My father is a Cuban exile. At twelve years old, he left Cuba with his brother—leaving siblings and parents behind—as part of Operation Pedro Pan. Years later, the family was reunited in Miami, where my 95-year old grandmother still lives to this day, enjoying Miami Heat games on television. I grew up outside of the traditional Miami Cuban community. My mother is American, and no one spoke Spanish in our neighborhood. Yet our annual pilgrimage to visit abuela in Little Havana had a profound impact on my personal development. I recognized that even in the joy of our family reunions, there was always a sorrow, a longing for the promised land of Cuba. My father returned to Cuba for the first time in 2005, and I had the honor of being the only family member to join him. The decision caused deep tension for many in our family; for them, a Cuba with no democracy and any Castro was forbidden territory. Yet my father saw beyond the politics of the moment, recognizing that the desire to connect with the island and its people—his people—was not an act of treason, but a rite of passage. I’ve returned to Cuba several times...