I was only five when I arrived in the United States.
I was an international student from Cuba, studying history and geography, and my family had been there since before the revolution.
In the 1980s, my mother would go to school and work at the local Cubano grocery store, and the only Cubans I knew at home were my two brothers.
I didn’t have much of a connection to the outside world, but my father, who had never left Cuba, was a regular at his local coffee shop.
He was a cigar lover, and when I was little, he had a special cup of coffee with his favorite beans.
The only time I went to see him was when I needed to use the bathroom, and he would bring me coffee beans to try and make my day a little more bearable.
I still remember the first time I heard the sound of my mother’s voice.
It was when she was calling me, “Babe, come over here!”
It was like I was suddenly the first person in the world.
It still surprises me that, two decades later, I still get nervous when I hear my mother speak.
I remember the night my mother gave me a ride to the airport.
She told me to follow her, but I turned around and saw her holding a photo of her mom, who was a young woman, with her two brothers and me.
The photo showed her sitting next to her father, holding a bag of chips.
My mother told me later, “It’s your mother’s photo that I’m holding right now, not mine.
I’m your mother!”
It took me a few years to accept my mother for who she was, but she always seemed to take me under her wing.
She always had a smile on her face, even when she told me she was diabetic.
She also told me that she was a fan of Cuban music, so when I first moved to the United State, she encouraged me to get a tattoo of a Cuban flag on my arm.
I think that my mother taught me that being proud of who you are doesn’t mean you have to conform to the rules of society.
That’s why, when I went through the hard times in the 1980-89 years, I never had to wear a hijab.
I learned to dress like a normal American, even though I didn´t wear a headscarf.
It didn´tt hurt me to wear my hijab.
As I grew older, I learned that being Cuban was important, even if I didn’t like it.
I started to appreciate the Cuban culture.
When I moved to New York City, I took classes with a group of people from Havana who were from different backgrounds.
One day, they brought me to a restaurant, and I noticed a group with a woman wearing a hijab, which I thought was weird.
But when I walked in, it was her.
She was from Cuba.
They told me, She is Cuban, and she is an immigrant.
I got to know her very well.
She explained how they came to the U.S. and what made them so proud.
I became very curious about what Cuban culture was like.
In my first year in New York, I visited the American Museum of Natural History and found the Cuban Museum of Art.
I thought, Why not see a Cuban museum?
I thought of the American Revolution, the Cuban War, the American Civil War, and all the other struggles and triumphs of our history.
After a few days, I realized that the Cuban history in America was very interesting and fascinating, but it wasn’t as interesting as it could be.
I had to go back to Cuba and learn more about the culture.
The Cuban Revolution was the biggest event in our country’s history, but we didn´ve been through the Cuban Revolution yet.
It took many years for the Cuban people to get the sense that they were actually part of the revolution, and we were the first people to really get the full measure of it.
After we went to Cuba, I went on to visit the Cuban Cultural Center in Manhattan.
I saw everything I could about the history of Cuba.
I wanted to learn more, and to learn about Cuban culture, because it was important to me.
I went back to Havana and visited some museums, and then I visited museums in Miami, Miami Beach, and San Diego.
I also visited the National Museum of Cuban History in Miami.
I did all the trips that I had planned, but there was no place to visit where I could learn more.
It made me feel like I had nothing to do, like I couldn´t even feel my way around.
So, in the end, I decided to leave Cuba.
The day after I left, I received an email from a woman named Julia.
She said, I want to visit Cuba, but first I want you to know