Pedro Pablo Morejon

I can hardly enjoy this peaceful Sunday. My mind travels back to Cuba, and I start to ponder why I am here, in a country that is not mine.

I arrive early, almost at dawn, and always find more than a dozen men, all Cubans, waiting for a contractor for some occasional work.

From the moment I set foot in the United States, I felt like a blind man not knowing where to go or how to organize my immigration status.

It had been a month since my arrival in the United States, and I couldn’t find a job. They told me: “Don’t worry, something will appear.

As we entered the airport, we were pointed to three different lines: US Citizens, US residents, and those arriving with humanitarian parole.

My partner had been insisting for some time that I get a passport, and after much persistence, she convinced me.

The thing is, this has been one of my biggest concerns for most of my life. I had the misfortune of having poor genetics for teeth.

Hugo Puig’s goals aren’t limited to his financial returns. He wants to rise above, leave a trace of love in the world.

Hours pass, the sun intensifies, and the group of people grows. A man over 60 approaches, seems to know me, and indeed, he does.

Both here in Cuba and on the other side of the Florida Strait, we hear the cheers of demagogy that speak of a heroic people.