economy, systems, sovereignty and survival.
It’s about what happens when your roots are still in the soil but you’re not sure if there is enough water to grow here.
🌴 What He Left — and Why
My grandfather left Puerto Rico in the 1950s.
He never said much about it.
But if you know history you can fill in the blanks.
The island back then was poor, rural and underdeveloped.
The Korean War was heating up. Jobs were scarce.
America was calling.
He left without much but his name and a will to survive.
No iPhone notes, a return ticket maybe but certainly no backup plan.
Maybe he wanted to escape poverty.
Maybe he wanted to chase something better.
Maybe he wanted to leave behind something he couldn’t say out loud.
It was part of a bigger pattern—what they call “The Great Migration.”
Hundreds of thousands of Puerto Ricans left for the mainland in the mid-20th century.
New York. Chicago. Connecticut.
They became dishwashers, factory workers, soldiers, mechanics.
They sent money back. They built new lives.
Lots of them never came back.
Leaving wasn’t a rejection of the island.
It was an act of survival.
A forced evolution.
And whether they knew it or not, they were planting flags in places they’d never truly belong—just to make sure their kids had a shot.
That’s the weight of inheritance:
You don’t just get the passport.
You get the silence, too.
🏝️ Paradise and Its Price
On the surface, Puerto Rico looks like a dream.
Palm trees swaying over turquoise water.
Boricua flags on every balcony.
Salsa music in the streets.
The kind of place tourists call “paradise” after three mojitos and a beach selfie.
Part of me agrees.
There is something magnetic about the island, something in the air that felt like both memory and myth. The food and culture. The way abuelas say mijo like it costs nothing.
But then the cracks started to show.
Power went out three times in one week.
Nobody was surprised.
LUMA Energy, a Canadian-American private utility, had taken over the grid.
Energy rates were up but service was down.
Most people sigh, light a candle and keep it moving.
The roads? Half-paved.
Sidewalks? Optional.
Hospitals? Underfunded.
Rent? Sky-high.
Young talent? Gone.
Doctors. Coders. Creatives.
They’re in Orlando or Philly or Houston now.
Because here, opportunity is scarce.
And the tourists don’t see the cracks.
Even if they do, what can they do but treat the island like an all-inclusive.
That’s the price of the “paradise” brand.
It attracts capital, but not care.
It welcomes visitors, but not dignity.
Insight: Paradise doesn’t mean peace. It means people are fighting hard to protect beauty in a system that keeps trying to sell it.
📉 Puerto Rico as America’s Canary in the Coal Mine
Puerto Rico is often described as behind.
But what if it’s ahead?
What if the island is showing the mainland U.S. a preview of what’s coming?
The signs are there.
Collapsing infrastructure. Roads crumbling. Blackouts routine. Schools and hospitals underfunded.
Political neglect. Congress controls the rules but doesn’t feel the consequences.
Financial decay. A $70+ billion debt crisis and a federally imposed fiscal board.
Mass migration. More Puerto Ricans now live in the States than on the island.
That brain drain isn’t just a statistic. It’s your cousin who teaches in NY, your uncle who left for lower energy prices in Orlando.
People aren’t just leaving for adventure.
They’re leaving because staying feels like punishment.
A woman who grew up in PR but now lives in Florida told me, “Aquí uno sobrevive, no vive.”
“Here you survive, not live.”
And this isn’t just about Puerto Rico.
Ask anyone in rural Mississippi, inner-city Baltimore, or post-industrial Ohio.
The same symptoms show up:
Broken systems.
Disillusioned voters.
Outsiders buying land while locals leave.
Puerto Rico is America’s canary in the coal mine.
Ignored, underfunded and squeezed for profit until the system breaks.
Insight: Puerto Rico isn’t behind. It’s ahead and the mainland should be paying attention.
🧬 What It Means to Return for the Diaspora
Coming back isn’t a vacation.
But it’s not exactly a homecoming either.
You land with the surname, the family stories, the skin tone that blends in.
But something’s off. You’re not from here. Not really.
The aunties greet you with warmth,“¡Mira este! ¡Igualito al abuelo!”
But the guy at the gas station clocks your accent before your cash hits the counter.
You’re not a gringo.
But you’re not de aquí either.
There’s a strange kind of tension in that being almost local.
And it forces you to reckon with a hard truth:
Blood doesn’t buy belonging.
Presence does.
If you weren’t here for María…
If you don’t vote, don’t live here, don’t struggle here…
Then your identity is heritage, not membership.
And that’s okay.
But don’t mistake a return flight for a return home.
🧭 Should You Move to Puerto Rico?
Maybe you’ve been circling this question for years.
Could you live here? Should you?
You imagine it often, early mornings with pan sobao, evening walks in the sea breeze, spanish on your tongue like it never left. You feel pride, culture, connection.
You see yourself in the people.
But then the power flickers.
And your phone has no signal.
And the paperwork at the government office takes four separate visits.
There’s no simple answer.
PROS:
• Cultural pride is real.
• The warmth is more than weather.
• You’d be rooted, visible, accounted for.
• Your Spanish would sharpen, your presence deepen.
• You wouldn’t just be from Puerto Rico. You’d be of it.
CONS:
• The grid is fragile. The infrastructure, worse.
• Island time is beautiful until it delays your entire life.
• Cost of living is rising, wages are not.
• Bureaucracy can drain your spirit.
• And there’s an emotional toll to being the one who “came back,” like you owe something now.
It’s not a yes or no.
It’s a negotiation between identity and functionality, love and limits.
Maybe the question isn’t should you move here.
Maybe it’s: Are you ready to redefine what home means?
Insight: Moving “home” isn’t a return. It’s a redefinition.
🎯 The Island Isn’t Just a Place. It’s a Mirror.
Coming back gave me clarity.
This wasn’t some full circle moment where everything made sense.
It was a collision: of history and future, roots and restlessness.
I came for a vacation and I walked straight into a lesson.
Not just about Puerto Rico but about legacy, survival and what it means to belong.
This island holds stories.
His. Mine. Ours.
But stories alone aren’t enough.
He left to survive.
I came back to remember.
But now I’m here asking the real question, what can I build with all of this?
📣 Call to Action:
Have you ever returned to a place your ancestors left behind?
Did it feel like home or a story you didn’t quite belong to?
Drop your reflections, questions, or lessons below.
🏝️🧳👇
As a first-generation immigrant I feel a lot of the sentiment. But yeah, you mentioned "presence", and I guess that's it, reversing the feeling of not belonging is to just be present in your roots for a long stretch of time.