I've never heard the term "Roble Blanco", although it does translate as "White Oak". It must be some spear-chucker slang I'm not familiar with. Spear-chucker, or literally arrow-chucker, (tiraflecha) is Cuban slang for "Central American".

Yeah, we come in many flavors and colors.

My family was working class, skilled factory workers that came to the US in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. They had little in common with the business/managerial professional class that escaped Castro for Miami in the early 60s. They were our hoity-toity relatives that suddenly showed up on our doorstep looking for a place to crash. There was some conflict with the Tampa and Miami Cubans due to these historical and class differences. We were working class, they were upper middle. And those attitudes survive long after a family's economic status changes, whether it be for better or worse.

The communities that have emigrated from Central America vary enormously, from peasant Indian agricultural laborers who barely speak Spanish, to upper class carpetbaggers and moneyed elites who can sense that their welcome in their home countries is rapidly wearing thin.

Here's another excerpt from my memoirs.

It must have been soon after my last summer in Cuba because I remember the great public demonstration of joy in the Tampa Cuban community when the tyrant Batista was routed and the rebels triumphantly rode on captured tanks into Havana. Later, as the Revolution progressed, most of the Tampa Cubans continued their support for Fidel. I remember the outrage expressed by my family at the CBS documentary 'Is Cuba Going Red?'. It was understandable, my mother was a New Deal Democrat, she remembered the Depression, had been a working woman all her life, we all knew how the USA had bullied Cuba from the war with Spain to the days of the butcher Batista. Although she worked very hard and lived very frugally for the support of her family, the welfare state, through my father's Social Security and Veteran's benefits, had made the difference. Memories were still fresh of the great strike that had crushed the cigar workers in the thirties, the Commie-baiting that had been used against them and the obscenity of McCarthyism. I haven't forgotten either, I'm still a New Deal Democrat.

But as time passed it soon became clear that something was going terribly wrong with the Revolution, not only was the evidence in the press accumulating, we started getting veiled references in the censored mail coming out of the island. We could read between the lines, our family was suffering, and the oppression wasn't just economic due to the Yankee embargo. A grim apparatus of totalitarian rule was being unleashed on the people of Cuba, block Party committees that brought government surveillance down to the apartment building floor level, 'voluntary' labor in the sugar cane fields, forced conscription of the young and participation in the militia for everyone else. Then came the loss of employment for those who refused to cooperate, the ostracism of even the families of suspected critics of the regime, then beatings, imprisonment, and eventually, el paredón (firing squad). Family businesses were not expropriated outright by the government, but were forced to operate at a loss under restrictive regulation until the owners begged the State to take them over. This was then refused until the proprietors went bankrupt. Requesting an exit visa began an expensive year-long nightmare of red tape beginning with the immediate loss of one's job, home, property, legal rights, and the expulsion of children from school. At any time the process could be terminated by the whim of an official and it had to be started again from the beginning while the friends or relatives who sheltered you were subjected to constant harassment. You could take no cash away from the island, and only what property you could carry or wear on your back. At the airport, your baggage was ransacked of everything of value; jewelry and even clothing were often confiscated. I decided then and there that the simplest way to identify a dictatorship was if a state restricted the right of its citizens to travel abroad freely. Cuba was a government of corrupt officials, informers and bullies. My grandfather traced the whole sad business with the French Revolution of his youthful reading as a guide, the Terror had begun. In spite of all their troubles, the Cubans were always a happy people, both on the island and in exile, but they are no more. That is the Revolution's most remarkable achievement and its greatest crime.