The Slow Burn: Heritage, Hurt, and the Brotherhood of the Leaf

Cigar culture makes you think a lot about heritage. Whether it’s genealogy, family traditions, historical knowledge, or even the connection to identity, heritage is how we get cigars.

The modern cigar’s roots trace back to indigenous peoples of the Caribbean and Mesoamerica, like the Maya and Aztecs, who used rolled tobacco in rituals, medicine, and social customs. Tobacco’s spiritual and social importance in these ancient cultures laid the foundation for the premium cigar culture that later flourished.

Eventually, Cubans would refine cigars and pass down their traditions for generations. After the Cuban embargo, many Cuban manufacturers and farmers left the island, establishing brands and continuing their traditions in other countries such as the Dominican Republic and Nicaragua in the 1960s.

Fast forward quite a few years, and I was born.

Zero Latin heritage.

Born to a teenage mother and without a father, I struggled with connection to family. Shortly after I arrived, the state seized me, and I bounced through the foster care system.

A lot of shit happened. The type of shit that breaks people…the type that turns you cold and callous and makes you turn inward.

When you grow up without a clear heritage to cling to, you start looking for it anywhere you can. I tried to find it in sports, in bands, in church pews, in the bottom of bottles, even in things that nearly destroyed me. I wanted to belong. I wanted to know who I was. But identity doesn’t come easy when your foundation feels broken.

And yet, through all the chaos, there were flickers of light. My grandma did her best, even while tethered to oxygen machines. My uncles gave me laughter in the wild. They didn’t give me “heritage” in the Cuban sense…but they gave me humanity.

They gave me grit.

Later, I realized heritage doesn’t always come from bloodlines. Sometimes it comes from the brotherhood you choose.

The first time I lit up a cigar, I wasn’t thinking about heritage. I wasn’t thinking about Mayans, Spaniards, or Cuban exiles. I was just looking for a moment. But the more I smoked, the more I noticed something bigger happening.

Cigars weren’t just indulgences, they were bridges. In lounges, on patios, and around fire pits, cigars connected people who otherwise had nothing in common. Blue collar and white collar. Young bucks and old heads. Saints and sinners. Doctors, mechanics, pastors, musicians, all sharing space, bound by rolled-up leaves of tobacco.

That became my heritage. The brotherhood of the leaf.

Heritage, I realized, doesn’t always mean family lineage. Sometimes it means stepping into a tradition, adopting it, honoring it, and carrying it forward in your own way. For me, cigars became that inheritance.

So where does Brolo fit into all this?

Brolo isn’t just about cigars. It’s about connection. It’s about creating a new kind of heritage….one rooted in brotherly love, storytelling, and intentional craft. I may not come from a Cuban family of tobacco farmers, but I know what it means to grind, to build, and to dream. I know what it means to take ashes and make something new.

Brolo is for people who appreciate fine craftsmanship, not just in the leaf, but in life. It’s for the guy who’s worked with his hands all week and wants to savor a slow burn on Friday night. It’s for the woman who just closed a big deal and lights up to celebrate. It’s for the groups of friends who gather, week after week, to laugh, cry, debate, and pray together.

Our cigars are luxury, yes, but not the velvet rope kind. They’re not about exclusivity or status. They’re about craftsmanship with soul. Small batches, aged leaves, intentional blends, and designs that tell stories. Cigars that feel like home, even if your home doesn’t look like everyone else’s.

The irony isn’t lost on me. I grew up without much of a heritage, but I found it in the very thing that connects people across generations and geographies. And now, I get to create something that I hope will outlast me.

I’ve said before that Brolo is “luxury without pretense.” That’s still true. But maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s my way of leaving behind a heritage where there wasn’t one before. A heritage of connection. A heritage of brotherhood. A heritage of slowing down, lighting up, and leaning in.

Because if cigars taught me anything, it’s this: sometimes heritage isn’t given to you…it’s built, one slow burn at a time.

Smoking a Brolo in the hills of Nicaragua, August 27th, 9:17am.