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I was only four years old when I left everything behind. I don't remember much but there is this picture that always comes to my mind to this day. I was about three years old with a one-piece bathing suit that was gray with pink flowers all over it. I was at the beach in Nueva Gerona, Isla de la Juventud, Cuba. The sand was as black as a night sky and it twinkled when the sun shines on it. I was crouching down to pick up seashells and a small wave comes and warms my little toes making me giggle. That memory is 24 years old and this past July I went to the place I called home for the first time. I was nervous yet excited to see the place I called home for the first four years of my life. From the sounds of the motors of the fotingos (antique cars) to the smell of Cuban food from every corner, Cuba is a dream of an island despite the negative and oppressed views it received for its regime. I won't lie that I fell like a foreigner despite speaking the language. I speak Spanish, however, I don't speak the Cuban dialect. It's almost arrogant but friendly. I felt ashamed that I wasn't able to dance salsa as most of the other adolescents who added their own swing to it and made it sabroso (delightful). I felt lost and disconnected from a culture I thought I knew. Yet, something magical happened, the people. The people, the citizens of Cuba are so welcoming and amicable that they help not just their own, but everyone within their means. I was taught about history by several retired veterans for and against the late President Fidel Castro. I was taught to feel the rhythm of the music by the kids on the block. I was welcomed into a family's home for some chisme (gossip) with some delicious Cuban coffee. I was being accepted into a culture when I thought I was no good. When I was younger, I always said that I wanted to be raised in Cuba. I wanted to be fully Cuban form speaking like them to having their mannerisms. On that trip, I found out that I am Cuban just a different form of it.