Cubanism

i miss my country. my country is a kind of paradise, where my childhood unfolded within a sheltered sphere of love, happiness, and spirituality; where i learned how to swim, draw, and read and write poetry; where i never experienced a lost of identity; where i learned the sacredness of family-hood; a place where i got lost in the universe of my books and not fidel castro' political speeches; where my humanity was born; a place i sensed rather than saw.

i have had to learn and re-learn all about my culture through other people's experiences, representations, and idealizations of one of the most beautiful islands on this planet. even though i was unaffected by the political history of my country as a young boy, growing up in cuba gave me a sense of nationalism unlike many of my friends.' since i have never been a follower, castro's influence did not have a chance within the labyrinth of my thoughts. i cared more about the land--the water, trees, animals, fishes, birds, mountains, waterfalls, beaches, etc.--then his psychological brain washing speeches. the man who raised me, who was my mother's brother, was more powerful and wiser than fidel castro will ever be. the only things fidel castro took from me are my family, my culture, and the land where i walked since i was born. i must say, however, that i do not hate him.

the memories of my childhood are fragmented. i lived in cuba from birth until i was 12 years old. i had no desire to leave, but my father was never a communist and he strongly felt he could not raise me in a communist regime; he foresaw cuba's demise brought about by fidel's idealism of what cuba ought to become, and thus 22 years after castro's revolution, he managed to take me out of the country. i left when i was 12 and moved to panama with my mom. but before i left cuba, i spent 12 amazing years with the man i consider to be my father: my mother's brother. i adored my tio caridad, whose name in spanish means 'kindness,' 'good-will,' 'charity,' 'benevolence.' he cultured me by teaching me how to draw, read poetry, read books, love nature, be myself, love music, and question everything. he took me away from the things that society demanded of a young boy, namely the military and brain washing communist ideals. he was my friend, someone i never saw again after i left, and one of the most important persons in my life.

memories shape our identity; they make up the fabric of what and who we are. i remember going fishing and hunting with my uncle and cousins; walking in the endless rain; swimming in the river naked; waking up at 6am and going to the beach until 6pm; riding my bike; the shows my father or my tio caridad made me; my grandmother's food; sleeping next to my grandmother; the fights with my sister; the birds and snakes my tio caridad would bring me to nurse back to health; the endless apagones (black outs); the pond in my tio marcelito's finca (farm); the quails' nests in my hunting trips; drawing with my tio caridad; reading for hours; kissing other boys and feeling scared someone would find out; Soroa (mountain resort); waterfalls; mangos; and having a sense of being in the world. i will never forget the tranquility of the nights and the reassurance that the mornings would bring.

whenever i dream of cuba (or in Cuban), i wake up crying. my dream always consists of the same sequence or series of sequences: i am at the airport in Havana, staring at the clock on the wall. i look outside, where the sun is beating up the landing strip. i look to one side and i see my tio caridad. i feel an overpowering sense of joy mixed with an overwhelming feeling of sadness. i run towards him scared that he will run away. as i get closer i see my grandmother (his mother). i run faster and as i get closer i start seeing other members of the family i left behind. i start crying from joy and sadness, but all of a sudden my grandmother and tio caridad are no longer there. all that is left are my uncles and ants and cousins,with whom i grew up. the more i greet them and ask them how they are doing, the more they ignore me, which makes me sadder and sadder. until the pain of that sadness wakes me up in tears of desperation and helplessness.

as much time as i have spent away from my country (i have not been back for 25 years), i still feel as though i left yesterday. in my mind, i am still that little kid, who was really sad and hurt that his favorite person in the world did not get a chance to say goodbye. the day i left cuba is ingrained in my mind and i cannot run away from it. i remember that we all lined up on the steps in front of my grandmother's house, where i grew up. my mother's cousin, who was a photographer, wanted to take the last photograph, before we departed (he had been documenting our last weeks together with his camera). i was at the bottom of the stairs and above me were my mother and her mother, behind them was the rest of my family. way in the back was my tio caridad. the camera snapped, i turned around in order to clime up to hug my tio caridad, but to my surprise he walked away from me. all i remember was that our eyes did not meet for the last time, our bodies did not touch, and we did not exchange any words. the last words he said to me the day before were: "uno de estos dias vamos a comer langosta juntos otraves" (one of these days, we are going to eat lobster together again). he ran in order not to cry. i tried to run after him, but i was dragged into the car that was taking us to the airport. that instant is the memory that has made me who i am today: a 12 year old kid who does not want (nor needs to) grow up, awaiting his tio caridad's hug.