Category Archives: exile

“I Have a Dream,” at Watchung Booksellers

Tomorrow, on #MLKDay, I will do a reading from my translation of “I Have a Dream,” that beautiful and emblematic speech by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The event will take place at Watchung Booksellers, at 7PM. (If you’d like to attend, please register in this link. The entire conversation will be in Spanish.)

I will dedicate this event:
– to #KeenanAnderson, a high school teacher, who was murdered a couple of days ago by members of the Los Angeles police department, for the crime of being Black and asking its officers for help;
– to artist @luismanuel.oteroalcantara and #Grammy-winning rapper @maykelosorbo, both #Cuban citizens who are languishing in prison in #Cuba for the crime of thinking while Black;
– to Black women in Cuba and the US, who have to fight against the violence of misogyny and racism on a daily basis;
– to descendants of enslaved Africans in every country built upon the rubble of the Atlantic slave trade;
– to my African ancestors, whose lineage I do not know due to that form of violence that is institutional oblivion.

The personal has always been political.

As Dr. King said: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

A Settling of Scores

As a child, in Havana…

All those racists I remember
were good revolutionaries.
I would write their obituaries,
from January till December.
One was a high-ranking member
—and a puppet— of the State.
Will my anger dissipate?
He was Brown, but passed as white.
He was my father. That’s right.
He’s still a coward. Checkmate.

Author’s note: This is my recreation and condensation, in English, of my seven décimas published today in the Spanish edition of 14ymedio

Please, keep in mind that this post —as well as the entirety of Ideological Deviation, my weekly column— is considered a crime by the Cuban government. Ok, bye.

Apropos of “A Settling of Scores”  

As a child, in Havana…

Today, the Cuban independent newspaper 14ymedio published the seven décimas of the most recent entry of my weekly column, Ideological Deviation. You can read them in one fell swoop on their website, or take them individually, in daily doses, on my Spanish blog, which is also yours, Belascoaín y Neptuno.  

I don’t usually write commentary to explain what I write. What I write explains itself. Or it doesn’t, and that’s that. However, I’ve made an exception this time because, after these seventy lines, I still had more to say. I want to highlight the discomfort that confronting racism and its many forms of violence causes in our society —I’m taking about Cuba, yes, and that is also applicable in the United States. But let’s focus on Cuba.  

There are people who have told me all my life, in Spanish and in English, “I don’t see race or color,” and, in saying so, have always had the best of intentions. But whoever doesn’t see race also doesn’t see racism. And those problems will not be solved if we prefer to think they don’t exist. To not have to think about race, to not see race, is an immense privilege. I see it every time I look in the mirror. And yes, it’s a social construct, and all that, but I didn’t invent it. It was already here when I got to the party, like Augusto Monterroso’s famous dinosaur.  

Since we are at it: it’s also a privilege to not have to think about gender, or money, or sexual orientation, or migratory status, or physical abilities, or about other factors that I don’t mention here, because I don’t see them, because they don’t come to mind at this moment, while I write this.  

I was Black in Cuba, although here I’ve been placed in the “Latine” niche, while I repeat over and over that I am and will always be Cuban, until my lights are turned off; I’m Habanero, to be more precise.  

I’ve never had the option of not thinking of myself as a racialized being, including long before I acquired this vocabulary. I didn’t have that choice when authorities during my Cuban upbringing repeated that racism was a remnant of the past —that thankfully had been eradicated in Cuba—while they taught me to hate my hair. This hair, this beautiful hair. The conjunction of this feeling of racial consciousness with the fallacy that we learn —that we learned— at home, that “the family is sacred,” was the starting point for this cycle of décimas. No, folks. We have to talk about racism, and we have to talk about it in public. And this conversation will have to be uncomfortable, especially for those who have never stopped to think about this subject. Believe me: more uncomfortable —more dangerous!— is racism itself. And another thing: family is who behaves as such. Family is also chosen. (My Aunt Lucy, who is not a blood relative, is more my family than my entire paternal line. I’m making use of this opportunity to send her, publicly, my everlasting love.)

