As a Cuban-American, Fidel Castro’s death is a monumental moment both in my life, and my family’s. Castro’s death is a time of satisfaction for the courageous souls who risked their lives, never seeing their families again, and themselves so that they and future generations could reap the benefits of their bravery and strength. It is the culmination of every sacrifice made to be able to enjoy the liberties this country so generously offered my people in a time of trouble. For those who do not know, Fidel Castro was the bloodthirsty dictator of Cuba who took a countless amount of lives via firing squad, sentenced people to prison for merely disagreeing with him, inflicted intense psychological torment and implemented a suffocating, oppressive government on the island of Cuba leaving its inhabitants no choice but to escape. The Castro regime forced my family out of their native country and into unfamiliar territory – the United States of America. At the tender age of fourteen, my grandmother fled her home virtually penniless and with few belongings to try and assure her freedom a mere 90 miles away. She thought she was leaving Cuba for a short time, not knowing that the city of Miami would transform from a temporary home to a permanent one. She was stripped of everything she knew and had, her reality completely turned upside-down literally overnight. Her new normal was acclimating to a culture she knew next to nothing about and learning a language she had little familiarity with.

His death brings no real change, but the symbolism in his passing is colossal. As the granddaughter of an immigrant, obviously Castro’s death does not have the same effect as it does on my grandparents and other respected adults in my community, but I am so fortunate that I was able to participate in the blissful madness that overcame the streets of Miami. On the night of his passing, I was lucky enough to be in Miami to witness the celebration that overcame the entire city. I had never seen the streets so electric, full of life, and unified. The notion of waiting for Castro’s death has been ingrained in me since the day I was born. This day has been anticipated for years and finally, it arrived on November 26, 2016, with a symphony of car horns and the clamor of pots and pans. Until then, I had never treated someone’s death with celebration. The manifestation of the oppression and struggle that my family faced has now been eradicated, and the Cuban community could not be more elated and is most definitely grounds for festivities. This day will forever remain vividly in my memory, and although I myself am not from the island, the blood that courses through my veins is. I am grateful for the freedoms I have been granted through my family’s endless sacrifices, and for my Cuban heritage – especially today.