CUBAN TRANSITIONS

I didn’t expect to leave this Cuba more confused than when I’d arrived, though I have, but it is important to note that for me this is in no way a negative conclusion. The reason behind my grandparents’ decision to send their two eldest sons to the United States through the Peter Pan Program in March of 1962, and to then join them in Miami February of the following year, is one none of my family has ever really been explained of. We’ve just always known that it was a difficult one for them to make, and in so making it they made the distinct choice to leave any reason for staying behind them. I think now that this is why they never speak of their reason for leaving, because the things telling them to leave and asking them to stay were so heavily intertwined.

Visiting their old home in Parcelacion Moderna (a very difficult neighborhood to find, by the way) on March 17^th was possibly the second most emotional experience I’ve ever had, second only to the week I lost my grandfather. Seeing the house I’d only ever looked at in black and white was a remarkable conclusion to my 6 weeks of learning and 2 weeks of discovering.

 

While in Cuba the thing I avoided most was letting anyone know that my father was also Cuban. Partly because I do not speak Spanish fluently, a great disappointment to not only my family but also to myself, and I felt this disappointment would extend to any local who learned I was raised in a Cuban home without it. But mostly because I was and am still not clear on my family’s stance, and I anticipated their leaving, and not teaching me Spanish, would read not only as individuals against Fidel, but also as ones dissociated from their heritage and connected culture.

I also perceived there to be a division between those who stayed in support of the revolution (who would be angry with anyone who had left) and those who wanted to leave but were never given the opportunity (who would be frustrated with anyone who had left). Either way, I felt the odds stacked against me. I realize the slim chance of this, because I never really was open with anyone about my being half Cuban, and the friendliness of the culture was so strong I couldn’t imagine it having halted. However, I never did feel comfortable enough.

Which is why my experience the last day was so unique, almost an hour in a cab with one of the doormen from the Plaza Hotel, who lived only but two blocks away from my grandparents old home. I had no choice but to explain why I wanted to stand in front of a home in what is apparently now the middle of nowhere. His response was so sincere, energetic, and interested in not just my family’s story but also my personal one. I only wish I had more to say to him, but the truth is I don’t know too much about either.

         I don’t know why my grandparents left. I don’t know how common domestic tourism really is. I don’t know what has come of privatizing home ownership. I don’t know if all Cubans are really given the opportunity to stay in the hotels we frequented—especially considering that the one non-translated sign I found read (in Spanish): “chairs and umbrellas for hotel guests only.” And I don’t know what motivates citizens to pursue doctoral degrees. What is amazing is that I am walking away from a class wanting to know all of these answers. Wanting not to just talk to my Abuela about her story, or go back and talk to more Cubans about theirs, but to continue reading and continue researching.

I have learned that my connection to Cuba is no longer just about feeling closer to my parted Abuelo, or creating an identity for myself, but a separate interest in the country as its own entity. I want to know and understand for the sake of it. While my initial desires to take the course may have been intrinsic ones, my future pursuit is now extrinsic, and for that I am eternally grateful.