In 1997, I stepped off a Cubana Airlines plane in Havana, having to that point experienced the mystery of modern Cuba only as a prospective researcher and tourist. There were several other Americans on the flight. We stood in a queue waiting to enter the country. When I arrived at the Customs check, the officer took my passport and motioned me to a side room. Two black Cuban guards moved to my sides and escorted me into an area with a small metal table and a chair.

In the room, they first patted me down and then asked me to sit. My ear had not yet attuned to Cuban Spanish, so my responses were quite slow. First, they asked me where I was from. I responded, “The United States” and showed them my papers. Unsatisfied, they asked, “Where are you really from?” I became annoyed and thought I should get more specific. “Chicago,” I replied. They did not seem satisfied and countered, “But where were you born?” By this time, I was deeply confused and unclear as to how to respond. I replied, “Chicago.”

They looked at each other and seemed to agree on the next question: “Where are your parents from – where were they born?” I responded, “Chicago and Alabama, the United States.” At this point, they seemed confused. One took a second look, and said with relief, “So you're not Cuban?” I responded, “No.” The other then asked, “Not your family? But you look Cuban.”