Cuba, Te Extraño

“Cuba se extraña” is a lyric from a hit song by the popular Cuban fusion music group Kola Loka. I grew up listening to their music and remember my parents playing that song whenever we wanted a taste of home. The singers repeatedly sing “Cuba se extraña” (Cuba is missed) and mention that no matter where in the world you are, whether you’re in Miami or Spain, Cuba is missed.

I was born in the Camagüey province of Cuba in 1999 and immigrated to the United States when I was five years old. Throughout the years, I’ve traveled back and forth to Cuba alongside my parents and sister to visit the remainder of our family that still lived on the island. As a child, I never entirely understood why we were living in the United States or that we were far from home. How could a child understand that the home that watched you be born was no longer the one that would watch you grow. My mother recounts that I would frequently ask if we could ride to my grandma’s house on the bike, as we often would in Cuba, but she never knew how to explain to me that we couldn’t ride a bike across the ocean to mimas house.

As I grew older and would visit Cuba, I’m disheartened to admit that I never appreciated those moments. Often, it would feel unfamiliar, like I didn’t belong. We would be sitting outside on my grandma’s back porch, the dominos slamming on the wooden table (Cubans take the game of dominos very seriously), the warm breeze hitting me as I stared up at the coconut trees in the backyard, a feeling of alienation creeping in. My family would recount stories and they’d turn to me “Mely, te acuerdas?” (Mely, do you remember?).

But I never did.

The last time I visited Cuba was when I was 15. We were celebrating my quinceañera. At the time, I didn’t want to celebrate it in Cuba. I wanted to party with my friends here in the States, but my family insisted we have the party in Cuba with our family and culture. I didn’t understand back then why that was so important, I resented it. Why would I want to celebrate a milestone in my life in a place where I didn’t feel like myself?

We had my party in a venue in the central part of Vertientes. There were hundreds of people there, and they all knew me. They all hugged me and kissed me on the cheeks, “Felicidades, Mely” (Congratulations, Mely), “Mira que grande estas” (Look how big you’ve gotten). To me, they were strangers. Except, they weren’t, not really. They had all seen me arrive in this world, they had watched my sister grow up, seen my parents marry, and they had waved us goodbye when we boarded that airplane to the United States for the first time.

A photo from my quinceañera

A decade.

10 years since I’ve been back. I hadn’t realized it had been this long.

Every once in a while, you’ll hear a song that moves you. It stirs an emotion deep within you, bubbling up memories you didn’t know existed. When I heard the song “DtMF” by Bad Bunny, a feeling of deep nostalgia for my homeland hit me. The first time I heard it, tears streamed down my face. I had difficulty understanding why that song produced such strong emotions in me. But then it clicked. I should’ve appreciated my homeland when I was there.

“Debí tirar más fotos de cuando te tuve. Debí darte más beso' y abrazo' las vece' que pude.” (“I should've taken more pictures when I had you. I should've given you more kisses and hugs whenever I could.”).

Was this nostalgia a byproduct of my regret for the lack of pictures I had from my homeland and the unfamiliar faces that, deep down, I knew were familiar? Was it the piece of my identity that I had buried coming back up?

It’s funny when you’re in a moment; you don’t realize it’ll become a memory until you’re no longer in it. You don’t know that the friendly faces you’re seeing will one day become less and less recognizable.

I should’ve taken more photos.

Even all these years later, I still remember waving at my family as I sat on the airplane, ready to depart the runway at the airport in Camagüey after our last trip to Cuba. I remember waving back and seeing them from my tiny airplane window, across the runway, and behind a tall fence where they stood. I remember how dramatically they were waving as if to ensure we would see them.

To ensure we’d remember their faces.

When the airplane took off, I looked below at the fields as they grew further away. I hate heights, but I knew I needed to mark those green pastures in my memory. I didn’t know then that I would miss them all these years later.

As I recount this, my heart feels heavy and my eyes are watering. I feel this pull deep within - an innate pull to go back to who I am.

Those of us who are members of a diasporic group know this feeling all too well. The sense of not knowing quite where you belong. Is it there? The land that watched you come into this world? The one where your culture is on display unashamedly?

The feeling of losing parts of yourself, of your identity. The sense of realizing those parts aren’t there anymore because the generations before you didn’t preserve them; they didn’t think they would have to. They didn’t think the world would swallow up their few memories and lock them deep down where only the feeling of nostalgia could pry them back up.

I should’ve taken more photos.