I was 10 years old, sitting between the black leather cushions of my family's living room couch in Washington D.C. It was well past my bedtime. My eyes began to close to the feeling of my mother anxiously brushing my hair. The CNN projections were still showing an even split.
The next morning I shot awake. Realizing my parents had carried me to bed, I ran downstairs to the kitchen to find my mother, in her grey knit cardigan and ponytail, hunched over the counter with a mug in hand. She looked disfigured, tired, defeated. It was then I knew, without words, without confirmation, he won. She hugged me while whispering, “Solo son cuatro años cariño, solo cuatro.”
Four years under Donald Trump’s presidency felt as if it’d be eternal — to this day it still seems like it is — but more so because of what my parents feared as Spanish immigrants. They had been born after the fall of Francisco Franco’s near four-decade-long dictatorship and immigrated to the United States under the assumption that those conditions would never prevail in “the land of freedom.”
It was that November 8, that their idea of the American Dream shattered. Less than a year later, we packed up our belongings and moved back to Spain.
Yet here I am, living in the U.S. once again and most certainly by choice. I moved out of my parents house at the age of 16 and back to Washington D.C. while my whole family remained in Europe. I graduated from the largest public high school in our underrepresented and hard working capital. I loved every second of it, and everyone I met.
Not too long after, I landed in Paris where I spent my freshman year of college. I attended a university with very different demographics to my high school — most were wealthy, all were international. I seem to fit in everywhere I’ve been. I like to think it’s because I grew up around all walks of life, instilling in me a tolerance and curiosity for the unknown. But frankly, that misleadingly ignores my privilege. The reality is I come from an upper-middle-class family, hence, I had the ability to travel across four continents before I knew how to properly divide fractions (a skill I’m still working on).
However, it is with that privilege I have come to realize I never want to stop moving. With relentless pace, I’ve seen extreme poverty and immense wealth, encountered fascists and anarchists, capitalists and socialists. I’m friends with Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, Christians and I’m fairly sure one covert Scientologist. I’ve seen drag shows in Miami and Salah prayers in Marrakesh. I’ve been mugged in Rome and sunburnt in Costa Rica. I’ve drifted through the canals of Amsterdam, circled the Seine, sailed the islands of Panama and this winter I’ll cruise along the Nile.
And now I’m here — at Cornell, writing as a columnist — trying to share all the trials and tribulations I’ve been lucky enough to confront. Markings that have imprinted grooves so deeply into my identity, that when faced with a conundrum I can faithfully impart, politically, ethically and cross-culturally something of value.
Saved by the Bel is not just a misspelled title playing off my last name, it’s an expression of frustration and curiosity. I hope to make people uncomfortable, not maliciously, but provocatively. My hope for “The American Project” and her democracy is anchored, but not blinding. I stand as the first in line to critique those who try to corrupt our beloved system, yet equally challenge those who are too arrogant in their beliefs to admit even exceptional systems can fail. I seek to push the line in how we define ourselves globally and advocate for a realignment of our goals — both in our national ethos and individual identity. If I must sit and unravel these thoughts, I plead — filtered through hopefully more clarity and better prose — you do too.
Above all, this column acts as space for me to sear a timestamp into my personal evolution. The same way I keep old Instagram posts up, looking back at out-of-style trends, horribly cut hair and awkward poses. It’s a way to account for progress, and if I’m wrong or way out of line, the public is my witness.
It is here that I welcome you to read my work as living conviction and not holy writ. Do what you already know best: be a student in a classroom and be critical. For next time, consider my writing as almost metaphysical, allow it to seep into your imagination. Build it or destroy it, love it or hate it; just let the time pass while your eyes and brain connect, until eventually, you’re finally saved by the bell.
Adrian Belmonte '28 is an Opinion Columnist studying Government in the College of Arts & Sciences. Hailing from D.C. and Spain, his fortnightly column Saved By The Bel has a voice as cosmopolitan as it is candid. Belmonte takes on politics and media with clarity and a touch of wit. He can be reached at abelmonte@cornellsun.com.
