I reviewed my posts for the entire year (which was kind of interesting in a wow-is-that-a-train-wreck? kinda way, but that's not important right now) and picked a mix of some of my favorites.
These links are a pretty good representation of what it's like Living the Vida Loca, MBFCF-style.
If you've been a regular reader, I thank you for your time and attention and your cyber-love. You may enjoy going into my cyber-time machine and re-living this past year via the following blog posts.
If you're new to my blog, make yourself at home and enjoy this slice of my Cuban-American life in the O.C.
Besos,
Marta
1. The Writing is On the Wall - The one where I take you on a tour of the walls of my freakishly small cottage-like home.
2. A Living Legacy - The one where my mom turned 96 and had her photo taken with (almost) everyone in my big, fat, Cuban family.
3. Amy's Trip to Cuba - The one where Amy Kikita (my daughter) goes to Cuba and shares how she experienced the island and the people and how she ended up meeting Cuban dissident blogger Yoani Sanchez of Generacion Y. This link is to all the posts from her trip.
4. How Google Works - A Very Cuban Explanation - The one where my 96 year old mom explains how the internet search engines work. She calls them Cuco and Yayo (Google and Yahoo) and becomes an instant Youtube hit among Cubans everywhere.
5. How to Turn 55 While in Miami - In which I drag out my birthday celebration for days and enjoy a wonderful party and my husband's sweet surprise.
6. How to Throw a Virtual Birthday Party - In which I surprise and amaze my daughter by having everyone she knows post a birthday greeting. (*takes bow*)
7. Hasta La Vista, Baby! - In which my son, Adam, moves far away and leaves me sad. (*wipes away a tear*)
My dad passed away on December 11th, 1999. He and my mom would have celebrated their 60th anniversary just 3 weeks later on December 31st.
To this day, when asked how long they were married, my mom will always answer, "Casi 60 años." Translation: "Almost 60 years."
It's as if she feels like she's lying to just say 60 years. She has to add the "casi." Almost.
Every December 31st she gets phone calls from old friends and extended family. No one forgets that my parents were married on New Year's Eve.
But December will always be bittersweet. December will always have that "almost" attached to it.
On March 3rd of this year, my daughter, Amy Kikita took my father's ashes and scattered them in Pinar del Rio, keeping a promise I had made to him so many years ago. She wisely chose a very specific and easily identifiable spot in case his descendants ever want to visit him there. (Read all the posts about Amy's Cuba trip here.)
This year, as part of our Christmas video, I cut together a piece documenting Amy and Luza's trip to Cuba. It includes the reunion of the Perez-Puelles siblings and Amy's visits to the sites of my childhood memories.
The lyrics to the song, La Cuba Mia (by Celia Cruz) talk about going back without looking back, living to forgive, and returning without bitterness to my Cuba.
My dad returned to his Cuba this year. "Almost" 50 years after he left.
Rest in peace, Papi.
La Cuba Mia - Celia Cruz
Quiero pasear sin amargura Por la calle de tu recuerdo Y rescatar por fin al niño de mi pensamiento
Porque el tiempo y la memoria (porque el tiempo y la memoria) Juegan juntos en nuestra historia
Se me fue toda una vida (se me fue toda una vida) Y tu imagen no se me borra, no, no, no
Quiero volver sin mirar atrás Poder vivir para perdonar Quiero sentir, quiero regresar A la Cuba mía
(quiero volver sin mirar atrás Poder vivir para perdonar Quiero sentir, quiero regresar A la Cuba mía)
Se me confunden con los años Las imágenes en mis sueños Pero te sigo recordando Tierra mía cada momento
Con el son y con la clave (con el son y con la clave) Con el sol y la arena suave
Y mi mente se imagina (y mi mente se imagina) Caminando por santos suárez
Quiero volver sin mirar atrás Poder vivir para perdonar Quiero sentir, quiero regresar A la Cuba mía
(quiero volver sin mirar atrás Poder vivir para perdonar Quiero sentir, quiero regresar A la Cuba mía)
(quiero volver) Quiero volver, quiero cantar, Quiero abrazar y disfrutar A la Cuba mía
(quiero volver) Seguro que a allí volveremos Y en tu nombre cantaremos Como lo quisiste tú
... a la Cuba mía
(quiero volver) sin mirar atrás (poder vivir) para perdonar (quiero sentir), quiero regresar (a la Cuba mía), a la Cuba mía
(con tu arenga y tu son, oye Conquistaste al mundo entero Y cuba fue lo primero siempre Dentro de tu corazón... Celia)
(quiero volver sin mirar atrás Poder vivir para perdonar Quiero sentir, quiero regresar A la Cuba mía, a la Cuba mía A la Cuba mía)... a la Cuba mía.
(The following post was written and lived by Kikita. It is dedicated to her Big, Fat Verdés Family.) **WARNING: You may need tissues.**
My grandfather, Rodolfo Verdés, died on December 11, 1999.
I never called him "Abuelo." Instead I affecionately called him "Papi" as did all of his children and grandchildren. My grandmother, Luza, never called him by his first name. He was always "Verdés" to her. He was always "Verdés" among his brothers and sisters and their children and grandchildren. It was a sign of respect. He was the ultimate father figure. He worked hard and he loved his family deeply.
On his 50th birthday, he began his life all over again in the United States. I don't know all the sacrifices he made for his family, but I know they exist. I know that he went wherever there was work and sometimes that meant being away from his wife and children for long periods of time.
I also know that every one knew that he loved them. Somehow, despite his absence, there was no doubt about the love he had for his children and grandchildren.
I know he was quiet, but when he DID say something it was bound to be brilliant and, often times, hilarious. He had the BEST sense of humor.
I know his favorite color was red and that it had nothing to do with his politics. I know that he loved Cuba passionately, loved the United States for welcoming him, and he hated the (c)astro dictatorship just as passionately.
I know that there is plenty about him that I don't know and, when I get
to heaven, I intend to ask him all of it.
I know that I miss him.
And I know that he had asked my Mami to take his ashes back to the province of Pinar del Río (where he had been born) and scatter them in the Valley of Viñales. I wasn't there when he asked, so I don't know if he specified whether he wanted her to wait until Cuba was free or not or if he just wanted to be there. To be honest, I didn't know anything about Viñales. It was just a name to me. But not anymore.
I now understand the breathtaking beauty that is the Valle de Viñales and why he would want his ashes scattered there.
And I know that I'm the only person who can tell you where he is now.
When Luza, my abuela, asked me to go with her to Cuba there was no doubt in my mind or in anyone else's that Papi's ashes would go with us. Papi had given Mami instructions about what he wanted, but Mami will not be going to Cuba anytime soon and the ashes had already been waiting for ten years. I worked impossibly hard calling all over the country to make sure I could get the ashes to Cuba. It became obvious that I wasn't going to have all the paperwork I had been told I needed and so I was faced with a dilemma. After much discussion, it was decided that I would "smuggle in" only some of the ashes. That way I would be keeping the promise Mami had made to Papi, but that he could still wait for a Free Cuba for the rest.
