This one goes out to all the dreamers, the idealists…the “undocumented.”

Undocumented. I always felt the DJ was talking to me when he played songs he knew would “connect” with a certain type of audience. Maybe there were teenagers of my same age all over Havana who felt he was addressing them, too. We were all, in a way, undocumented. Not like the millions who, according to the news on the telly, lived invisibly and illegally in the U.S. No, my undocumented status owed more to the crepuscular zone that surrounded my teenage years like a magic mesh. Neither old enough to have a proper ID card nor too young…