In this week’s column, I maintain my policy of not telling a lie and punching all the way up. Here, as everywhere, the personal is political. Furthermore: my childhood demonstrates the resounding failure of the Cuban regime in promoting and implementing racial justice and equity on the island that I escaped, as so many thousands of my compatriots are doing right now.  

I know that the State is a system and, that in my poem, I refer to individuals. But the gears of a society function —for better or worse— because of the people who implement them. These creatures and their sickening racism passed through my life. And they all openly supported “the Revolution,” while reiterating that, in the previous dictatorship, I “wouldn’t even have been considered a person.”  

Therefore, I owe it to the child that I was to settle this score in public. I dedicate these rhymes to the racists —of all genders and latitudes— who have defended —and explained to me!— the Cuban Revolution.  

The love for the homeland is learned at home. So is racism. Educate yourself, and educate your offspring.  

Don’t forget that the dictum of “don’t air dirty laundry in public” is an effective way of protecting those who oppress you.  

Tell your truth. Remember, as Audre Lorde said: “Your silence will not protect you.”

I, Too, Have a Dream

Last year, my friend Juan Milà, Editorial Director at Harper Via, called to ask me if I’d be interested in translating the speech I Have a Dream, by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. At first, I thought I had misheard him. I couldn’t believe this monumental pillar of the Civil Rights movement hadn’t been published in book form in Spanish. I said yes immediately…

And now the book is out!

It has been my greatest honor to bring this timely and timeless speech into my native language. I also had the privilege of translating a moving prologue, written for this edition, by Amanda Gorman. In translating both texts, I benefited from wonderful suggestions from my editor (and now dear friend) Ariana Rosado Fernández, as well as from my dear Juan Milà. 

In the process, I was aware at all times that this was a speech. Therefore, the text had to sound good. Beyond the content, I had to convey a cadence, a musicality, and a rhythm from one of the greatest orators in the English language. So I recited every sentence and the entire speech, in Spanish, over and over… 

For the first few days (or was it weeks?), I still couldn’t believe that I was going to be the vehicle through which Dr. King’s words would reach a Spanish-speaking audience. Yet, rather than intimidate me, that responsibility inspired me and kept me focused and grounded.

Since the final draft, I have lost track of how many times I’ve read my translation out loud. And my voice still cracks, and my heartbeat still races as I read it. This is personal. I have skin in the game. I, too, have a dream. I, too, share Dr. King’s dream. I, too, wonder, with Langston Hughes, what happens to a dream deferred.

This dream is also applicable to my homeland. In the photos from this post, the man raising his fist against a racist regime is Grammy-award winner Maykel “Osorbo” Castillo Pérez, who is currently in jail in Cuba for his song “Patria y vida,” and for singing while Black. He is a prominent leader of the San Isidro Movement. And I will not be free until he is free. Until Cuba is free.

My translation of I Have a Dream is available through your local bookstore. You can also ask your public library to include it in its collection. Go ahead, read it. Believe in it. Make the dream come true!

The Power of Names — Op-Ed in The Miami Herald

The Power of Names

Alexis Romay 

Earlier last month, I visited an independent school in Connecticut, to speak on Indigenous Peoples’ Day, about Hispanic Heritage Month, the power of names, and the power of naming. Names are a critical component of our identity. Names reveal —or conceal— who we are. Let’s start with “Connecticut,” which takes its name from an Algonquian word that means “land on the long tidal river.” I made that point from a podium in the land that belongs to the Nipmunks, the Sequin, the Matabesec or Wappinger, and the Pequot-Mohegan. I might have mispronounced those words, and I might have omitted others. And that is a direct consequence of the systemic erasure of “Indigenous Peoples” from our curricula, our media, and our collective narrative.

“Indigenous Peoples” is a shortcut to identify a large and diverse set of cultures who didn’t call themselves “Indigenous Peoples.” That is an umbrella under which they’ve been placed by external sources with the power of naming. “Indigenous Peoples” is a product of colonialism.