I don't think I can explain to you what it was like to separate out some of his ashes to take with me. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation and I wanted to weep at the same time. It was an adventure, and it was a heartbreak. It shouldn't have had to be that way, but it was. I didn't want to get to the airport and have his ashes confiscated. Can you imagine? Waiting so long and coming so far and then having the ashes confiscated by the communists running the joke of an airport? What would they even do with them? Would they have made me turn around? Would they have just tossed them out? (I would not put it past them.)
I never told my grandmother how I got the ashes into Cuba. I told her to trust me and that I would get it done. I think she might have fainted if she had known I brought him in as Lancome face-powder. (I know that Papi would have gotten a kick out of it, though.)
I made sure I had the poem he requested and I had a "recent" photo of him.
My cousin, Waldo, and his girlfriend, Mille, came with me on the road trip to Pinar del Río. We wore red in honor of Papi. It was a beautiful day and it was a beautiful drive.
I was detached for most of the drive, until we were actually in Pinar del Río and I realized: "This is where Papi grew up." That was when the first wave of emotion hit. It hit me a second time when we stopped to take pictures of the Valley of Viñales. I had never seen anything like those mountains before. (In fact, they weren't really mountains, they were "mogotes" - but that is not important right now.) Seeing them I understood why Papi would want his ashes scattered there and I was again choking back tears.
Waldo is wonderful for comic relief and asked if I just wanted to toss the ashes off the ledge where we were standing so we could go home. I laughed and told him that all I needed was to get next to one of the mountains. We drove and drove and I started to get antsy, especially when the clouds were starting to threaten rain.
When Waldo headed towards this crazy mural depicting evolution, I thought he was making another joke about what we were doing.
As if to say, "Well, Verdés was a dinosaur, so why not park him there?"
That was not the case. There are many roads across the valley. There are any number of mountains and countless places to stop. We could have stopped at the third "mogote" on the left after you pass the blue shack, but how would anyone ever find it again if they wanted to? And how would we put the rest of the ashes in the same place once Cuba was free?
So . . . the Mural de la Prehistoria was the place. I climbed up onto the mountain side and pulled out the poem. I stood under the chin of the red dinosaur and silently prayed that the wind wouldn't throw the ashes in my face when I scattered them.
I read the poem. I scattered the ashes. I placed a sprig of wildflowers on the rock. I left the photo and the poem there.
And then I exhaled. It was March 3, 2010.
When we finally got back to the house, I told Luza about our day and
where we finally scattered the ashes. She gave me a hug and a quiet, "Gracias,
Amy." After 10 years, it was finally done.
It is father's day.
Papi is in the Valle de Viñales and he has a spectacular view.
That is the only gift I could give him.
Feliz Día de los Padres, Papi. Te extraño bastante.
There are plenty of things about my trip to Cuba that I haven't written about for various reasons. One of those reasons is that I went back to school this semester. School started exactly 4 weeks before I left for Cuba so I made sure to clear my trip with my teachers. I went back to study Spanish, so my teacher was happy to excuse my absence. I was back in class exactly 12 hours after my plane landed in LA. I was back in class, but I was lost. They were in the middle of discussing past preterites and my (recent) past was all too present in my mind to worry about their preterite past.
(Are you confused yet? Yeah, me too.)
One of the reasons I had taken the class was to learn the very thing I'd missed while I was away, but that's not important right now.
Where was I? Ah, yes. The past. Cuba. I've already talked about how excited I was to attend a meeting of Cuban Dissident Bloggers, but I left out some of the mind-numbingly boring stuff.
Kiki, "mind-numbingly boring"? In CUBA? With DISSIDENTS? Seriously?
A whole hour of learning about punctuation in Spanish. While I was thrilled to be in that room and feeling like I was a part of history, I was also feeling pretty bored and thinking, "When is this lecture ever going to end?"
I hate to admit that in such an amazing moment I was beginning to wonder if it was worth it.
BUT, ignoring my internal boredom, I paid attention and even participated a little.
Then I took pictures with some of my heroes and continued my journey. The journey that has no coincidences. The journey that helped me get caught up in class. The journey that eventually brought me to today.
I have been down with an ugly case of tonsilitis. Without going into detail, just know that I still have my tonsils and when they decide to get sick and swell, they do so with gusto and great pain. (Basically, I was in bed for 3 days sipping water, sleeping, missing school and occasionally reading.)
I wasn't feeling 100%, but I knew that I'd be taking my Spanish final early since I would be in Miami(!) the day of the test so I dragged myself to class to learn one last thing before I take my final next week. The first thing we did in class was have a test. GREAT. And my teacher, who knew I had been sick, handed it to me anyway. DOUBLE GREAT. Now I had to take a test on a bunch of stuff I'd never learned and my grade would suffer and . . . wait.
NO. WAY.
I thought I was hallucinating when I looked at the title of the test:
"Signos de Puntuación"
Needless to say, I aced the test and am not too worried about my final. ;-)
**Note: I am well aware of the fact that we abuse punctuation in this blog. That there are times when we use unnecessary commas, parenthesis, etc. We do it on purpose. We do it to sound more conversational and make the reading easier on your eyes. =D
Kikita wrote this post about her recent trip to Cuba; depending on the kind of person you are you may or may not need tissues.
Have you ever had one of those moments where you thought, "Dang it! I should have taken more pictures!"?
I am having one of those moments.
At the time, I was worried about running out of battery power or something. At the time, tears were streaming down my face.
At the time, I didn't know how to capture the intensity of the where I was and what I was feeling.
It happened the way all great moments do, suddenly and without warning. It was not exactly part of the plan.
The Plan was to have a quick lunch at my cousin's house, stay only as long as was necessary to be polite, and then drive to Matanzas while it was still light out.
The Plan was proceeding perfectly. The lunch of chicken, veggies, black beans, white rice, and yuca was delicious.
Time was flying by between all the stories, laughter, and sheer joy of just being together.
That's when I asked if they knew where "Casa de la Loma" was. It was the last house my familiy lived in before they left. It was the house Mami always talked about. It was the house I'd tried to picture a thousand times in my head. It was the house whose address I knew by heart.
Still smiling and laughing, we all piled into the little rental car and traveled the few blocks over to Avenida de la Loma and stopped in front of #33.
I was rather dumb-struck and so I just took a picture of the outside number and stared wide-eyed.
My cousin (well, MAMI's cousin), Regina, rang the doorbell and asked the people living there (a French diplomat and his wife) if we could go inside. They were very sweet and showed us THE. WHOLE. HOUSE. Since Mami's cousins Lupe & Regina were with me, they told me whose room belonged to whom. I could barely speak. I couldn't stop my eyes from leaking. I kept forgetting to take pictures. I suddenly understood how "the house in the back" worked.
One of the most striking and intense things for me was being there with the primas who kept saying:
"I remember this courtyard being a lot bigger."
"I remember playing in this room with your Mom."
"I remember this hallway being a lot longer."
As we walked through the house, I pictured my mother as a five-year-old running down the long hallway. Or looking down from the top of the stairs. I kept trying to imagine what it would have looked like through her eyes.
