Perhaps it’s because my last name is my father’s, the exceptionally Anglo-Saxon Sheppard , but I’ve always felt imposter syndrome when it comes to calling myself Cuban-American. This anxiety reliably rears its head anytime I’m asked to fill out my ethnicity on a form — my pen or cursor hovering over “Hispanic or Latino” as I wonder for the millionth time if I have the right to fill in that bubble even if my Spanish is imperfect, and my hometown is New York City. Ultimately, I always do claim that identity, but not without a niggling feeling of self-doubt. Who am I? Where do I come from? Am I Cuban enough?

My mother and her family came from Cuba to the United States in 1960, fleeing Fidel Castro and his revolution. They brought with them Spanish as a first language, Cuban flavors in th

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