Clinging to Light, Dancing in the Dark

Do you know when I felt the most Cuban growing up in Miami?

It wasn’t eating at Versailles or at a birthday party with pastelitos de guayaba and croquetas. It was at Noche Buena at my Tía Myriam’s house. Forget Mariah Carey telling us what she wants for Christmas—the spirit landed in our house with Mi Burrito Sabanero tuki tuki tuki tuki-ing its way through the speakers. That’s when we knew it was officially Meri Crisma.

Noche Buena was a feast: lechón (pork) cooked in a caja china, congrí (black beans and rice), and yuca soaked in garlicky mojo criollo. Pure heaven.

And once the food was gone? ¡A bailar! The records came out, and we danced—Cuban salsa, merengue, disco breaks from my godmother and her brother, and cousins showing off their breakdancing skills. Then it was right back to salsa and merengue. My dad would pull my brother and me onto the dance floor—not just to teach the steps but to hear the rhythm in our hearts and feel the beat in our bones.

With bellies full and feet sore, we’d head to Midnight Mass, participating in rituals passed down through generations, across borders, and in different languages.

Now, as we head into the December holiday season, I find myself thinking about these moments. About traditions. About light.

December in the northern hemisphere is full of darkness—as we approach the Winter Solstice, literally the longest and coldest night of the year. And this year, I’ve felt it more than ever: the slow recovery from my leg injuries, the temporary facial paralysis from Bell’s Palsy, and the wintry chill that Manhattan has wrapped around me as we head into 2025.

I’m choosing to hold onto the light delicately. Not just the glow of the Christmas tree illuminating my Harlem apartment or the sparkle of my nativity scene that brings back joyful memories of my grandfather José María. I’m talking about the light of movement, the joy that rises in me when Celia Cruz’s voice fills the room, the zing of mojo criollo dancing on my tongue on Noche Buena.

Our traditions—our food, music, rituals—are powerful storytellers. They connect us to where we’ve been, who we are, and who we’re becoming. And in the darkness of this season, they remind us that light is always there, waiting to be shared.

I’m taking light everywhere I can get it . . . and generating it lovingly back out to all of you.

This season, let’s cling to the light, revel in the rhythm, and dance through the dark together. My dance card is open . . . who wants to dance?

 

Fearlessly Yours,

 

Eduardo