The independent school that hosted me is located in New Haven. But a “New Haven” for whom? Certainly not for the “Indigenous Peoples,” who were forced to leave their land and go on a long trail of tears to find their new haven.

I mentioned that I’m Cuban. “Cuba,” a beautiful Taino word, which means “great place.” For me, the great place from which, 23 years ago, I fled the Castro dictatorship, a totalitarian regime that has lasted more than six decades, and today is terrorizing the Cuban people who are reclaiming their right to have rights. Children, adults, and elderly people are barricading the streets and shouting “freedom,” because they believe, as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. did, that “a riot is the language of the unheard.” And, also, because, as the late congressman John Lewis said: “We do not want our freedom gradually, but we want to be free now!”

Cubans, on the island and in exile, are speaking loud and clear. They are voting with their feet, by crossing the treacherous path from Central America to the United States, by braving —on makeshift rafts— the ninety miles of sharks and uncertainty that separate Cuba from the US, or by putting their bodies in front of the police force of the Cuban government, a political system that has simultaneously lost all touch with reality and what little credibility it still had in the international arena.

Let’s go back to the power of names and the power of naming. Let’s take a look at Latino, Latina, Latine, Latinx, Hispanic… and all the possible permutations of those identifiers. Well, that’s not what I call myself. I am Cuban. My Colombian friends are Colombian. My Puerto Rican friends are Puerto Rican. My Chilean friends are Chilean. And so on, and so forth. Yet, we have been placed under a massive umbrella.

The powerful thing about shared umbrellas is that they offer shelter against the tempest. The problem with shared umbrellas is that once you’re under them, you have very little room to move about freely. You are confined to a crowded space in which you might become indistinguishable from the people next to you. You might gain a collective identity at the risk of losing your own —individual or national— identity.

Much like there are cultural differences between the people of New Haven and the people of New Orleans, the people from, say, Lima (Peru), and Cuba’s capital —Havana, another Taino word— share a common language, which is also a product of colonialism. But they differ greatly in their history, traditions, idiosyncrasies, cosmogony.

Let’s think about another continent. But, first, let’s think about the Ukrainians. Slava Ukraini!

We talk about the French, the Italians, the Germans, the Spaniards, the Greeks, the Irish; we even make distinctions for the members of the United Kingdom: the English, the Scottish, the Welsh. We don’t throw “the Europeans” under one big umbrella. They get to retain their national identities.  

Therefore, I am writing this to invite you to extend the same courtesy to Africa, Asia, and the Americas. Because Africa is not a country. Asia is not a country. And America is not a country.

Let’s normalize calling our nation by its proper name: the United States of America; the US or USA, if you are in a rush. And, yes, “our nation.” I use the possessive pronoun, because, in the immortal words of Langston Hughes, “I, too, am America.”


This Op-Ed was published —with slight modifications— in the print edition of The Miami Herald, on 10/27/22.

How many dead do you need?

How many dead do you need?
How many more people killed
by a government so skilled
in implementing its creed
that after it does the deed
of sinking a fleeing boat
it accuses the scapegoat?
Cuba is a dictatorship.
Spare me photos from your trip.
My friends in Cuba can’t vote.

Author’s note: This is my recreation and condensation, in English, of my décimas published this week in the Spanish edition of 14ymedio

Colonel Mario Méndez (shown above), a high-ranking officer of the Ministry of Interior, gave me the fuel for this text with the question that he repeated ad nauseam during a TV program apropos of the latest massacre perpetrated by the Cuban regime: “How many more dead do you need?”

Please, keep in mind that this post —as well as the entirety of Ideological Deviation, my weekly column— is considered a crime by the Cuban government..

The Power of Names

Here’s our premise for this morning:

– I am a Cuban in Connecticut,
– Who is here to talk on Indigenous Peoples’ Day,
– About Hispanic Heritage Month,
– To an audience of 700 people,
– In under 14 minutes.

