Somewhere in the Middle…
If you spend enough time doing something like this, people will try to explain you.
From one side, I’ll be called a communist.
From the other, a white saviour.
Not “might be.” Will be.
And for a long time, that worked on me.
I let it.
I sat there overthinking every possible interpretation—
trying to anticipate the criticism before it came,
trying to make sure I couldn’t be misunderstood.
And all it led to was inaction.
Just sitting there, frustrated. Stewing.
Waiting for the world to somehow wake up and agree on the “right” way to help.
It doesn’t work like that.
The world doesn’t arrive at clarity first and then act.
People act—and clarity, if it comes at all, comes later.
So I’m done waiting.
Because there’s a strange irony in all of this.
We’ve taken words that were once descriptive—and turned them into weapons.
“Communist” gets thrown around like an insult, when at its root it comes from community. The idea that people should look out for one another. That resources shouldn’t be hoarded at the expense of others.
“White saviour” gets used as a warning—and sometimes a necessary one to check our own egos—but also as a way to shut down action entirely. As if the risk of doing something imperfectly is worse than doing nothing at all.
Somewhere along the way, we stopped asking, “Is this helping?”
And started asking, “How will this be perceived?”
And that shift is paralyzing.
Because now, instead of acting, people sit back—overanalyzing, self-correcting, second-guessing—trying to avoid being criticized rather than trying to be useful.
And meanwhile, nothing changes.
I understand the criticisms. I really do.
And I’ll be honest about something else too—I come from a position of privilege.
I’ve been able to do a lot of the things I’ve done because of it. I live on a property that people pay money to stay at. I grew up, in many ways, like the prince of a very small kingdom.
That’s privilege—even if it came with financial strain, student loans, and my own moments of feeling stuck or helpless.
Both things can be true.
And I’ve seen how this dynamic plays out in quieter ways too.
In the silence.
People who would normally engage—say something, react, join the conversation—suddenly don’t.
No comment. No acknowledgment. Just absence.
And I get it.
Because even engaging starts to feel like a statement. Like something that could be interpreted, misread, or judged.
So it’s easier to stay quiet.
To stay in your lane.
To keep a comfortable distance from anything that might complicate how you’re perceived.
I’ve seen that instinct in other parts of my life too.
Running a resort, you get used to people arriving to disconnect—to escape the weight of things, not engage with them. And for a long time, that meant listening. Nodding. Letting conversations happen around you without pushing back too hard.
But there’s a limit to that—and I’ve reached it.
Because at some point, staying quiet starts to feel like participating in the very thing you’re trying to move beyond.
I understand the history behind the word “saviour.” I know the damage that’s been done by people who thought they knew best.
I also understand the suspicion around anything that looks like redistribution.
But understanding the gravity of a mistake doesn’t mean being paralyzed by the fear of making one.
At some point, you either act—or you retreat into analysis and call it principle.
I’ve already done enough of that.
Here’s what it comes down to for me:
I have relationships in Cuba. Real ones. Decades old.
I’ve lived alongside these people. Danced with them. Cried with them. I still talk to them.
And right now, things are hard.
That’s it.
I’m not here to fit cleanly into your ideology.
I’m not here to perform the “correct” version of helping.
And I’m not here to wait until the politics feel comfortable enough to act.
If your instinct is to filter that through a label, you’re free to do that.
But while that conversation is happening,
people I know are still living their reality—
and I’m still choosing to show up for them.
If that puts me somewhere in the middle, then so be it.
Because that’s where the work is.
And that’s where I’ll meet you.
One last thing.
The images I’ve used alongside this post—both of them—are of me.
One was taken by a professional photographer. The other by a good friend. They exist years apart, and neither was taken for this project—I’ve even shared them publicly before.
But when I sat down to write this, I realized something:
There isn’t an image I could take now—or even generate—that would capture these thoughts more honestly than those photos already did.
So instead of trying to curate something safer, or more polished, or more appropriate—
I chose to use what already exists.
As it is.
