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The air slapped me like a thick glue as I emerged from my casa particular and sauntered into the pulsing darkness. Through the facades of weathered structures that revealed browning pinks and greying yellows, I gazed upon palm trees that swayed in the gentle sea breeze. Aloof car honks, crescendos of buzzing engines, and the undulating cadence of reggaeton accompanied me as I traversed the Malecon, the stretch of sidewalk along Havana, Cuba’s waterfront. In front of me, a group of Cubans danced and laughed, animated by the magnetic power of their stories, music, and rum. My naïve eyes tried to manifest the spirit of this nighttime ritual, but instead, I only found a poignant hollowness festering inside of me. I was in Havana for the summer with a group of college students to explore the island’s public health system. Without cell service or readily accessible internet, I received news updates only every few days. I had learned that gay marriage had been legalized in the United States a few hours prior to my walk along the Malecon. I purchased an internet card at the hotel down the street from my casa particular. I took a seat in the strikingly ornate lobby that evoked feelings of a bygone era replete with opportunity. Opening my phone and seeing this news, I felt extreme hope. At the same time, though, I felt a bit unsettled; as a young, mostly closeted gay adult, I desperately pined to celebrate my identity publicly. As I continued walking down the Malecon lost in my thoughts, I began to sense a low, subtle thumping emerging out of the peripheral seams of the night. My American friend and I eventually turned down a small side street. A deluge of humans spilled out into the street from multi-colored almendrones, shared taxis that transport passengers along a fixed route, and lined up against a foreboding white wall. Powerful vibrations permeated out of a large brick structure. The night shrouded us with anonymity. Once inside the club, my attention fixated on two men with wide, piercing eyes that swelled when they smiled as they caressed each other discreetly, offering each other little hints of love. The fluorescent lights reflected off their dancing bodies and illuminated the way they sang Vivir Mi Vida, Marc Anthony’s homage to self-empowerment. As they belted out the lyrics, voy a reír, voy a bailar, vivir mi vida, my heart jumped and the muscles around my mouth could not resist forming a smile that matched the joy on their faces. Throughout the night, I watched them as they danced to techno and reggaeton beats, absorbing their movements and coquettish gestures. I guessed that one of the men was Cuban, from the way he so smoothly mastered the complicated footwork central to salsa dancing. I picked up on bits of English in their conversation, which led me to believe the other man was foreign. Seemingly arbitrary spells of laughter possessed their conversation, the kind of nervous but endearing laughter that is intrinsic to dialogue between two individuals struggling with a language barrier. Completely gripped by the scene before me, I forgot about my American friend. I rapidly turned around and gestured to her with a slight wave when I caught sight of her standing alone by the bar. She approached me and placed her hands upon my shoulders. She looked directly at me and muttered the phrase “Es es tu vida, así que vívela.” We stared at each other for what felt like ten seconds as I repeated her words in my mind. Though short, this phrase transformed my perspective. It gave me the strength to hear my inner voice and be proud to be who I was. The cross-cultural love story that transpired that night against a backdrop of reggaeton, flashing lights and illustrious bodies forged a tacit connection between myself and the two men. I started to sway and dance in a haze of euphoric self-love. For the remainder of my trip, I held on tightly to the memory of those two men. I felt a burgeoning ripple of self-acceptance channel through myself as it gradually circulated my full heart.