Part 2: A Celebration of 38

Miami, FL.

I went to Miami to get to know the city and my extended Cuban family better. To see the home with all of our family history on its walls.

As I entered Little Havana, my heart leapt upon seeing Domino Park and old, sun-weathered men gathered there in the mid-afternoon heat. I thought of my dad and how his dad was a domino genius. I crossed the street and almost started crying as I watched the games progress and let the chatter and hollow clinks of moving pieces wash over me. Continuing down the sidewalk, I passed several open-air patio restaurants, from which wafted the aroma of freshly ground Cuban espresso beans and the rhythmic scratch of the guiro. I knew the two men singing would be wearing guayaberas before I looked.

I walked into a Bay of Pigs museum run by Cuban veterans. Historic artifacts lined the walls, and a video played telling the story. I teared up for the second time as I listened to firsthand accounts of the betrayal by JFK and the American government that left my cousins and uncles stranded. They fought expecting a promised help that never came, help that meant the difference between life and death, the difference between freeing their homeland and losing it, the difference between returning to their beloved island and families and exile. I considered the hope they kept alive as they planned this attack for months, my cousin having offered his own home and private island for strategizing and training any willing, able-bodied Cuban to return and fight. Not only to lose the fight, suffer immense losses of life, and be imprisoned, but most of all to endure the soul-crushing experience of the loss of hope. I cried for my family, for their lives, for their losses, for the strength and struggle of the following decades to rebuild in a country that had betrayed them. The effect of that time on their children. I stood a little taller, resolved to accept my own struggles with more peace and patience, acknowledging that their blood is my blood, that their sacrifices are the foundation of the metaphorical house we build. We are Cuban and we are strong.

What did Miami teach me? That it’s important to know where you’re from. That knowing your family’s history is powerful. It can change how you see yourself, what you think you’re capable of, and it can give you a deep-rooted pride, an anchoring riverbed you didn’t realize you lacked or would benefit from. Miami taught me the power of being surrounded by others that are like you, that know your name, that speak your language, that serve you your family’s coffee and food, that play the music that’s in your soul from a time you don’t even remember. That if you grow up in a place where you are “other” in all these ways, that it affects you. It is harder. You are battling to just be you, knowing you will continue to be misunderstood, mis-seen, mispronounced, just missed. If you are this kid, have this kid, teach this kid, or meet this kid, know that this battle is woven into their reality and being.