As the tears of all that my family lost flowed down my face, there were new things that I began to wonder. I knew my mom's story, but she is the youngest of 6. There are 5 other stories I didn't know. 5 other stories. 5 siblings who lived in that house. 5 other points of view. (And that doesn't include my grandparents, I was just thinking about the kids and how they must have seen things differently because of their ages.)
I think that my impromptu visit to Casa de la Loma in the Nuevo Vedado, near the cemetary of Colón, looking over the river Almandares was one of the biggest moments that effected me on this trip. It changed my perspective of my family's story. It brought home to me just how tragic it all is. It has inspired me to seek out everyone else's story. And as I hear their stories, I don't have to imagine what the house looked like. I can see it. I was there.
My trip to Cuba was many things and I saw all kinds of things. I guess it was sort of magical. Some of the things I saw were as legendary to me as the Sphinx or Stonehenge or the Eiffel Tower.
I knew the video of my mother being dragged into the water of Varadero by heart. I knew the games they used to play. I call out "Buenos Dias, Familia!" knowing it is what the viandero used to say. I knew that they would get up super early to eat breakfast because my abuela, Luza, would make them wait THREE HOURS before letting them swim. I knew that they would HATE to come out of the water for lunch. I knew that they would swim until it was late. I knew the games they would play in the water. I knew Varadero was "the most beautiful beach in the world."
What I didn't know was the sense of urgency I would feel when I first saw the sign that let me know that I had finally arrived.
I didn't know how desperate I was to dig my toes into the soft powdery sand. I didn't know that I would burst into tears the minute the water came rushing to meet my feet.
I did not expect to feel such a sense of loss and longing. I did not expect to wish so hard that things were different. That Mami had continued to grow up there and that I too had been able to grow up spending my summers in that same water. I didn't know HOW beautiful "the most beautiful beach in the world" was.
(it was really bright so I had to squint)
I couldn't go swimming because it was VERY windy AND there were these beautiful blue blobs all over the beach . . . I think they're called Portuguese Man o' War? ;-)
I was in Varadero all day and made it "hasta la puntica" just in time to see the sunset.
I kept thinking over and over, "I'm really here. I made it. I've made it to the very end. The very tip."
It was dark by the time we made it to the place where Mami had spent her summers, but I didn't care. The sign was still there. Villa Obdulia. I stood in front of that house and pictured my Abuela with all her kids, my tias y tio y Mami. I wish it had been earlier in the day, I would have knocked on the door. A neighbor told me there was no one home, so I wouldn't have been able to go inside anyway. It didn't matter. The name of the house was still there. I had found my own personal Stonehenge.
I didn't care that I couldn't go swimming. I had felt the warm water. Mami's water. I had felt the soft powdery sand. Mami's sand. I scooped up the sand and packed as much as I could into a ziplock baggy for Mami, but then I pulled out another small container just for me. To remember my moment. It wasn't just a beach in Mami's memory anymore. Now it was mine too. It had become a part of me. A part of my memory.
NOTE: Added by Marta 3/26/2010:
My sisters and cousins on the porch of our beloved Villa Obdulia. Circa 1960. Read that post here.
Most of the decor in my home is bright and colorful and Cuban-esque.
My "theme"? I was originally going for Cuban Beach Cottage. (Our home is small.) And so, I have collected posters and art and maps and things that are a throwback to the simple days of my Cuban childhood.
These three framed postcards, for example, are of 3 places that I remember vividly: (from top to bottom) Varadero Beach, The Hotel Nacional de Cuba, and the Malecón.
I've written many times about how many of my earliest memories are of the beach. Specifically Varadero Beach in the Cuban province of Matanzas.
I have been to some beautiful beaches in my lifetime, but I still believe (as do most Cubans that I've met) that there is no beach on earth that compares with Varadero.
I vividly remember digging my toes into the soft powdery sand. I can practically smell the sea air. The water was walk-right-in warm. It's one of those perfect sensory memories that is seared into my brain.
Ah, Varadero! How can anything compare with the memory of your perfection? The most beautiful beach in the world.
Amy Kikita brought back some souvenirs from her Cuba trip. Some were gifts from the cousins and uncles. Some she chose herself at one of the flea markets.
There was a baseball hat from Los Industriales, some goat-skin maracas, a baseball bat & ball for Jon with his name carved into it, some jewelry for Lucy, wooden cooking utensils (how apropos!), an unusual wine-bottle holder.
How much fun we were having! We opened gifts and she told us the stories of how she came to acquire each one and who and where they were from. We laughed and celebrated the thoughtfulness of each item.
In the midst of this rowdy exchange she pulled out one last bundle which reduced me to tears...
It was a container made of heavy marble. (I have an extensive collection of small boxes/containers from all over the world, but that's not important right now) This one was from the amazing Hotel Nacional.
I thought this was "el colmo." ("the ultimate.")
Until she handed me the ziplock bag full of sand from the most beautiful beach in the world.
I am still speechless. Gracias, Mimi.
I'm the little girl in the white dress, all Shirley Temple curls and big red airplane-size hairbow. Please go back in time with me to the Varadero of my childhood.... (bring tissues...)
The following post was written by Kikita; who has recently returned from a trip to Cuba with her 96 year old grandmother.
Every day that I was in Cuba, I would get home to Tio Timbiriche's after a long day of adventuring and the question "Los Viejos" would ask me was always the same, "What did you see?"
And every day I would start my response with, "The question is: what did I NOT see?!?"
And I would proceed to tell them all the wonderful things I had seen, and I very carefully left out all the things I did NOT see; rather, all the things I was not supposed to see.
Part of my reasons for locking these things away was because they were looking at me with such joy on their faces, the way parents watch a child on his/her first day at Disneyland. They were looking at me and waiting to hear stories of places they have known and loved their whole lives, especially my abuela. I would not disappoint my audience. I would tell them what they wanted to hear and I chose my words carefully. I was even careful about what I wrote in the little journal I was keeping . . . and a good thing I was too, because one night Tio Timbiriche asked to see my journal. My heart just about stopped, but I made sure he didn't see anything but the beautiful things I was supposed to be seeing. The rest I was saving for now.
I did not tell them about the long walk to Yoani Sanchez's house.
I did not tell them about the view from her patio.
I did not tell them because I did not "SEE" it. When, in fact, I did more than just SEE it. I FELT it.
Every where I went, I could feel the oppression. But sometimes it was hard to see.
It reminded me of a "What's wrong with this picture?"
Some things were glaringly obvious:
while others were not:
I didn't talk about all the doctors I saw in the streets because they can not afford a car. I didn't talk about the constant presence of olive green uniforms anywhere I went. I didn't talk about the "Punta de Control" checkpoints we had to drive past. I didn't tell them how scary and wrong it felt slowing down to almost a crawl while not making eye contact with military operative who could decide to pull us over for whatever reason. (Luckily, we never got pulled over.) I didn't talk about how I thought it was strange that not only were there militarios everywhere, there were police too.
I didn't talk about how seeing Che Guevara's image every place I turned made me want to vomit. In fact, the day I was coming from Yoani's house, I was so worried about my "cover story" that I shut off my emotions completely in order to get the proper pictures I thought would be requested of me later. No pictures were requested.
