“Mi cubanito lindo.”

This is how my grandmother has greeted me for as long as I can remember. I always thought it was a little funny because I wasn’t sure what it meant to be Cuban. As a young child, the stories I heard about my family’s origins didn’t resonate because I was laser-focused on the now, not a past that pre-dated my arrival. When I first learned that my maternal abuela was only 14 years old when she had to leave her home country of Cuba after a revolution, her story seemed far too distant to have any relevance to me. Through the years, however, I have come to see my grandmother’s past as something much more influential to my present.   

I’ve always enjoyed my Hispanic heritage because it mostly means our holiday gatherings are boisterous fun; the music and the food are so sabroso. However, I didn’t understand what it meant that Abuela was a fugitive of her native country, one that she still loved dearly. I heard her evocative words, how she still dreamt about the bustling, exciting life of Havana, the summers on the magnificent Varadero beach, and the magical whispers of the lush, tropical island that would remain her forever paradiso. I just couldn't imagine the reality of her experience. Now, at 17, three years older than my grandmother was when she left the country which remains a huge part of her identity, I am beginning to understand.   

Born and raised in New York City, I feel a deep connection to my hometown. Over the years of living here my appreciation for my multi-faceted metropolis has only grown to the point where I can hardly imagine living anywhere else. My grandmother tells me she felt the same way about her homeland. It was a central character in her happy childhood, the beautiful backdrop to her daily life of school, family, friends, and a few innocent crushes on boys. Permanently leaving Cuba was never even a consideration— until suddenly, it was. If I try to imagine myself being forced to leave New York because of a war, and moving somewhere far away with a completely different climate, culture, and language, not knowing whether I would ever see my home again— I simply cannot. 

When I was 10, I had the opportunity to visit Cuba with my grandmother.  Half a century after the event that upended her life, the revolutionary restrictions against exiles had finally been relaxed, and they were allowed to return. It was an emotional trip for my grandmother to be sure, but also for me. I was amazed by the island's unique beauty; it was unlike any place I had ever seen. The streets of Havana were vibrant with color and pulsating with the sounds of salsa music. The 1950s cars that remain perfectly preserved, were driven around as if there was nothing special about them. The elegant bones of ornate colonial buildings spoke of Havana's prosperous past, even if many were now thirsty for a fresh coat of paint. We ate mouth-watering lechon, tostones, ropa vieja, and fresh helado de coco. (I was, of course, upset to learn later that most Cubans rarely eat that well, and there is much that is troubling on this complicated island nation.) At the time, though, it didn’t take long for the mesmerizing land to leave a lasting impression on my young mind. Could this be my home too? After taking it all in, one burning question popped out:

“Abuela, why did you ever leave this amazing place?”

“Well, it’s complicated,” she replied.

She struggled with what to tell me, weighing how much I would understand at that age. This is what she told me then:

“There was a revolution, with fighting in the streets. My parents felt that it was no longer safe to stay. But we were always hopeful we would be able to return. We held on to the belief that the democratic system would be restored, and we would come home to Cuba before too long.”

Since that trip, I have learned much more. My great-grandfather actively protested the corrupt Fulgencio Batista regime in 1958 by organizing a bus and transportation strike, which got him placed on Batista’s blacklist. For safety, he sought temporary refuge for his family in the United States where they waited out the last gasps of the revolution. As soon as Fidel Castro marched triumphantly into Havana, my grandmother’s family joyfully returned to Cuba to celebrate alongside the revolutionaries. They had high hopes Castro would fulfill his promise to reinstate the democracy Batista had suspended.

Unfortunately, this didn’t happen, and they soon felt compelled to leave once again. As they fled empty-handed from the new regime that my great-grandfather and so many others had initially supported, they were called “gusanos” (worms) and were banished forever from their beautiful island home.

Learning all of this about my family’s history has not only given me a greater appreciation for the nuances of Latin American politics, which are too often glossed over in simplistic terms here in North America, but also for the significant ways my grandmother’s spectacularly interrupted childhood differed from my own. As painful as those turbulent years were, my grandmother says she doesn’t regret experiencing them, for if they had never happened, my current family would not exist. I too am grateful for the sacrifices made by my great-grandparents and for the leap of faith they took half a century ago. 

However, expanding my appreciation for my family’s history by closely examining my grandmother’s past has not just been an exercise in familial naval-gazing. It has led me to understand a much larger truth because, in the end, there is nothing remarkable about my grandmother’s experience. Every day families across the globe uproot themselves and leave their homes due to circumstances outside their control. The universal truth I have learned from my grandmother’s migration story is this: virtually no immigrant wants to permanently leave home. Even if you believe one country is objectively better than another, almost every migrant would prefer to create a prosperous and secure life for their families in their homeland.

In discussions with my peers about immigration, one common argument raised against allowing large numbers of immigrants into the U.S., questions their motives, asking, “Why should they come here and try to profit off of us? Why don’t they just work harder and make a better life for themselves where they came from?” This question entirely misses the mark because most immigrants would like to do exactly that. It is only when people feel their families are not safe and/or they have no path out of poverty, that they are willing to make the heartbreaking decision to leave behind everything they know to seek out a new horizon. There is only one thing that trumps the love of homeland, and that is the love of family. Those who never experience those two things in conflict are more fortunate than they know. Abuela could tell them a story or two.