Missive #21: A Good Man to Love You

As I have been saying, Cuba is a country of color and culture, of passion and vibrancy.

Everywhere and at all times, it is filled with music, art, and dance. And then there is all the natural beauty: the mountains, the hills, the waterfalls, the lakes, the rivers, the streams, the beaches, the forests, the caves, the palm trees, the tropical foliage, the crocodiles and the lizards, and the tricolored national bird, which determined the colors of the Cuban flag.

Highly reminiscent of the psychedelic buses of the '60s, Electric Cool-Aid Acid Test vintage…this is one of several Pastors for Peace buses, which are driven to Mexico and shipped to Cuba every year. 

The worst part of my time in Cuba is that I am constantly finding myself alone in adventuresome, fascinating, poignant, and improbably romantic situations, all of which are meant to be shared with a loved one. I sometimes feel guilty, like I am squandering these moments. I hate to admit to loneliness, especially when surrounded by such serenity and beauty, natural or cultural.

An impromptu dance party at the seminary.

The first of my daughters to marry will be celebrating her 7th wedding anniversary on April 2nd. That was the day Pope John Paul II died. His historic visit to Cuba before the turn of the century is probably the reason that I am able to live and work in Cuba today. His successor, Pope Benedict, is once again making history with his April 2 visit to Cuban soil to mark the 400th anniversary of the apparition of Cuba’s patron saint, la Virgen de la Caridad de Cobra, in the seas outside of Santiago de Cuba.

On April 1st, no fooling, my parents will be celebrating 61 years of marriage.
I am thankful for the love of my father for my mother.

This morning, I met a trombone player named Levis (“like the bluejeans,” he said) for an hour and a half for an impromptu English lesson. Levis is from my mother’s hometown of Cienfuegos. He told me that his best friend lives right by where my mother grew up, on the street San Carlos overlooking the central Parque Martí. I told him (in English, as part of our lesson) that my parents were married in the cathedral on that same square.

Marielys studying in the seminary Library.  I had just bought the painting that had hung in the far-left corner.

All of this reminds me that I should quit harping on my prayerful request for my students Marielys and her husband, Jesus, to conceive a child, and to just give thanks that they have one another.

Marielys and Jesus recently celebrated their 15th wedding anniversary. They have been “trying” for many years to have a baby. I have been praying for Marielys to become pregnant almost since the day I met her, on the first day of classes back in September 2011. She has been like a daughter to me, and her husband immediately began to call me his “segunda suegra” -- second mother-in-law. How many men do you know who would want one of those? And I cannot think of a better set of parents for a newborn child, besides my own daughters and the good men who love them.

One of the Cuban paintings I've purchased.

An aside: While living in Boston, between 1977 and 1983, I remember hearing (I think from Sheila Brock, the wife of my ex-husband's cousin) that the vast majority (more than 90 percent) of fatal car accidents took place within one mile of the place where the car was permanently parked, i.e., one’s primary residence. The reason for this is that people who are driving only a short distance from home often forget to fasten their seat belts.

This brings to mind the notion, if not the fact, that most people in the world live out their entire lives within a short radius of where they park their cars. This got me thinking about the people we are likely to encounter and meet for the first time throughout our lives. So, if we move and live and "park our cars" in different places in the world, those places may be where we are most likely to meet new people (or to die in a car accident).

I am thankful for the father of my firstborn child, Friedhelm Klein-Allermann, who loved me before and after our child was conceived in Germany, in 1975.

I am thankful for my first husband, Henry Hudson Barton V, the father of my beautiful, delightful, intelligent, talented, and loving four daughters, who loved me while I was carrying Friedhelm's child, in Philadelphia in 1976.

On my refrigerator is a picture of Jade and Logan.

I am thankful for my second husband, Ronald G. Rooney, who loved me from the time we first met, as teenagers, shortly after the Woodstock festival in August of 1969.

I am thankful for the three young men who love my three eldest daughters, two of whom are the fathers of my first four delightful grandchildren: Riley, Jade, and Logan Ostroff of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. And Rory Slocum of San Francisco, California. I remind my Livia and her Chris that I await my first blue-eyed and/or redheaded grandchild.

I am thankful for my older sister Maria’s second husband, Crosby, who knew a treasure the moment he set eyes upon her.

And I am thankful in the peace and the knowledge that my youngest daughter will eventually also experience the love of a good man.

