The electricity in the street unites neighbors on this Havana morning. False hope? Great expectations? Teatro? Maybe. The fact remains: tomorrow the President will visit Cuba.

I am from the old Havana, built on discourse, La Libreta and remittances. As a child I ran on cobblestones, sang La Bayamesa and watched Russian cartoons. Yes, muñequitos rusos: existential stories designed to extract hope.

Here we can’t scream and expect the cavalry. Language is punished. We engage with desire, hope, or Obama with one powerful force: our bodies. The stars on my wedding finger tell a story. My body tells a story. Look at me: my face obscured by honeycomb wire, but my hand, engaged with a flag other than mine, is in focus. I am a symbol, a beacon, a flare gun. I travel from your camera to millions of eyes. You see me. You will remember me.

The caravans passed, the President waved and the visit ended. But I remain, traveling the network of subconscious minds telling this story over and over.