I did not hear the indoctrination of the Cuban people first hand when someone mentioned Orlando Zapata Tamayo and called him an idiot for dying because "he wanted a bigger tv." (Let me clarify that: the woman did not know the real reason why Orlando Zapata Tamayo had gone on a hunger strike. She thought it was because he had wanted a better tv or a microwave.) I didn't turn on the radio and hear that Cuba was the FIRST country to send aid to Chile and that Cuba also sent the MOST aid.
Yes, of course I saw the Granma. Yes, I saw the newspaper too.
I didn't see the tin roofs.
I didn't see the look of hopelessness in the eyes of some of people.
I didn't see the broken benches at a park near where my grandmother used to live.
I didn't see any propaganda.
I didn't see a buildings that looked to be on the brink of collapse
I didn't see graffiti. I didn't see my family members cleaning their plates as if they had no idea when they were going to eat again.
I didn't see the outside of homes.
Only the inside.
I DID see the manisero, but I didn't see how old he was or that he had a cane.
I didn't hear someone say, "No, park further forward. There's a camera watching this corner."
I didn't see a sign for nominations for the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution posted above an elevator.
And, finally, I didn't walk up a set of super steep and narrow steps to a room of MAYBE 300 square feet. I didn't see that there was a full-sized bed with thread bare sheets in front of me. I didn't see the grey slab of cement floor. I didn't see the bathroom that looked to have enough room for a sink, a toilet, and a stand-up shower. I didn't turn to see a pin-pan-pun (cot) pushed up against a short wall that would stop only a small person from falling down the steep stairs. And I defintely did not see that on top of those thread bare sheets were two little girls between the ages of 3 and 5 playing and laughing. I did not see the small refridgerator or the small counter or the hot plate serving as a stove. I did not see a pregnant woman arrive at this place she called home. I did not hear one of the little girls wave at me and say, "Adios!" as sweetly and innocently as possible. I didn't wonder what her future held. My heart did not break.
What did I see? What DIDN'T I see, THAT is the question.
My whole life I've grown up hearing the songs about how beautiful Cuba is. I've seen the paintings. I know Cuba is beautiful. I've always known.
"Pearl of the Antilles"
"La Reina de la Mar Caribe"
"Cuba Linda de mi vida"
Despite constantly hearing it growing up, something happened when I was actually there, standing in front of things I'd seen and heard of my whole life.
I found myself constantly in awe. It really was beautiful.
Looking out at the ocean . . .
or Havana . . .
or just pine trees . . .
or the Malecón . . .
or hills . . .
or El Cristo . . .
or even a sunset . . .
I wanted to dance. I wanted to sing. I wanted to paint. I wanted to write.
I wanted to drink it in forever.
Every song about Cuba and it's beauty became instantly more meaninful to me once I had seen it with my own eyes.
Now as I listen to these songs that made me smile as I grew up, I want to cry. They are inspiring a fresh sense of loss. A new understanding of how painful this exile is. They are bittersweet. They celebrate the beauty of Cuba while mourning its loss.
And I now feel more fiercely than ever the desire to see freedom for my people.
Here at MBFCF we try to stay focused on family and Cuban-American life. We try not to get too political, but we definitely do not keep our positions and beliefs a secret. If you've been reading for any amount of time, then I'm sure you know where we stand. That being said, it would be impossible to keep politics completely separate from a Cuban-American family, because it was politics that originally ripped our families apart.
Seven years ago, Mami, Adam, and I were planning to take a missions trip to Cuba with our local church. We were getting all of the paperwork ready to go when something happened to change Mami's mind. The (c)astro government was arresting political dissidents in a crackdown that would come to be known as "La Primavera Negra" (The Black Spring). The political unrest on the island worried Mami to the point that she changed her mind about going and we went to Miami instead. (Hey, I'm not going to complain, we had a fabulous time, but that's not important right now.)
During the crackdown, that began on March 18th and lasted two days, there were 75 dissidents (SEVENTY-FIVE!!) arrested. They ranged from journalists to librarians to human rights activists. Some have been paroled. Most remain in prison. Our good friend, Marc Masferrer, at Uncommon Sense has the whole story.
Tomorrow, seven years after we canceled our original trip to Cuba and now immediately following my return from the island, Mami and I will be attending a private screening of a documentary titled "Oscar's Cuba."
The music was done by Arturo Sandoval and the word on the street is that Andy Garcia will be doing the narration. =D
A brave film-maker by the name of Jordan Allot was in Cuba working on another project when he heard about Dr. Oscar Elías Biscet González. Jordan then took it upon himself to expose the truth about Dr. Biscet's reality. Dr. Oscar Elías Biscet González is a Cuban dissident who had served a 3 year prison sentence, was released, and was re-arrested about one month later during the Black Spring and then sentenced to 25 years.
His crime? Exposing the horrendous communist government practices of: slaughtering newborns and forcing abortions on women with problematic pregnancies.
If you'd like more information about the film itself, you can find it at www.oscarscuba.com.
Here in the U.S. we have the liberty to freely speak our minds. That is completely intolerable to the current Cuban government. And so they round up the free-thinkers. They imprison, beat and torture those who dare to disagree.
But there is movement in Cuba of political dissidents and it's growing each day. Those of us who are free and believe in human rights would do well to support those who are not free and whose basic human rights get routinely trampled on.
Marta here. Back in February of this year, my friends over at Babalú blog and Uncommon Sense posted a link to a Cuban dissident blogger whose name was Regina Coyula.
I was a little shocked. I have a Cuban cousin with that name, but I knew her family to be hardcore communists. However, when I clicked on the link, I saw her familiar face. It was Regina. Blogging about the harsh realities of life in Cuba today.
This photo was taken in Cuba in 1959. I'm the 2nd cowgirl from the left. Regina is over to the far right.
Unable to contact her, we surreptitiously sent a zip drive with Amy (brilliantly attached to a make up bag - see that photo in this post) and hoped and prayed for the best.
Amy was able to not only meet and spend time talking with and interviewing her, she got to go on A Dissident Adventure with her in Havana.
By some amazing chance (or Divine Intervention), I was able to get my cousin Regina alone and deliver the flash drive. What struck me was how grateful she was not only for the flash drive, but for the make-up that came with it. She LOVES make-up.
While she went about pulling out the various compacts, we were having the most amazing conversation about her blog, La Mala Letra.
She told me that she is not afraid, which is why she has her picture and full name on her page, but her family is. She does it for herself more than anything because she just couldn't stand to keep quiet any longer. She had been a strong communist for over 20 years and then became disillusioned with the "Revolution."
While I was in awe of her courage, what impacted me even more was her view of what she is doing. She explained that she does not expect to make any big change by herself; that she feels like one small pebble falling from the ceiling each day, but hopes that one day she will look around and so many other pebbles will have fallen that the ceiling will collapse.
Her son was born 16 years ago and she has been wanting a better life for him ever since.
