A Journey Home

Location:
Cuba

Cuba, Exiles, Caribbean Society

By Sugey Palomares

Memory tends to break apart and recreate itself unexpectedly, like an earthquake- evolving and shaping my world. Each thump, each tremor leads me into a different direction. Tracing my footsteps leads me to a new place filled with distorted images I yearn to put into focus.

As a little girl, I inherited my mother’s nostalgia for a land as complicated and wonderful as a first love. A warm fertile land that once functioned as a plantation society where cruelty was harvested for profit. This is her land. A land described as the “key to the Caribbean” by few who saw the island as a treasure box of dreams, while the chants of beaten slaves echoed hell on earth. The beats of struggle were born and raised here, transformed into the pulsating and addictive rhythms of salsa. This is a land where difference is more than skin deep and everyone gets a sip of café con leche- that is, when there is milk. Four hundred years of plantations and more than four decades of venomous speeches. More sacrifice? Patria o muerte? This is a land thousands have abandoned in overcrowded lanchas big enough to hold young dreams, but too small to fulfill each one. This is my family’s land. This is Cuba.

I faintly remember the day “Cuba” ceased to be a simple word. We spent most of our summers in Hialeah, Florida visiting family members who never understood why my mother had moved to New York City, when there was a perfect replica of Cuba down Calle 8. Unfortunately for my mother, Cuba was irreplaceable. One summer, we decided to cut our Hialeah vacation short and spend a few days in Key West. Most people go to spot dolphins, but my mother was hoping for a view of Cuba. Our afternoon at the beach flows through my mind like a faint blurry slideshow. Our toes hid inside the wet mustard colored sand as soft waves gently caressed our ankles. My mother's eyes welled up with tears as she stared at Cuba, a land she hasn’t set foot in since 1970. “That is Cuba, hija. Lo vez?” It decorated the horizon so perfectly. I wanted to grab it, touch it and be a part of it. From that day on, a seed of desire grew in the pit of my stomach, gradually transforming itself into reality.

I was 15 when I first visited Cuba. A 15-year-old who thought she had experienced the world, but had really only sampled a droplet of what life had to offer. I traveled with my mother’s cousin, who left during El Mariel and hadn’t been back to Cuba in over 20 years. She left behind her mother, brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews. After passing the stern military guards at the cigar-infested airport, my once faceless family members became real. We celebrated the rebirth of our family with tears. As I looked around, I noticed clusters of families gathered together smiling and crying – reeking of heartache. This is Cuba’s reality.

I returned during my junior year in college. I spent a month in Havana and found myself growing angrier and angrier. I saw young, beautiful women selling their bodies for a pound of meat. Military police harassing teenage boys on the street corners. Clever street hustlers selling 3 peso coins emblazoned with the face of the mythical Che Guevara for $3 dollars. I learned not to point fingers or become blinded by politics. I wanted to come to my own conclusions. This led me to visit for a third time-this time for four months while studying at the University of Havana.

The act of remembering transports me to the streets of Havana once again. I closed my eyes and see the touristy Calle Obispo where an ice cream man shouts “paletica de helado cubierta en chocolate!” I can almost taste the soft, cold coca dissolving in my mouth. There’s the elderly man masking his worries as he dances outside a corner bar, hoping that tourists will leave him a few tips. The creviced wrinkles on his face deepen as he smiles. His well-earned dollars will probably buy him a carton of milk. There’s the artist selling paintings of Afro-Cuban women on plantations, smiling as if to say “A la orden, senor.” He’ll probably go home and paint more self-deprecating images – since that’s what Europeans seem to admire most. Is this real life in Cuba? Or is this simply a portion of life that’s put for sale?

A couple of blocks away, there’s a pink building tucked behind El Paseo del Prado. This is my family’s home. On this block, there are no ice cream vendors or street beggars, just the giggle of little kids playing ball and elderly grandmothers coming back from the panaderia with fresh baked bread to accompany a cold batido de fruta bomba. Music echoes down these streets while political programs play on mute. I head up seven flights of stairs; my calves burn with the very thought, sweat streaming down my temples. I open the chocolate colored door and find peace inside.

A beautiful 72-year-old woman stands in front of the stove, lovingly preparing each ingredient dressed in her dinner. Her smile hides all the hurt and pain. I call her “Mima” because she hasn’t experienced pain with that name. While we sit on rocking chairs and sip her fine Cuban coffee, she sings a song of solitude that reaches down to the button of the cup, creating soft ripples that she slowly swallows. Here is a woman that has worked hard and has nothing to show for it. She hasn’t seen four of her children in over two decades, but she gets up every morning with the strength of a warrior. “No es facil, pero tampoco es dificil!” she says. Courage and strength run through my family’s veins, conquering the realities each Cuban wakes up to everyday. Trekking to a market that might have nothing to sell. Climbing the roof to see if the water tanks are filled for the wash. Finishing dinner once the gas has run out for the day. And figuring out how to get some money – just to get by. Each person reflects a book of untold stories – stories that will eventually be told.

Further Information

Other helpful information: My advice is to read up on the history of Cuba and its present political state. It is a beautiful land with very complicated ideologies. The more educated you are, the easier it is going to be to understand your surroundings.

Must see/do at this place: You must walk down el malecon and chat with locals.

You should avoid here: I would avoid any political conversation involving anti-communist remarks.