I was born and raised in Miami by Cuban parents who fled a dictatorship. Like every Cuban kid here, I grew up hearing stories—at school, at family parties, or from the viejito at the La Carreta ventanita—about how awful life in Cuba was before they left.
Those stories are everywhere here. You can't grow up in Miami without them. They're about fear, repression, poverty. About sneaking away in the dead of night, leaving everything behind, risking it all for a shot at freedom. I respect those stories. I carry them with me. They shaped who I am and how I see the world.
But what I won't do—what I can't do—is sit quietly while Cuban Americans, who know what that desperation feels like, turn their backs on immigrants seeking the exact same thing.
You fled a communist dictatorship. These refugees fleeing violence, corruption, poverty, and authoritarianism. You wanted a future. So do they. What's the difference? In Miami—and across America—I'm witnessing a troubling disassociation taking hold. A divide between those of us whose personal or generational trauma has bent us toward empathy and those who say, "That's not my story." As if the privilege of survival grants you the right to deny others their shot at the same dream.
I see it, too, in the way many Democrats have turned their backs on the LGBTQ+ community. As long as the monster isn't coming for them, they feel safe. But that's not how monsters work. Eventually, they come for all of us.
And yes, I'm especially looking at those in our community who support Trump. If you're cheering him on as he promises mass deportations or sitting silently as families are ripped apart—just know this: you've become the person your abuela warned you about.
Spare me your exile story if you're only going to weaponize it while denying someone else the same chance your family had. That's not patriotism. That's cowardice in a guayabera.
Let's be honest about something else, too: many Cubans didn't come here "the right way." They arrived on boats, rafts, or through open-arms immigration policies like the Cuban Adjustment Act, which gave our community a fast track to legal residency that others could only dream of. We were welcomed. And yet, somehow, many in our community have convinced themselves that the same opportunity shouldn't be extended to others. That somehow, we were different.
It's not just hypocrisy—it's selective memory.
What happened to the compassion we demanded for our own families? What happened to the pride we took in being political refugees who understood what it meant to start over with nothing but hope?
We are at a turning point in society. History will remember who chose the side of empathy, compassion, and democracy—and who remembered how their family heroically escaped dictatorship, only to side with one here.
Let's call it what it is: freedom for me, but not for thee.
But here's the truth: none of us are free if even one person's human rights are tossed aside. That includes LGBTQ+ families under attack in red states. That includes immigrants at the border. That includes trans kids being targeted by hate-fueled legislation. We are connected in this struggle whether we like it or not.
I ran for Florida State Senate because I wanted my daughters to see that Latinas deserve leaders who understand the immigrant experience—and who believe everyone deserves a fair shot. I want them to know that compassion is a form of strength. That our stories should be a bridge, not a weapon.
I want to see more leaders stepping up and standing firm. I think of people like Tennessee State Representative Gabby Salinas, who refuses to be silent as Republicans in her state attack immigrants. She's fighting for us. Who in Miami is doing the same?
We don't get to pick and choose when to care. We don't get to hoard our freedom and pretend it's only for people who look like us, pray like us, love like us, or vote like us.
If your family's story meant something—if it was more than just a badge of honor you pull out for political convenience—then it should compel you to fight for others now. Don't become the person your abuela warned you about. Use your voice. Show up. Remember that the fight for freedom doesn't end once you're safe.
It ends when we all are.
Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. Visit Advocate.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists, and editors, and do not directly represent the views of The Advocate or our parent company, equalpride.