This is him and his friend, Brian, being teenage boys. My eyes well up every time I watch this. He is a junior in high school. After he graduates he will have to serve in the military for at least a year before going on to college. He is the best English speaker in his class and asked me when I was coming back, but then decided he would like to visit California better. I think he looks like a combination of Lucy and Jonathan. He was such a sweet boy. It kills me to think of what possible future he has if he has to continue growing up on the island prison.
Regina woke up one day not too long ago and realized she HAD to do something about it. And not just for her son. She wants the youth of Cuba to have hope for a better future instead of just hoping to one day leave. She said she writes what she sees. She writes about the realities of Cuba. And she is part of a group of bloggers that meet on a weekly basis at THE HOME OF YOANI SANCHEZ. YES!! Ms. Generación Y herself! My eyes began to leak when I heard that Regina was going and I practically begged her to take me. I explained that I had harbored a secret hope that I would be out walking somewhere and just run into Yoani.
But . . . I was staying in the house of Tío Timbiriche, a communist. Regina and I shared the sentiment that we absolutely adore our family, especially Timbiriche, and that is why we never discussed politics in front of him (or the youngest of abuela's siblings: Mari, who is also a firm believer in "la Revolución). Because there was no way we could tell the truth about where we were going, Regina told them she was taking me to La Plaza de la Revolución.
I couldn't believe it. I was participating in dissident behavior! Lying to everyone and keeping a big secret in order to go to a meeting . . . AT YOANI'S HOUSE.
We had to take a couple of buses. And then we had a long, hot walk. But I smiled when I saw the door.
And I couldn't believe how many people were inside. There were easily 25-30 and more showed up over the 2 hours while I was there. Honestly, it reminded me of a prayer meeting.
And seeing all those people gave me a new hope for the future . . .
For Cuba. For Cubans. For LIFE in general.
And then they asked me questions that I felt like I had no business answering.
"What do the Cubans over there think of us?"
"What do people say about us?"
"Sometimes people send me gifts and I'm embarrassed to take it, why do they do that?"
I just kept telling everyone how much support they had from "la Yuma." That people were for them and would do whatever they could to help. That they send gifts because they want to help and don't know how. I told them to be encouraged because they WERE making a difference.
One of the guys from the group, Porno Para Ricardo was there.
I couldn't help feeling like a fish out of water. These people were incredibly courageous. They risked their lives every day. What was the worst that could happen to me? I get deported? Sent back to my comfortable life in Southern California? While these thoughts were swirling in my head, the other thing I kept thinking was "They are just people trying to make a difference."
The following post has been brought to you by Kikita.
On my most recent Miami adventure, the Fabregas family had me over for dinner. Once we had finished dinner, dessert and café the strangest thing happened.
I'm not exactly sure how it happened other than the fact that I probably instigated it, but we all jumped up, piled into their über-cool van, and they showed me around "Sweet Home Hialeah."
Comeplete with a stop at . . .
Yes, MORRO CASTLE. For Churros con chocolate. It was a heavenly experience. As only churros con chocolate can be.
It wasn't until about three years ago that I really saw El Morro Castle. It was my first time at Cuba Nostalgia and when I found out that sitting on the wall in front of this castle-thingy was "THE thing to do," I simply HAD to do it too. Nevermind that I had no idea where this castle sat in relation to Havana . . . if taking a picture in front of it was a Cuban thing, I was going to do it.
Even when Mami wasn't there to take the picture for me, I still did it.
And always, El Morro was up and to my right. It was my "castle in the sky" just like the idea of ever seeing the REAL one in Havana seemed to be . . . until now.
Moments like this . . . I am keenly aware of how awesome God is. Not only did I get to re-create the very picture I had taken when it was "just a dream" . . . but it's as if He heard me say "One day, I want to make it to Morro Castle" and took me literally so I got to go to the Morro Castle in Hialeah as well as the one in Havana. (Sometimes that guy cracks me up!)
Today is Saint Patrick's Day. That is the reality.
I'm not in Cuba anymore. That is the reality.
I, Kikita, have no idea if I will ever be able to go back even though I would love to. That is the reality.
I am behind on all the work I missed while I was gone and I need to get caught up . . . yesterday. That is the reality.
But every time I drive South on the 405 through Irvine, the rolling hills remind me of the drive to Pinar del Rio.
Every time I get home to my apartment complex, I am struck by how new the building looks. In fact, I was so struck by it I asked my roommate if there was a fresh coat of paint or something.
Every time I reach for a glass of water, I have to remind myself that it is ok to drink it.
I feel a sense of relief when I walk into the bathroom and there is a toilet seat.
I still check for cucarachas before I put my feet down when getting out of bed.
I wake up and the silence of my house feels lonely. I miss the sounds of my abuela and her siblings noisily starting their day.
Do you know about Saint Patrick? That he was taken captive and made a slave in Ireland, escaped, and then God called him to go back and "save the Irish" and he was fairly successful.
But what a beginning!
The drinking became involved because it is a feast day, a holy day of obligation, it is like a day off from Lent.
Today is a day of celebration. It's about loving and embracing the Irish culture. It is their day of pride. That is the reality.
Fear. It permeates all things "Cuba Now." Some subjects we just don't talk about. Why? Fear. Even the fearless ones worry about saying some things (even if they don't admit it).
Mami always says to herself, "I. Am. Fearless."
I will tell you right now, I. Am. NOT. Fearless.
As the weeks turned to days, hours, and eventually minutes before I was leaving for Cuba everyone was asking me if I was excited.
The truth is, I was NOT excited.
I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was keenly aware that I had only traveled out of the United States one other time, almost exactly 10 years before this trip. I was 16 and went with my Drama class. I was in charge of nothing. All I had to do was show up on time and do what I was told: hand your passport to that man, come over here, 'nothing to declare' is the line you want, get on the bus, here is your room key and number, dinner is at 6 so be downstairs at 5:30, etc.
I have traveled alone. I have traveled with my Abuela. This was different. If something went wrong, I had someone else to think about.
I had Mami and the rest of MBFCF to answer to if something happened to Abuela (and Tio Abuelo, Fernando).
What if the Cubans didn't let me in? What if they arrested me? I know, it sounds crazy. I can practically hear the sneers of "She thinks she is so important that she would be arrested, HA!"
Yes. It crossed my mind for a couple of different reasons:
(I could talk myself down from that one. Maybe if I was one of the writers from Babalú Blog or Uncommon Sense I could realistically think that the Cuban military might know who I am. )
Why else was I afraid? I was bringing in contraband.
The Cuban Government has a ridiculous amount of hoops one has to jump through in order to take ashes to Cuba. I had to send the Death Certificate, Cremation Certification, and Papi's LAST USED PASSPORT to the Cuban Embassy in Washington, D.C. and then wait for them to approve the transport. In case you may have forgotten, Papi died TEN YEARS AGO. And hadn't been out of the country for at least 15 years before that. Meaning, his last used passport was from 1970-something. I asked my aunt to look for it. She found it, well, she found the picture that she had cut out before tossing the rest. Who keeps that stuff for that long anyway?
So, I was transporting ashes illegally -if you're dying for more info on that, you can feel free to email me- and if they found out I was terrified of what might happen. The hopes of my whole family where with me. There was no way I could come home and say, "Sorry, I couldn't do it. They confiscated him at the airport."
