For the children of the Cuban exile, “home” is a ghost that haunts you from just 90 miles away.
I was born in Miami in 1966, an American who loves my country with all my heart. My education at Champagnat Catholic School taught me to be a patriot of the USA, but it also ensured I never forgot my roots. We held school parades in downtown Miami celebrating José Martí, reciting his poems with the same pride we felt for the Star-Spangled Banner. We were taught that we could be fully American while keeping our culture alive.
I am so thankful that God answered our prayers. We have a leader in President Donald Trump who puts America first and has been able to change the world, giving hope not just to Cubans, but to Iranians and so many others who yearn for liberty. It is a bitter irony to watch late-night hosts like Jimmy Kimmel use their free speech to call our President a “dictator.” They have the luxury of using that word as a punchline, but let’s be clear: if Trump were actually a dictator, Kimmel wouldn’t even be there to say it. My family lived through the reality of a true tyrant; we carry the scars of a regime that actually stole our history.
In my grandparents’ house, everything was a comparison, and Cuba always won. The mangoes were always sweeter there, and the avocados were always bigger. We did our best to recreate it here; just like in the old country, almost every Cuban home in Miami has its own fruta bomba tree, a small, leafy piece of the island we planted in Florida soil.
My grandfather, who we lost in 1982, and my grandmother, who followed in 1991, lived in a state of constant, passionate preparation. They spoke of Cuba as the center of the universe — a family of revolutionaries whose history was left behind in a place we were forbidden to visit. But while we celebrated our culture, we lived with the sting of American ignorance.
Nothing causes more pain in our community than seeing the image of Che Guevara worn as a hero’s symbol. I remember the actress Debra Messing — someone who is Jewish and should understand the weight of historical monsters — once had her young son wearing a Che Guevara shirt. To us, Che was a butcher; yet in the country I love, his face is sold as a fashion statement.
We kept our own magic alive through ritual. The center of our world was Noche Buena (Christmas Eve). We toasted with Crema de Vie, the “Cream of Life,” celebrating our success in America while always ending with the same prayer: ¡Viva Cuba Libre! Then came Jan. 6 — Día de los Reyes Magos. In Little Havana, we didn’t just leave hay under our beds for the camels; we took to the streets for the Three Kings Parade along Calle Ocho.
Today, Jan. 6 has a different meaning in American politics. But for those of us who grew up in Miami, it remains the day we waited for a miracle. We lived by the mantra “No es fácil” — it isn’t easy — but Cubans don’t give up.
Silvia Hernandez
Now, the impossible is happening. Secretary of State Marco Rubio — a man who, like me, has never set foot on that soil — is leading negotiations for a “friendly takeover.” Just thinking of Rubio going to Cuba makes me cry. My grandparents’ memories are so heavy in my mind. If he goes, he will be able to smell the air I never could. He will see El Malecón for all of us.
But there is a deep, lingering sadness in this hope. For 60 years, I have lived with the fear of that island. I have never been able to go back because the risk was too great. And I know that even if it is finally free, I can never truly “go back” to the Cuba my grandparents described. That world died with them. I could never return to find a home that no longer exists because the people who made it home are gone.
God, please free that magical island. If Marco Rubio goes to Cuba, pray for him. He is stepping into a country that has lived in our hearts as an unreachable Neverland for 60 years. For the first time, I am allowing myself to believe that “home” might finally be a place I can visit without fear. Maybe this year, when we raise our Crema de Vie, the toast won’t just be a wish — it will be a celebration of a dream finally realized.
Silvia Hernandez is an Orlando resident and the granddaughter of Cuban revolutionaries buried in Miami.