Me, Converso

Illustration from Rambles in Sunny Spain by Frederick A. Ober

We all have certain mysteries in our lives and family history. Some wish to explore them, while others would just as soon not know, and wish no one else does either.

 I have been blessed with several very good friends in my life who happen to be Jewish. Over the course of many conversations with one of these friends, Craig, he suggested that I was sort of a “mensch,” and said he would not be surprised if way back in my family’s history, we were Jewish as well. As Craig has known me for a number of years, he knew that my mother’s family emigrated from Spain many years ago to the Caribbean, and it is possible that my ancestors were part of the Sephardic diaspora. 

 The other day I saw an interesting article which postulated that DNA evidence suggests a far greater share of Latin America’s DNA is of Sephardic lineage than might have previously been imagined, given the limited numbers in current Jewish population throughout the Americas (outside of the United States). The explanation lies in the story of the Conversos—those non-Christian Spaniards who were forced to convert to Catholicism, die, or be banished. More often than has been told, many converted AND also left, many to the Americas. Here they lived, some secretly adhering to the old ways, until the passing of the generations diluted these ways, and all that remained was the residue of guilt, the feeling of being different, and perhaps a sense that they would always be outsiders. 

My mother came to the United States from Cuba before I was born.  She married an Anglo, hence my family name, Brimble. Unlike her siblings, who taught their own children Spanish and often conversed in the language of their “old country,” my mother chose not to teach us Spanish and preferred that it not be spoken in our house, even though my Grandmother lived with us, and she never learned to speak English. That was, admittedly, a different era from now, but it’s important to share how it was for me back then and might still be today in some families. My mother would tell us, “we are in America now, you are Americans, and we will speak English.” In practical terms, this made sense because we would indeed be living and working as English-speaking Americans. But deep down inside, as a kid, I heard a different message- that somehow we were different, and that we had to hide our difference. Drill deeper still, and the message was, “there is this shame that we cannot reveal.” This feels like the message of the Conversos, which may have been passed down through many generations of Latin Americans, and may still affect the society, culture, and politics of the Americas to this day.

 So, what did I find in my historical exploration of my family’s Spanish history? Was I the descendent of a Converso? Most definitely yes, but not in the way my Jewish friends envisioned. It turns out, I am a descendant of a rather famous Moorish family, who’s name still exists in both the Arab and Spanish worlds—the Arabits, my mother’s maiden name. Of course, the name should have been a clue, but you never know. I am lucky that there is a lengthy history associated with the Arabits. Searching online, we found record of a document, written and signed by an ancestor—one of the last Moorish rulers to be defeated by the Christian forces of Aragon—which gratefully cedes his lands and treasure to the King of Aragon, and announces his conversion to Christianity. So begins the saga of my family, in the late 15th Century, as Conversos, as immigrants, and as travelers along the long and crooked road to finding out who we really are. 

My story is not that special, really. In fact, its core is the most typical of all immigrant tales: bloodlines fractured and families displaced—voluntarily or involuntarily. Inherited stories forgotten along the way, replaced by mystery, fabrication, indifference, or even shame. What is special is that the frayed string of my family history happens to lead to this place and time—now. Only recently have we had the knowledge and technology, so that when we tug on such a string we might be lucky enough to feel a small, gentle response from the other side. The vibration of history’s responding tug transmits mysteries of our origins and genetics.

There is still much to unpack. There are still stories to be told and tales to be heard. But I can’t help but think I am in a better place by knowing a little more about the road that has led to where I am today. It’s clear this road included defeats, but also victories. Mysteries thought to be buried forever. Choices made and forgotten. Journeys to new worlds on the wings of hope and faith. I am grateful and humbled to have been a product of this crazy mixed-up thing, and I am proud to proclaim words which would have been unthinkable to hark when this all started: ¡ME CONVERSO! Gracias por todo.