Being Cuban in America

How loud and proud we are to fly our islands flag

with the flag of a country who thinks us

to be less than the rubble beneath their feet.

Cigars and women with fiery hips is all we offer them.

Maybe a decent vacation so they might see for a brief

moment how our little island is crumbling while they

call it paradise. and a punchline to shitty jokes about

the story of our people drowning is all they offer us.

Maybe a janitorial position as well.

But WE are white! THEY see us as one of them!

Kiss the ground they walk on long enough, they’ll see!

No, they won’t. Because you don’t speak like they do,

and if you do, “you learned so well!” and “you can’t even

tell you’re not from here!” but you’ll smile and take the

backhanded compliment, because it’s how we survive here.

It’s how we’ll teach our children to survive here so that if

they ever get the chance to go back to their proud island,

they’ll be told that they don’t belong there either.

So, where do we belong? If not where we live? Or

where we were born? Who are we? if not Cuban enough

for our island? And not exactly American enough to be

“from here”? Do we keep forcing a place for ourselves until

we are included in the united part of the American dream?

Or until we are considered part of our own people? Or do we

simply erase our entire ancestry, our culture, white-wash

ourselves until we are finally considered someone to them?