Apropos of “Ideological Deviation”

I will be brief. These terrifying words began many of the interminable speeches of the Mansplainer-in-Chief who, pistol in hand, took control of Cuba 62,000 millennia ago. With this introduction to my new column in 14ymedio, I propose to do exactly the same. (I’m referring to being brief, not to taking over the Island. I hope the results are not so devastating.)

The column will appear weekly under the banner Ideological Deviation, which in addition to being the title of my book of décimas, is a horrible legal concept with which the government frightened me in my childhood and youth in Havana, and for which any Cuban can still be imprisoned in the land I fled. The décima is a style of Spanish poetry created in the XVI century by Vicente Espinel. The format is 10 lines, eight-syllables each. It rhymes ABBAACCDDC. Jorge Drexler did a beautiful TEDx talk about it.

Does this mean that I am going to write an opinion column exclusively to the rhythm of the décima? Well, yes. The reason is simple: the meter and rhyme  —and, hopefully, the content— ​​will render them memorable. This will make it easier for them to be recited in morning assemblies at schools throughout the nation. From preschool to sixth grade! To infinity… and beyond! Pioneers for dropping bars, we will be like Espinel!

My octosyllables will come in a variety of tones and registers —lyrical, nostalgic, satirical, parodic, animal, vegetable, and mineral— which are my ways of thinking and feeling Cuba from a distance. Thinking and feeling are crimes in totalitarianism, and the Cuba that the Castros took for themselves is no exception. (Ah… and I aspired to write a presentation without mentioning that last name that produces gagging, nausea, hives).

I escaped in order to be, an action that in Spanish is split into two verbs: ser and estar. I fled in order to think and to feel. Beyond the seas and decades later, I admire those who are, who think, and who feel in Cuba. I could not imagine my life in my land, but I celebrate that there are those who can do it and do it every day, against the winds and the tides of an implacable regime. These verses, and those to come, are for you.

The People,” “the Cuban Nation”

“The people,” “the Cuban nation”
is not the same as “the State.”
(No need for you to debate.
Go on. Have a revelation.)
The “Revolution,” that station
in Dante’s Hell, is a trap:
the government does kidnap
the Cubans who dare protest;
at Díaz Canel’s request,
they get erased from the map.


The photo in this post shows Cuban artist and two-time Latin Grammy-winner rapper Maykel “Osorbo” Castillo, who has been detained at the maximum security Pinar del Río prison since May 2021 for his song “Patria y vida.”

Havana for Foreign Correspondents & College Professors (a parody)

Havana for Foreign Correspondents & College Professors

(a parody)

Music (and original lyrics): Camila Cabello

Lyrics: Alexis Romay

Havana, ooh, na-na.
There’s a police state in Havana, ooh, na-na,
and throughout Cuba, but Havana, ooh, na-na,
is where the ruling Castro Junta,
the dynasty, keeps dragging
our country through the mud.

Fidel came to power with all his shootin’,
back in the fifties.
He scared the whole nation by executin
his friends and foes.
We knew him forever in a minute.
It’s been six decades.
And fleeing became our national sport.

Ooh, ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh.
I knew it when I met him. I hated his repression.
Ooh, ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh.
And then I had to tell him, I had to go.

Havana, ooh, na-na.
There’s a police state in Havana, ooh, na-na,
and throughout Cuba, but Havana, ooh, na-na,
is where the ruling Castro Junta,
the dynasty, keeps dragging
our country through the mud.

A dictatorship is ruling the island.
Sixty-two years!
They’re sentencing minors for daring to speak
against the tyrant.
His name’s Díaz Canel, but we call him “Singao.”
He’s just a puppet.
My friends are in prison or they were exiled.

Ooh, ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh.
I knew it when I met him. I hated his repression.
Ooh, ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh.
And then I had to tell him, I had to go.

Havana, ooh, na-na.
There’s a police state in Havana, ooh, na-na,
and throughout Cuba, but Havana, ooh, na-na,
is where the ruling Castro Junta,
the dynasty, keeps dragging
our country through the mud.


