Life has been a moving target for me. When your parents immigrate to the US from Cuba in Castro’s 1962 with a bunch of sons and you are the only girl born into that chaos … life kicks off with a bang and never really settles down.
An island family from the Caribbean living the harsh, cold New England life on the North Shore of Massachusetts. We spoke a language no one up there had ever heard . Still, I didn’t realize we didn’t belong.
I was the FIRST, first-generation Cuban in my family. Meaning, that I was the first person, on either side, to be born in the United States. Honor?… Not so much.
I was Cuban American without a clue that I might be considered lesser than. I was oblivious that the “Americans” were any different than I, or I than them. That wasn’t their opinion, at all. I also thought I was Cuban just like everyone else in my extended family. (Mostly, in Miami) That wasn’t their opinion, either. To both sides, I was the outcast. (Who knew?)
Not giving a shit has been a blessing. Everywhere I have lived and any work I’ve done, I have never felt less than, different or discriminated against. The oblivion to what anyone might think or say about me has opened door after door to freedom and adventure.
Exactly because I do not fit in anywhere… I fit in everywhere.