There's more. About a week before I left, I found out that Mami's cousin Regina Coyula was a dissident blogger. I had been entrusted with the special task of getting her 4GB of discreet portable space. Here's how I did it:
But, having that in my bag? Terrifying. What if they found it? Would I get a slap on the wrist? Sent back to the U.S.? I think one of the greatest kinds of fear is the fear of the unknown.
Unknown? But I knew exactly what was waiting for me when the plane landed. I had read "Take Me With You" by Carlos Frías and his detailed descriptions of arriving at José Martí International Airport on pages 16-19 of his book. I just wish I had re-read it before I left. As I read it now, I want to cry. It is comforting to read that someone else went through the same things I did. Especially that first moment when I walked into the terminal with my Abuela and my Tio Abuelo it went almost exaclty like this:
"It is then that I see the lines and the guards. Between me and Cuban soil are immigration agents in uniform.
The rest of the airport is walled off, and two agents stand in each of about ten cubicles. A soldier in a dress uniform waves me toward one of the posts, and I can feel my roll-abour slip in my hands from the perspiration.
I come to a counter, which separates me from a man and a woman, who look to me in their late twenties, dressed in military attire... Try to smile, I tell myself.
He is not smiling.
Nor is she."
Now, I had less reason to worry because my cousin Waldo had come specifically from Cuba to help me with this part of the trip. He went first and took my Abuela through the door. I was left with my Tio Abuelo, Fernando, who was 99 years old and demanded on doing everything himself. This means that I didn't know if he had all of his documents until the man asked for them.
When me made it through door number one, there was a woman (who looked like a pissed off version of Judi Dench in a Nazi costume and medical shoes) that asked to see my passport.
She looked at it, then at me, back at it, back at me and finally said, "When you've finished going through the machines, we have to do an interview with you," and she kept my passport. My heart stopped. I started to help Fernando through the metal detectors and honestly have no idea what happened to him next.
Because my backpack was full of food that we were going to be cooking over the week, I had to go to a special table where they dug through "la compañera's" backpack. Next was another woman asking questions about my health.
I hadn't seen the Nazi woman again.
I had no idea where Waldo, Abuela, or Fernando were.
Another younger woman with a pleasant face found me and had my passport. The "interview" was much easier than I expected. It was all about what I did in the U.S. and my address and she was relieved that I spoke Spanish.
She sent me to collect my bags and return with them so she could inspect them. My heart stopped again, until it looked like Waldo knew her and he was smoothing things over with her. The "inspection" was her just glancing at my bags and then handing me my passport back.
After what seemed like an eternity and a few more scares at the scales, I could see the doors that led to the outside. There was a wall of people that became a tunnel as we pushed the wheelchairs and carts of baggage out to where all kinds of family members were waiting with open arms to hug me and welcome me.
Only then, when the green I was seeing was from palm trees instead of uniforms, did I exhale. Only then did my fear start to fade away. But for the first two hours (yes, the whole process took two hours) of my arrival in Cuba, I was scared...and I would do it all again in a heartbeat.
Another posting about Kikita's adventures in Cuba written by none other than Kikita herself.
The one thing everyone told me before I left was "Don't drink the water!"
No water for a whole week? Well, not exactly. Just before boarding I bought two big bottles of water, but that was definitely not going to be sufficient hydration so I was forced to find other options. Obviously, I drank plenty of café and sometimes it was delicious and other times it wasn't. There was a type of soda called "Tu Kola" that I enjoyed, but I know that soda has salt in it and I was worried about hydration.
Thank goodness it wasn't too hot otherwise I have no idea what I would have done. When we went out to eat I ordered bottled sparkling water. Even so, I needed more.
One morning my cousin asked me if I would like some pineapple juice. I love pineapple juice. I most definitely wanted pineapple juice.
"Sí, gracias."
Next thing I knew, he had picked up a pineapple and was cutting it up.
He put the pineapple pieces in a blender and added the dreaded water along with what looked like a lot of sugar.
Once it was blended, he pushed it through a colander in order to maximize the juice and minimize the pulp.
He eventually put the juice back into the bottle that had once held the water and then began pouring glasses of the juice for breakfast.
It was the most delicious pineapple juice I've ever had in my life. In fact, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to get the same enjoyment from bottled juice again.
Later that day. . . we found a man who was selling "guarapos." (Ok, it was an outdoor bar and he was selling a lot of other things too, but that's not important right now.)
I had already had a "guarapo" with my brother Adam at Cuba Nostalgia a couple of years ago so I knew the taste and couldn't wait to have one. What I didn't know was that I was going to get to participate in the making of the "guarapo."
First the bartender took his machete and scraped off the outer layer of the sugar cane.
Then he inserted it into the juicer . . .
And then it was my turn.
Oh yeah, hand-cranking. My brow started to sweat a bit, but "valio la pena" (it was worth the effort).
Oh, and since rum is also made from sugar cane he may or may not have put some in mine.
This is another Kikita post about her trip to Cuba.
Several years ago a cousin I had never met before was visiting from Cuba. Since he had never been to Las Vegas, Mami, Luza, my tia Helen, and I drove out there to meet him and then bring him back to California. It was a whirlwind adventure riddled with cucufates, but that is another story.
On the drive home from Las Vegas, this cousin asked us to play one of the cds he had brought from Cuba of a new up and coming singer called Polo Montañez. At the time, my spanish was nowhere near what it is today. Regardless, I was happy to oblige our guest and played the cd filled with classic Cuban sounds and words I did not fully comprehend. The drive from Vegas to my house on that Saturday night was about 4 to 5 hours so we listened to the cd several times over. There was one song inparticular that I found exceptionally moving despite not knowing all the words.
Beyond the classic sounds of Trío Matamoros and Celia Cruz, this song was the first new Cuban song I had heard from the island. The song was called "Un Montón de Estrellas" and it fast became one of my favorites. I remember the first time I heard it played at a salsa club a few years later, I couldn't stop the tears from rolling.
The song remained close to my heart, but got pushed around by other songs and experiences and was soon forgotten (so to speak).
I had no idea what was in store for me as I was on my way to Pinar del Rio and my cousin took a turn towards a place called Las Terrazas.
It was breathtaking. I was speechless. I had never seen anything like it in my entire life.
My cousin kept going deeper and deeper into this jungle and I was beginning to wonder if we had arrived at Viñales because I really wasn't sure what I was looking for . . . and then I saw where we where headed.
I could not help but marvel at the small size of the home and tears came to my eyes when I looked and saw the sun shining on the unused instruments.
The moment I first walked inside "Un Montón de Estrellas" began playing as if to welcome my presence. It was one of those magical moments that brought tears to my eyes. I felt so lucky. So blessed. So in awe. I sent up a prayer of thanks and then let the music and the view wash over me.
"Que orgullo para el poeta
que viva en un pueblecito
el más aseado y bonito
que existe en este planeta
por eso hago esta letras
con ortografía escasa,
mientras más ligero pasa
el tiempo que va corriendo
más lindo se va poniendo
el pueblo de las Terrazas"
As I said before I left for Cuba, I went with no expectations. I went with an open heart and an open mind. I went with a mission. And I accomplished it. But what I didn't expect (literally) was to find Papi everywhere I went.