The following tripartite electronic conversation, between my two middle daughters, Ashley and Livia, and myself, reminded me, as I reminded them, that the love of a good man is a very precious thing for any woman. I am ever so thankful for the good men who love my daughters.

I wrote to Livia: "Could you send me another $1,000 please, along with the latest monthly [bank] statement? Thanks."

Livia replied to me and to Ashley: "Yes, I'm asking Ashley to send, since she has so much time on her hands to try to plan my wedding. :) Ash -- can you do this before you leave for the weekend?"

Ashley: "No, I was not able to do that before going away for the weekend. I will try to do it this week, but FYI, I do not have 'so much time on my hands,' as Livia apparently thinks. I have three kids under age 5, and you [Livia] have a dog. ;)"

And I have a cat. (This is one way to get him to open wide those gorgeous blue eyes of his.)

Livia: "Mom, do you have any money left? Sorry, I just don't think there is a place near me that takes the Cuban form. Ashley seems to have it all figured out."

Yours truly: "I’m not penniless yet but will need more before April 1. Sorry this is such a pain. Do you mean not all Western Unions will send money to Cuba?"

Ashley: "No. The only one is in North Philadelphia, on a very sketchy street. I cannot take the kids there; that is why it is so hard to get there."

Livia: "Hey, your kids go to school, while I have a full-time job. ;)"

Ashley: "They have school for two hours, two to three days a week, Liv. Just enough time to do laundry, pay bills, go grocery shopping, OR exercise. You try being me for a week and see how much you get done."

Livia: "Hahaha, you know I'm kidding!!! Let me know if you want me to find a way to do it or if you can. Mom, can we send you enough to take you through June?"

And I wrote to them both: "Yes, I think the $1,000 should be more than enough! I’ve just found a wonderful hotel with a pool and breakfast for $17 a night, and it’s right on the river between Matanzas and Varadero. I’ll be spending five nights there the first week of April. In Varadero, I can stay at a guest house with breakfast for $25 per night. And those are the only few larger expenses I should have between now and my departure. My ticket from Miami to Philadelphia I can purchase online using my Visa card. Love and thanks and quit arguing about stupid things like who works harder. Just be thankful you have good men to love you. Love, Mommy who knows best."

With love from Cuba,

Elisa
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Matanzas, Cuba

The colors of Cuba

Here are some recent photos I love:

Rosalía and the Cuban Siamese cat she gave me.Semi still remembers his first "owner."  Rosalía is a retired nurse-midwife, a local celebrity, as she has helped deliver more than 1,000 babies.

Students watching the kayaks and waiting to learn to steer a sailboat.

Front of the building that houses my apartment. This "quinta" isan example of the classic Cuban ‘farmhouse’--it is the landlord’s mansion.  This was the final building acquired by the seminary.  The original house was first subdivided into five large apartments, with each apartment now sharing a portion of the large inner courtyard.  In 2008, three more apartments were built on top.  I live in one of those.

My "home" in Cuba.This is the rear of the old farmhouse mansion.  My apartment is reached by climbing a staircase whose opening you can see just by the tall palm tree in the picture.

The street of stairs. This family lives in the same building with me.  Both parents will be my students.  We descended the street of stairs as a shortcut leading to a footbridge over the River Yumurí, on the way to visit a castle-museum.

These Optis were the sailboats on which the younger ones learning to race.

Kayaking on the San Juan river.From the Bay toward the city of Matanzas. The first overpass is the Viaducto, the freeway from Havana to Varadero.  The bridge behind it is the all-steel one over which I passed to reach the nautical center.

One of the younger students swims around the boat ramp.

Getting the little sailboats ready to go in the water.

There are two Hobie Cats whose sails are under repair.

The juxtapositioning of the Cuban flag and the sail were a feat of the little camera Ron gave me…nothing to do with any photographic talent on my part.

A Laser getting ready to go.

Laser in preparation for the water.

A brief moment of shade.

Holding the wishbone to the windsurfer.Jorge is the instructor who invited Alice to navigate his boat as he instructed the younger ones learning to race.  Here he is holding the wishbone to a windsurfer he’s just dragged back from repair. A bit later, the young woman champion racer went flying before on the windsurfer, but I had already put the camera away.

Bringing back the windsurfer sail.

Part of the beach by the Matanzas bay.

These bici-taxis are all over Cuba.

Crossing back over the bridge into town.

The railroad bridge.

A bike for two. One often sees three people on one bike.

Taken last night in another apartment at the seminary.Three Canadians and one Cuban.

Semi and I at the kitchen table too early this morning.

