U.S. Secretary of State Marco Rubio attended a meeting with Caribbean Community (CARICOM) leaders in Basseterre, Saint Kitts and Nevis on Feb. 25, 2026.
JONATHAN ERNST
POOL/AFP via Getty Images
For the children of the Cuban exile, “home” is a ghost that haunts you from just 90 miles away.
I was born in Miami in 1966, an American who loves my country with all my heart. My education at Champagnat Catholic School in Miami taught me to be a patriot of the U.S., but it also ensured I never forgot my roots. We held school parades in downtown Miami celebrating José Martí, reciting his poems with the same pride we felt for the Star-Spangled Banner. We were taught that we could be fully American while keeping our culture alive.
Now we have a leader in President Donald J. Trump who puts America first and has been able to change the world, giving hope not just to Cubans, but to Iranians and so many others who yearn for liberty.
In my grandparents’ house, everything was a comparison – and Cuba always won. The mangoes were always sweeter there, and the avocados were always bigger. My grandparents spoke of a land where every home had a fruta bomba tree in the yard — a paradise that was left behind. We did our best to recreate it here; just like in the old country, almost every Cuban home in Miami has its own fruta bomba tree, a small, leafy piece of the island we planted in Florida soil. My grandfather, who we lost in 1982, and my grandmother, who followed in 1991, lived in a state of constant, passionate preparation. They spoke of Cuba as the center of the universe — a family of revolutionaries whose history was left behind in a place we were forbidden to visit.
But while we celebrated our culture, we lived with the sting of American ignorance. Nothing causes more pain in our community than seeing the image of Che Guevara worn as a hero’s symbol.To us, Che was a butcher; yet in the country I love, his face is sold as a fashion statement.
We kept our own magic alive through ritual. The center of our world was Nochebuena (Christmas Eve). We toasted with Crema de Vie, the “Cream of Life,” celebrating our success in America while always ending with the same prayer: Viva Cuba libre!
Then came Jan. 6 — Día de los Reyes Magos. In Little Havana, we didn’t just leave hay under our beds for the camels; we took to the streets for the Three Kings Parade along Calle Ocho.
Today, Jan. 6 has a different meaning in American politics. But for those of us who grew up in Miami, it remains the day we waited for a miracle. We lived by the mantra “no es fácil” — it isn’t easy — but Cubans don’t give up. We work, we find a way, and we stand strong.
Now, the impossible is happening. Secretary of State Marco Rubio — a man who, like me, has never set foot on that soil — is leading negotiations for a “friendly takeover.”
Just thinking of Rubio going to Cuba makes me cry. My grandparents’ memories are so heavy in my mind. If he goes, he will be able to smell the air I never could. He will see El Malecón for all of us.
God, please free that magical island. If Rubio goes to Cuba, pray for him. He is stepping into a country that has lived in our hearts as an unreachable “Neverland” for 60 years.
For the first time, I am allowing myself to believe that “home” might finally be a place I can visit. Maybe this year, when we raise our Crema de Vie, the toast won’t just be a wish — it will be a celebration of a dream finally realized.
Silviamaria Hernandez is originally from Miami and relocated to Orlando in 2018. She is a consultant in real estate property management and the wife of an Army veteran. Her son, grandchildren, and extended family remain in Miami.
This story was originally published March 20, 2026 at 8:00 AM.