If I am going to be perfectly honest, I DID think that I would feel SOMETHING when I got that first glimpse of Cuba out of the plane window...
But I didn't.
On the way to Tio Timbiriche's house my eyes were more like saucers; I was just taking everything in.
After my primo and I rented a car, the real adventure began. I didn't have time to think. I just kept soaking everything in. There was one thought pressing on my mind though as I stood looking out at the Malecón and El Morro: Papi.
My abuelo, Papi, was an Electrical Engineer and he was out working on the lights for the Malecón when he and his crew were arrested, jailed, and some of them were killed the next morning. By some miracle, Papi was released. He left his homeland with the plan of being gone a few months and ended up never returning, until I brought him. I couldn't help but have a surge of pride that the lights Papi put up where still there.
I begged my cousin to bring me back when they were lit, and he did. I felt the internal click I had been waiting for. The warm lights gave me a sense of comfort and even a hope for the future of a coutry that is in so much turmoil and disarray.
After I accomplished my mission, I thought that would be the end of the Papi chapter of my trip, but that was not the case. Ask anyone who has made the trip from Havana to Varadero and they will tell you to do it in the daytime because it is one of the most beautiful things you will ever see. That had been my plan, but in the true spirit of embracing the moments as they came to me and in an orchestration of events that I think could only have come about through Divine Intervention, the sun had set by the time we reached the city limits of Havana and the street lights had been lit.
I had always known about Papi's lighting the Malecón, but it was all I'd ever known about his projects in Cuba. While I was marvelling at the uniqueness of the street lights, my cousin turned to me and told me that Papi had done those too. I had been marvelling at my abuelo and he was the one who was lighting the initial steps of my way to Varadero.
The plan had been to return from Varadero in the late afternoon of the next day. It didn't happen. We didn't leave Varadero until it was dark which meant we came home to Papi's lights. I can't even remember what ridiculous reason had us pulling over, but my cousin (who had no idea how much I was being affected by the lights) had stopped the car in the perfect place under one of Papi's works of art.
I saw and did an incredible amount of things in a short amount of time. I traversed three provinces in three days. I couldn't entirely comprehend why I was never too afraid, but I think it might have something to do with Papi being with me the whole time . . . lighting my way.
This is Kikita, back from her adventure in Cuba. I saw and did and felt so many things this past week that I am having a hard time deciding what I want to share first.
I met cousins for the first time and hugged them as if I had known them my whole life. I was surrounded, overwhelmed even, with love. People I'd heard stories about, but never seen in person.
I held aunts and uncles that I hadn't seen in years.
I was treated like royalty visiting for a moment, but kissed on the cheek as if I had been there forever. I was served café at every turn, but I was allowed my turn to serve the café.
It is not a question of what I did or saw, it is a question of what I did NOT see or do.
And while I was buzzing all over the first three provinces of Cuba (Pinar del Rio, Habana, & Matanzas), there was another kind of buzzing going on at home. (Home being Tio Timbiriche's house.)
The kind of buzzing that happens when you haven't seen your brother or sister for 50 years.
My abuela, Luza, and her siblings did not stop talking and loving each other the whole trip. They did everything together. Every meal they ate together. There are thousands of things I saw this past week that touched my heart, but at the end of the day watching the five Perez-Puelles siblings interact was definitely one of the most amazing sites. I felt honored to be able to watch and listen. They talked about everything. They remembered old neighbors and things their mother used to cook and things their father used to say. They even sat around remembering old radio commercials and old inside jokes. One of my favorite moments was when they had a "whose granddaughter is the best cook?" discussion. ;-)
They barely touched on politics or the reasons why they stayed or left. They bickered as any set of siblings is wont to do, but at the end of the day the joy of being together was shining on all of their faces.
Yesterday, the day we left, their last breakfast together, my abuela read them the following poem and just as they had spent the whole week talking and laughing together they hugged and cried together.
Quiero gozar cuanto pueda
y, con acierto y medida,
gastar moneda a moneda
el tesoro de la vida;
mas no quiero ser jamás
como el que amontona el oro
y no goza del tesoro
por acrecentarlo más.
Quiero gozar sin pasión,
esperar sin ansiedad,
sufrir con resignación,
morir con tranquilidad;
que al llegar mi postrer día,
quiero pensar y decir:
"Viví como viviría
si ahora volviera a vivir.
"Viví como un peregrino
que, olvidando sus dolores,
pasó cogiendo las flores
de los lados del camino;
"cantando he dejado atrás
la vida que recorrí;
pedí poco y tuve más
de lo poco que pedí;
"que si nadie me envidió
en el mundo necio y loco,
en ese mundo tampoco
tuve envidia a nadie yo".
He resuelto despreciar
toda ambición desmedida
y no pedirle a la vida
lo que no me puede dar.
He resuelto no correr
tras un bien que no me calma;
llevo un tesoro en el alma
que no lo quiero perder,
y lo guardo porque espero
que he de morir confiado
en que se lo llevo entero
al Señor, que me lo ha dado.
My dad was confined to a wheelchair and in his late 80's, but his brain was sharp as ever.
We would sit at their kitchen table and talk about anything, everything, and nothing. You know, like you do with the most familiar people in your life. Even though the kids would visit with me and be in and out of the room, he always asked very specifically about each one.
He was an avid reader and especially loved books about adventure. I mentioned that I was reading Treasure Island to Adam (who was young then and loved to be read to) and we both agreed that Robert Louis Stevenson was a genius.
It was in the midst of this discussion that he looked at me very seriously as if something had just occurred to him, and said, "I want you to do something for me."
Imagining it had to do with going to the store to buy him some fresh bread or some such errand, I quickly agreed. "Of course. What can I do for you?"
"There's a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson that I love. When I die, I want you to take my ashes back to Cuba and scatter them in Pinar del Rio. And read this poem."
I don't think I answered immediately. It was such a shocking request in the middle of what was otherwise an ordinary visit.
"You're serious?"
"Yes. And I know if you promise me, that you'll keep your promise."
"I promise."
He went on to tell me that he wished it could be when Cuba was free, but that he understood that might not be possible and to do what I could.
Then we resumed our conversation about books and the kids and I did go to the store for that fresh loaf of bread.
And I didn't think too much about that conversation, until he died six months later.
My mom would remind me occasionally of the promise I had made to Papi. And I kept trying, but I couldn't find a way to make it happen.
I had scheduled a trip in the spring of 2003 and two weeks before I was to leave, 75 dissidents were rounded up and imprisoned by the Castro thugs in Cuba. I canceled my trip. (That crackdown is referred to as The Black Spring.)
I was discouraged and I felt it would be impossible for me to keep my promise.
Ten long years now, Papi has been gone. His ashes sitting in the back of a closet.
But yesterday, against all odds, my daughter, Amy, made good on the promise I had made back in May of 1999. She went to Cuba. She took his ashes. She made her way to Pinar del Rio. To the beautiful land that saw his birth and where he lived for a half a century.