My living room. Rocking chairs are the staple furniture of choice of every Cuban home.

Missive #20: The meaning of "home"

Playing dominó under the streetlights on a Friday night

The moon is up, and there is still daylight, and I don’t know what that means except that it is the same moon that everyone in the world sees, no matter where on Earth we happen to be.

That has always been a comforting thought to me when I have been living for a long time far away from “home.”

Home may be where the heart is or where one’s treasure lies, but what about when the heart and home and treasure are still distant from one another? Does that mean that I am in the wrong place at the wrong time? I think it means just that: that my heart and my treasure and my home are separated from one another right now, but I know that I am in the right place at exactly the right time.

At the Centro Nautico boarding school

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything to post on the blog, for several reasons. First, because I’ve spent most of my writing time working on translations or sending e-mail to individuals, mostly family members. Another reason is that I have begun to question whether my time is better spent writing and talking, or reading and listening. I usually overdo the former in direct detriment to the latter. The last time I felt like this, it was because I was overwhelmed by so many new sights and sounds and thoughts, and it was too hard to get everything down in writing. This time, I am feeling differently.

A Matanzas bay fisherman

This time, my periods of relative “silence” are due to a combination of facts and feelings: the fact that I am entering the final trimester of my teaching sabbatical, coupled with the feeling that I am nearing the end of my stay in Cuba. Preparations for leaving have already begun, including the purchase of my return flight from Havana to Miami. When I pass by the stores on the Calle del Medio, it is no longer with the thought of what I need to purchase, but rather with the reminder that I need to assign nearly each article I’ve brought from the U.S., or bought or acquired to leave with a particular person.

I’ve only just recently learned the Cuban art of stockpiling. Since you never know when you’ll see any particular item in the stores again, everyone stockpiles on everything, to the extent that they can afford to buy more than one of anything. Toilet paper, powdered milk, canned soda and beer, and even brown sugar are a few examples of items that disappear for weeks on end from the shelves of all the stores, and nobody knows how long it will be before they reappear. Cubans have to substitute newspaper for toilet paper not only because toilet paper can only be bought with CUCs, but because it sometimes cannot be bought at all.

Another reason for my relative silence is that I’ve reached the point where I am beginning to understand too much. By that I mean that I have reached that plateau of linguistic and cultural comprehension that can spell danger for someone as generally naïve and talkative and tactless as I. Maybe it’s a bit of paranoia mixed with a good measure of confusion, as I add nearly daily, sometimes hourly, to the extensive list in my mind of ambiguities and contradictions that make up the Cuban culture.

Los Cocodrilos along Matanzas' waterfront park

My dearest and oldest male friend, Russell, just asked me: “What one thing have you found out about yourself in your home country that you didn’t expect and which surprised you?” I promised him that I would attempt to answer that question in my next blog entry. I think I may have just touched on part of the answer in that last paragraph.

All along, since my very first day in Cuba, I have been finding out the same thing about myself, and yet it continues to surprise me over and over again. And it is this: I am who I am because I was born in Cuba of Cuban parents and Cuban blood but, from the start, I was raised in two very different and often opposing cultures. Thus, I am by nature, by upbringing and by environment, a person full of ambivalence, ambiguity, contradiction, and multiplicity. And the never-ending surprise is learning that there’s nothing wrong or the matter with any of that.

Bridge over Rio San Juan

In Cuba, I’ve been able to embrace my entire Cuban genetic, historical, and cultural heritage. Cuba is a country of contradictions. Cuban-Americans are just as much a product of those contradictions as is the entire generation of Cubans who have grown up in Cuba since 1959. Everything about my character and my actions that was somewhat out of place in the United States is completely in order, acceptable, even admirable in Cuba.

So, in short, I feel very much “at home” living in my “home country.” And yet…just thinking about returning to “my other life” in Philadelphia makes me realize that there remains a long road ahead before I begin to feel truly and fully integrated into either culture. I suppose that teachers are the last to learn how much they still need to learn, that life is an ongoing learning experience, but that cliché only partly expresses what I am feeling. I feel scared.

At Matanzas' El Hotel Velazco with a Canadian student

Part of it is that scary feeling of not knowing what is going on around me. I am afraid that I am going to say or write something that will jeopardize my temporary residential status as a visiting professor. I am different here from the other visiting professors because of my dual citizenship, with neither of my two “homelands” recognizing me as a valid citizen of the other country.

With love from Cuba,
Matanzas, March 5, 2012

Elisa