Broken Paradise

I was born in Havana, Cuba and left with my parents after the revolution when I was still an infant. Naturally, I have no real memories of my country, but over the years I’ve listened to a myriad of stories. The air that I breathed was infused with nostalgia so that, although I grew up in a typical American community, the feeling of Cuba, that sense of lost enchantment, became a very real part of me. The older I get, the more I realize this to be true, and I’ve noticed that many like me (first generation Americans who must rely on imagination rather than memory) jealously guard and hold reverent this fragile, even mystical notion of homeland.

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