My daughter, Paula, is a fourth-generation immigrant. She was born here in the United States. I, her mother, was born in Venezuela. Estela, her grandmother, was born in Argentina. Aurelia, her great grandmother, was born in Italy. The war and two dictatorships were the causes…
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When I woke up my last day in Argentina, I was overcast, unlike the beaming sun that morning. My basically packed bags were splayed open in the middle of my room nearly-not-room anymore. I tucked the…
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When I was in fifth grade, I remember reading a short piece by Brazilian humorist Luis Fernando Verissimo about an untranslatable Portuguese expression. In the essay, Verissimo narrates the…
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I encountered the first obstacle of my trip to the Isla de la Juventud before I even left Havana. Since American credit cards don’t work in Cuba, I couldn’t buy my plane tickets online. But that was no…
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Ever since I was little, I was immensely proud of my Cuban heritage. My grandparents had immigrated to the U.S. in 1960 after the Revolution. Maybe it was because of a knowledge of all of their hardships and…
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