Let’s be real. If you’ve ever felt like a tourist in your own childhood bedroom, Jennine Capó Crucet wrote Make Your Home Among Strangers specifically for you. It’s been out for a while now, but the way it handles the "first-generation" identity crisis is still unmatched. Seriously. Most books about the college experience focus on the parties or the late-night study sessions, but Crucet digs into that weird, itchy feeling of suddenly being "too much" for your home and "not enough" for your elite university. It’s awkward. It’s painful. And honestly, it’s a situation millions of students find themselves in every single September.
Lizet Ramirez, the protagonist, isn't some polished trope. She’s messy. She lies to her parents about her applications because, frankly, they wouldn't get it. When she gets into Rawlings—an ultra-white, ultra-rich school in the Northeast—she leaves behind a Miami that is literally and figuratively underwater. The 1999 setting isn't just window dressing; the Elián González affair is screaming in the background, mirroring Lizet's own tug-of-war between her Cuban heritage and her American ambition.
The Myth of the "Clean" Break
Moving away for school is supposed to be this shiny, cinematic moment of growth. You pack the car, mom cries, and you become a "new you." Right? Wrong. Crucet shows that for kids like Lizet, the break is never clean. It’s jagged. It bleeds.
When Lizet arrives at Rawlings, she’s hit with the realization that she doesn't know the "code." There is a secret language of wealth and prestige that she wasn't taught. For example, knowing how to handle a formal dinner or understanding that you don't just "show up" to things without an RSVP. It sounds small. It isn't. These tiny social frictions build up until you feel like you're wearing a costume that’s three sizes too small.
The brilliance of Make Your Home Among Strangers lies in the domestic details. Back in Miami, her family is falling apart. Her parents are divorcing. Her sister is struggling. And here is Lizet, reading about philosophy while her world at home is literally dissolving. The guilt is heavy. It’s that specific brand of "first-gen guilt" where you feel like a traitor for succeeding.
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Why This Isn't Just Another Campus Novel
A lot of people categorize this as a "Latina coming-of-age story," which it is, but that label feels a bit reductive. It’s actually a sharp critique of the American meritocracy. We love the "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" narrative, but we rarely talk about what happens to the boots.
Crucet doesn't shy away from the microaggressions. She documents the way professors look at Lizet, the way her peers assume she's there on a diversity quota, and the way her own mother starts to see her as a stranger. It’s a lonely book. Even when Lizet is surrounded by people, she’s often fundamentally alone because she exists in a middle space. She is too educated for the old neighborhood and too "ethnic" for the new one.
- She loses her linguistic comfort.
- She loses the simplicity of her family role.
- She gains a perspective that makes her old life impossible to return to.
Notice how that’s not a fair trade? It’s a sacrifice. And that’s what makes the book resonate so deeply with anyone who has moved between social classes. It’s a heavy price to pay for a degree.
The Elián González Connection
You can't talk about Make Your Home Among Strangers without talking about the political backdrop. The Elián González case was a massive deal in the late 90s, especially in Miami. For those who don't remember, he was the young Cuban boy found off the coast of Florida, sparking a massive international custody battle and a total meltdown in the Cuban-American community.
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In the novel, this isn't just news; it’s a mirror. The city is obsessed with "saving" this boy, while Lizet is trying to save herself. The community's fervor over Elián highlights the intense, sometimes suffocating, loyalty of the diaspora. By choosing to stay at her "white" school instead of coming home to deal with family drama, Lizet is viewed by some as a defector. It’s high stakes. It’s basically a war for her soul.
Navigating the Imposter Syndrome Trap
If you’re reading this because you’re currently trying to make your home among strangers in your own life—maybe at a new job, a new city, or a graduate program—the book offers some grim but necessary validation. Imposter syndrome isn't a "you" problem; it's a structural problem.
When you enter spaces that weren't built for you, feeling like an outsider isn't a sign of failure. It’s a sign of observation. You’re seeing the gaps because you weren't born in them. Lizet eventually learns that she doesn't have to choose one world or the other, but she does have to accept that she will always be a bridge. Bridges get walked on. Bridges are exposed to the elements. But bridges are also the only way to get anywhere.
Crucet’s prose is direct. It’s not flowery. It feels like a conversation over a cafecito that went on three hours too long because things got too real. She captures the heat of Miami and the biting, unfamiliar cold of the North with equal precision.
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Actionable Insights for the "Stranger" in the Room
If you feel like Lizet right now, here is how you actually survive it without losing your mind or your identity:
- Acknowledge the "Double Consciousness." W.E.B. Du Bois coined this, and it’s alive and well in Lizet’s world. You are looking at yourself through the eyes of others. Recognize when you're doing it. Awareness is the first step to stopping the spiral.
- Find Your Sub-Group. Lizet’s experience changes when she finds people who don't require her to explain herself. You don't need the whole campus to "get" you; you just need three people who don't think your lunch smells weird.
- Stop Sanitizing Your Home Life. One of Lizet's mistakes is trying to hide her "messy" Miami life from her Rawlings friends. It creates a wall. Being honest about the struggle—even the parts that feel "low class"—is actually a power move. It’s authentic. People respond to that.
- Use the "Outsider" Lens as a Tool. Because you aren't part of the status quo, you see things they don't. You see the inefficiencies, the hypocrisies, and the opportunities. That is a professional and intellectual advantage. Use it.
Don't wait for the "belonging" feeling to just show up one day. It might not. You might always feel a little bit like a stranger. The goal isn't to stop being a stranger; it's to make a home anyway. Build it out of your own experiences, your own hybrid language, and your own stubborn refusal to shrink. Lizet's journey isn't a happy-ever-after; it's a "now I know who I am" ending. And honestly, that’s much more useful.
Start by reclaiming one small part of your identity today. Wear the jewelry, cook the food, or use the slang. Stop translating yourself for people who aren't even trying to learn your language. That’s how you actually start making a home.