Recently I’ve had several people ask me why I chose Cuban Nomad as the title for my blog and whether or not it meant anything. I would love to say it was all part of my master branding plan, having discovered the moniker after repeated focus group testing and intense research, but the reality is much more unexciting. Staring at the blank "blog title" line when first setting up WordPress, I was racked with indecision. Should I go with something cute and irreverent? Would I leave it empty using only my URL as a safe, yet extremely boring, option? Is this something I could commit to in the long term or change frequently whenever the mood struck me? Then I started thinking, how could I best summarize myself in as few words as possible, and that’s when the micro-epiphany happened.
Cuban
I am a first generation American, the son of immigrants searching for a better life, joining the throngs of people chasing the elusive "American Dream". My parents fled Cuba when a bearded fucktard and his band of sociopaths (you might have seen one of them on a t-shirt) decided to plunge the entire country into the darkness known as communism. 
Luckily, my father was already in the United States studying agriculture at university. Seems I came real close to growing up on a chicken farm. Up in NYC, he worked numerous jobs to collect the money needed to get his sisters (the only family he had left) out of Cuba before it was too late. After a stint up north, they moved down to a more tropical (and familiar) setting, Miami.
My mother and her family high-tailed it to Venezuela when the shit hit the fan. Losing everything in the process, Grandpa was understandably pissed off and putting his money where his mouth was, joined up with what ultimately formed the Bay of Pigs invasion force. We all know how that turned out and it’s amazing he made it back at all. Eventually they moved to NYC, trying to rebuild what was lost before the siren call of warm weather and dominos lured them down to Miami.
As steeped my blood is in the Caribbean, I sometimes feel that Cuban is a misnomer. I’ve never set foot on the beautiful island. The closest I came was in an airplane, hanging a right at 30,000 feet, going to Costa Rica. The <sarcasm> incredibly effective embargo </sarcasm> has kept me from ever being in touch with my roots. I fluently understand Spanish, but what comes out of my mouth tends to be the bastardized slang so frequently heard on the streets of Miami. Ever since my parents split and my mom took us to Florida, I’ve felt my connection to Cuba slip away. My father was the one who grew up in Cuba proper, while my mother was too Americanized to pass any culture along. My grandmother dripped Cuban folklore, devout Catholicism and Caribbean superstition, but Alzheimer’s locked it in her mind and her death erased it from this earth. I rely on vacation snaps from my British friends to show me what Cuba looks like these days, which is heart wrenchingly sad. Yet in spite of all the walls placed between me and my heritage, I still cling fiercely to my Cuban blood, for without it I would just be a generic slate without spice or heat or passion.
Nomad
For as long as I can remember, I’ve moved around. My childhood was spent more going from house to house than actually growing up in any of them. Constantly changing surroundings and nonstop chaos forced me to adapt to any situation rather quickly. When Costa Rica became our next destination, my third grade self merely shrugged his shoulders and said "ok". The good thing from all the shuffling around was that I developed a complete lack of fear when going somewhere new. Whether to visit or live, these destinations became just another place to integrate into. The bad thing was a lack of foundation as I navigated the quicksand of growing up. Nothing was permanent–not friendships, not memories, not habits–a childhood built on quicksilver.
Looking back upon it, I shouldn’t be surprised my life went in that direction. Cubans have been a displaced people ever since Castro, similar to Persians after the Islamic revolution. Our homeland denied, we scattered across the globe in search of prosperity. I’ve bumped into fellow Cubans all over the world; working in the back of a Mexican restaurant in Holland having defected from the Cuban army, in a Floridian drag cabaret after riding his custom three-wheeled Harley from Toronto, and in Charlotte following his folks who had decided to retire to the lush green of North Carolina. Those still trapped in Cuba live in abject poverty with their cities literally crumbling around them, unless they’re part of the communist elite, but that’s a whole other post. Crushed by an oppressive regime, we still tend to be quite ingenious in our escape methods.
With as much traveling as I’ve done (both professionally and personally), I rarely encounter nomads such as myself. Military brats and ex-pat offspring are the closest I’ve found to globe-trotting kin. We tend to share war stories and chuckle about those who’ve never left the country, but lasting bonds are never formed as we continue in our journeys. I guess that’s why nomadic tribes are so tightly knit. Not only is it family, but that shared experience of ceaseless wandering is almost impossible to find outside of that group. It’s hard to relate to mundane folk when your stories of foreign lands sound like fairy tales to them. Going through customs is exotic to those who’ve never left their home state and living somewhere that people don’t speak English will downright blow their minds. Because of the disconnect this causes, I tend to gravitate toward international locales, like New York and Miami, where people are not only familiar with my experiences, but more than likely just got off a plane themselves.
With as liquid as my past has been, I wouldn’t trade it for anything else. It gave me a level head, real perspective with world affairs and the ability to feel comfortable anywhere. Wanderlust is a unique trait that seems to have disappeared in modern America, but thankfully a few share the insanity with me. I don’t think I’ll ever stop exploring the world, but for now I need to rest somewhere comfortable and familiar. Living in four states and one country in the last five years has taken it’s toll.
Cuban Nomad
With my shark-like need to keep moving and a heritage screaming at me from behind political razor wire, Cuban Nomad became the flag I planted deep into the Internet’s techno-soil; a secret name I carried without knowing, until it bubbled up from within. It’s not a hacker handle that I prefer over my god given name, but it does capture the essence of who I am, who I’ve been and quite possibly who I will become.
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If you ever wanted to write something semi-autobiographical (or completely so), it would be fascinating. It really would!