Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

Loyalty is a complicated thing—where does family fit on the hierarchy? Above or below country? Above or below the natural order of things? Or are we above all else loyal to ourselves, to our hearts, our convictions, the internal voice that guides us?

I played with dolls while he went to war.

It is a remarkably painful thing to have someone you care about and admire judge your existence, your very identity, the world you inhabit, and deem it rotten to the core.

I feel awkward around him, as though the things I could contribute to the conversation are frivolous and shallow in comparison.

They ensure we’re so preoccupied with the daily struggle that there’s little left over for the most important one, for taking control of our future.”

we were too busy living in the bubbles we’d created to realize the rest of Cuba had changed and left us behind. I feel guilt and shame.

And for some, the love we cannot have is the most powerful one of all.