Yesterday, on March 3rd, 2010, my Papi was finally laid to rest in the Valley of Viñales. Amy will tell that story when she returns from Cuba next week.
But for now, I cried a bucketful of tears and I sighed a big sigh of relief. And I think, maybe, so did he.
I love you, Papi. Rest in peace.
Requiem by Robert Louis Stevenson
Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.
This is the verse you grave for me: 'Here he lies where he longed to be; Here is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.
"Kikita and the Nonagenarians Go To Cuba" sounds like a good title for a band or a book, doesn't it?
This is Kikita blogging from Miami. In a few hours I will be on a plane headed for Cuba, "mi patria." Not by myself, though. I'm taking TWO people over 90 years old. Yes, OVER 90. That is 90+.
First there is my abuela, Luza, who just turned 96 . . .
And then, there is her OLDER brother who is 99! Tio-abuelo Fernando (we call him Magoo - for obvious reasons) is the most stubborn independent person I know. He likes to do everything himself. He may use a walker, but the man can move quicker than you can say, "Vamonos."
I have a cousin who was born in the U.S., but lives in Cuba with his father, Timbiriche, and came specifically to help the "ñinos" and me make the 90 mile puddle jump. (And I was so thankful I wouldn't be in charge of them alone, until I remembered that this cousin was "tremendo" and is bringing a whole new set of stresses with him - along with a 32 inch plasma tv and a wheelchair, but that's not important right now.)
So this isn't exactly a "vacation." This is An Adventure. This is a A Journey. This is A Mission.
This trip is so important for so many reasons I don't even know where to begin.
The five Perez-Puelles (which is my abuela's maiden name) siblings have not been under the same roof since Noche Buena 1960. Needless to say, this is A Major Event.
For that, I am a simple bystander. I am there to document the wonder that is my heritage.
My abuelo, Papi, asked that his ashes be scattered off the coast of Pinar del Rio, so I have worked incredibly hard in order to make that happen. He had originally asked Mami to do it, but she has passed that mantle of responsibility to me.
Despite the weight that has been placed on my shoulders, I'm walking tall with such an honor. I am going to see where my abuelo grew up. I am going to take my abuelo home.
Luza is not going to be able to make that particular portion of the trip with me because she will be busy with her siblings. The solemn task is mine alone. I think there is a quiet poetry in that because my abuelo was a quiet man who would sometimes seek the comfort of solitude.
Don't get me wrong, he had an amazing sense of humor and was quite a popular man, but there is no doubt he was also very private. Returning him home without a large audience feels appropriate.
This is A Historical Moment for my family so I am filled with a sense of purpose.
It is also a historical moment for me and I can't help but wonder how I am going to feel when I take those first steps off the plane, when I'm sitting on the Malecón, when I feel the Varadero sand beneath my feet, when I see my family's old house on Avenida de la Loma . . .
I am going to try to see as much as I can, to celebrate life, to be in the moment, to document as much as I can and roll with whatever comes my way. I have no expectations. I have only my camera, my suitcase, and two 90+ year old Cubans.
¡Que Dios me cuide!
UPDATE 3/1/2010: I received an email from Amy this afternoon:
We're here. We're
safe. Everyone is happy. Don't worry. I LOVE YOU! Send love to my
hermanos and my dad. My eyes are bugged out. I am exhausted, but it's
good. Everyone has been super sweet y atentivo. I can't wait to tell
you all about it. :-)
Marta here: I might be able to sleep tonight. *heavy sigh*
This year I decided that, since I was now 26, I would do things MY way. First, I did all of the classic traditions on Miami time. When it was midnight in Miami (9pm here) I was listening to a Cuban song, eating my grapes, toasting the New Year (which is always "El año que viene, estamos en Cuba" - "Next year, in Cuba"), running money out to the mailbox, dumping the water and leaving my suitcase outside.
At midnight California time I was out salsa dancing.
The whole night felt magical.
Two weeks later, I get a call from my grandmother.
"Kikita, quieres acompañarme a Cuba?"
(Kiki, would you like to accompany me to Cuba?)
That is where it started.
For as long as I can remember, I have been dying to know in person the "patria" that I hold in my heart, but I am also desperate to see that land free.
Abuela's invitation had stirred up some very deep things for me.
The last time I had talked to Tio Timbiriche he asked me when I was coming to Cuba. Without giving it much thought, I told him "before I turn 27." (I was 25 at the time and there was no real chance of me getting there anytime soon.)
How I finally made my decision was I realized that a quintessential part of being Cuban is that we put family first. I couldn't very well tell my Abuela (who will be 96 on February 23rd) that she and her siblings would never be under the same roof again because my politics were against it. Politics before family?
Maybe in some cases, but not this one.
Her OLDER brother (Tio-Abuelo Fernando) will be 99 in May and he is going. They have 3 younger siblings in Cuba whose ages are: 93, 90, & 87.
If the nonagenarians are up for it, how can I not be? =D
My big, fat Cuban family has been very supportive of my trip, for which I am incredibly thankful.
I bought tickets for Abuela and me to go to Miami where we'll stay for a few days before we leave for Cuba.
Just as I was getting used to the idea of traveling to Cuba with Abuela and Tio-abuelo Fernando, I realized there would be one other person traveling with us . . . Papi.
Do you know the amount of paperwork involved with transporting ashes to Cuba? Neither did I.
There is no doubt that this trip is going to be incredibly emotional, but I'm saving that. Right now, I have been just taking care of business. I've had to stay detached in order to get everything done. So, please forgive my seeming irreverence when I describe what happened next . . .
I was trying to be sensitive to Mami and my tias when it came to discussing specifics so I was doing as much as I could without them.
Finally, I told my Dad, "I don't want to bug, Mami, but I'd feel better if I had Papi's ashes at my house. I'd hate to be doing all this work and then not know where he is . . . I would look for them myself, but I have no idea where to start or what they look like. I never saw them and it's been 10 years."
Dad is so helpful. I really am grateful for him. He said he knew exactly where to look and as soon as we had gotten my car smogged and bought me a color printer, he'd find them for me.
I was installing the software for the printer while Dad was looking in the hall closet where holiday decorations, cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper and lots of extra silverware are usually kept. I heard him make a sound that rang of "I think I found it!" He carefully and solemnly brought the white box to the table, opened it, and pulled out . . . a ceramic pumpkin???
A Halloween decoration instead of ashes. How ironic and absolutely hilarious.
He continued his search and came out with another white box.
We were both much less serious about the whole thing. I did the honors this time and found a tin and inside the tin . . . "Ok, 1 dead Papi. Perfect. Thank you. Can you put my printer in my car?"
Tomorrow, Saturday, February 13th is Papi's 99th birthday.
It will also be the 49th year of my family's exile from Cuba.
Somehow, I have been honored with the task of taking the exiles home.
We leave for Miami on February 24th, the day after Abuela's 96th birthday. We leave for Cuba on March 1st. We get back to Miami on March 8th and we'll be back in California on March 10th.
Yes, I will take pictures. Yes, I will tell you all about it.
Yes, I am a little nervous. Yes, I am extremely excited.
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