Here you can find the Spanish version of this parody.

Cuba for Foreign Correspondents and College Professors (a Hamilton parody and a history lesson)

[Illustration: Garrincha].

In December 2017, inspired by Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton: An American Musical, I recreated Fidel Castro’s history as narrated by the Cuban people he subjugated for over five decades of dictatorship. (You can listen to that song here; trigger warning: it is in Spanish.)

Last week, using the same song, I wrote “Cuba for Foreign Correspondents and College Professors” to talk to those two demographic groups that, in spite of the overwhelming evidence, continue to give the benefit of the doubt to the Castro regime, which was recently inherited by Miguel Díaz Canel.  

I have a couple of friends who have already included the song in their history unit on Cuba, alongside my articles “Cuba and the Art of Repression” and ”A Tale of Two Cities.” (They teach in middle and high school. So, come to think of it, this is really for educators K-16.) Feel free to include all these materials in your curriculum!

Cuba for Foreign Correspondents and College Professors

Music: Lin-Manuel Miranda

Lyrics: Alexis Romay

How does a violent person who came to power

by shooting people, starting in the 50s,

and ruined the hopes of the Cuban nation

somehow manage to gain your admiration?

The Firing Squads he ordered, ala KGB,

became our terror when shown on live TV.

By the early 60s, people were afraid.

Many chose to flee. Many chose to stay.

He called a meeting with Cuban intellectuals.

His gun was in his holster. 

He placed it on the table.

He was a horror show, 

presented as a fable.

He created labor camps 

to “reform homosexuals.”

The camp’s motto was: 

“work will make you men.”

He also was a racist

What don’t you understand?

He wanted to harvest 

ten million tons of sugar cane.

(The effect on the economy 

was worse than a hurricane.)

He brought the world to the brink 

of nuclear annihilation,

but the will of the Cuban people 

wasn’t on the equation.

In fact, the will of the people 

has never been considered.

Castro’s dynasty bloomed, 

while the country withered.

Cuba IS a dictatorship.

Cuba HAS BEEN a dictatorship.

There’s only one legal party in the land.

Would you please take a stand?

Castro turned milk into powder, 

dreams into nightmares.

He forced Cubans to march 

in the streets and in the squares.

He invented these horrible 

“acts of repudiation.”

[Sotto voce] They are pogroms. 

They are an abomination.

He ruled with an iron fist. 

Raúl was by his side.

He made some strange bedfellows 

while looking far and wide.

Now that the documents 

have been declassified:  

He and Videla 

let their mutual crimes slide.

He loved sending Cuban troops 

to wars around the world.

He didn’t discriminate, 

he sent the young and the old.

Since he wanted to look 

like he was doing them a favor,

he also sent Cuban doctors 

to work as indentured labor.

He executed his generals

the ones who had done his bidding.

He terrorized our whole nation. 

I wish this was just me kidding.

He colonized Venezuela 

under Chávez and Maduro.

To the hunger in the present, 

he responded: “El futuro.”

On 2016, he showed 

that he was just a mere mortal,

and, for Thanksgiving that year, 

he crossed the final portal.

In Dante’s circle of Hell 

where the violent lament,

he’ll hear for eternity 

the Cuban discontent.

Oh, Fidel Hipólito. 

(Yes, that was his given name.)

We are so glad that you are not around.

Yet the repression is just the same.

Oh, Fidel Hipólito. 

History won’t be kind to you.

It will note that you used your henchmen

to impose your point of view.

History will not absolve you. 

You schmuck!

Cubans are in the streets

chanting “liberation,”

while the police enforce

their tactics of persuasion.

The New York Times applauded you

(didn’t call you a dictator).

Che killed for you.

(Did you kill him?)

Allende trusted you.

What about him?

And Díaz Canel…

is the idiot who quotes you.

Feel free to fact-check this song.

And retweet!

What was this about?

It was Fidel Hipólito.