Dreamer

I like to say that I was a dreamer. I enjoyed letting my imagination run freely as the countless stray dogs that run through the streets of Havana. They have no private owner—they are owned by the state. Now, my dreams succumb to the denseness of reality, winding through the labyrinth of time trying to find its way out so my brain can dream again.
Some dreams are generalized, and associated with groups of people. There is the “American Dream” which is the desire to succeed in the United States through the completion of one’s occupational goals. Another example is the Cuban Dream. What the Cuban Dream is exactly, I have not figured out for it varies amongst Cubanos. For those in favor of the revolution, it is generalized that their dream relies on the idea of socialismo, things being run by the state in order to reach equality among the Cuban people. Others, against this mindset desire to seek more than equality, what it is that they are seeking has been generalized and stereotyped as well.
Among those not in agreement with the concept of socialismo, it is stereotyped that those Cubanos seek refuge in the United States. After viewing high profile cases such as Elian Gonzales, it is tempting to agree with this stereotype, but there are some that do not share the same views with the Cuban government, or the idea of socialismo, but neither have intentions to seek refuge in the United States.
I walk along the roadside of Havana because Giovani warns Aliesha and I that the sidewalks are too bumpy. “Camina aquí, en la calle,” Giovani informs us. Giovani, a young male in his late twenties who works for La Residencia (the place to which students attending Casa de Las Americas reside) befriended Aliesha and I within the first week of our arrival. He refers to us as his hermanitas or little sisters. Tall, with his broad shoulders and skinny legs, he walks before us leading the way to the home of a family friend of Aliesha.
Somewhere along the walk, the conversation shifted to life goals and aspirations, Giovani asks us if we would come back to Cuba, Aliesha and I insisted NO! His strong facial features gathered close together as he shifted his head to the side indicating that he was slightly perplexed. “¿Por que no?” he inquired. Aliesha and I continued to demonstrate the reality of living in Cuba, from outsider perspective and how it does not coincide with the American Dream. “In Cuba, I feel like I cannot do anything,” Aliesha explained, “there is no retribution for working hard, people work different jobs and get paid similar low wages, that is not fair.” I nodded in accordance to Aliesha’s protest. It did not make sense to us that a taxi driver makes more money than a doctor.
As we proceeded to inform Giovani how things work in the United States the question presented itself: “when do you plan to move to the US?” The key word here is when, I cannot speak for Aliesha, but I was assuming that Giovani had intentions of leaving Cuba. “No quiero salir de Cuba,” firmly responded Giovani. His expressions secure with his statement and his body language did not display any sign of resentment. We all stood there as though time met pause until Alisha interjected and asked why. Giovani sighed, looked over his shoulder and asked us in return “what is there for me in the United States?” Now Aliesha and I were perplexed because we did not know what to say. We both began to studder, while trying to compose appealing reasons, but none came to mind. Never had a Cuban ask me such a question. Giovani said to us “I enjoy myself here, in Cuba.”
It was not until then that I realized that not every Cuban in opposition to Fidel, or to the idea of socialism desires the American Dream. For them, this dream may have no worth. It was here that I began to re-evaluate the concept of the American Dream and ponder if my dreams had any valediction. This point commenced the fading of my own dreams, because I too began to question the roots of my own dreams.
I like to say that I miss dreaming. Now, mis sueños slowly fade as does the moon when the hot Cuban sun reveals itself at the break of dawn. I am reminded of the statue of John Lennon in a local park in Havana. At his feet inscribed in the marble reads: "Dirás que soy un soñador pero no soy el único." Perhaps, quizás, my dreams and I may reunite once again.

Detalles

No Ganas a intentar to understand Cuba. There is nothing to gain in this attempt because it usually leaves you nowhere. I did not think that the lyrics to Detalles sung by Roberto Carlos would be so applicable in this case but they have proven to be, but nothing makes sense—every explanation requires an explanation, and every story another.

As a traveler in Cuba I feel lifeless.
The clock is ticking but I am still. The Cuban world moves around me and I can just observe. I am a stranger looking into a Cuban snow globe shaking it every now and then to see which direction the snowflakes will settle. Although it does not snow in Cuba I will always remain as an outsider looking in.

I cannot participate
Although I try to negotiate
These factors seem to associate
With the matters which make me feel desolate

As a traveler in Cuba I miss the nonsensical things that once made sense in the United States: A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, fast food, comfort food, things that once made me smile, now are no where to be found -or they have faded into the distance-some say my smile has too…

Llegar

To arrive, to a foreign destination, never thought it would be so. I waited for this day to come, and never thought it would. Now, I’m standing here, trying to collect my thoughts, trying to digest this reality, but after spending a night in the hospital, digestion has proven not to be my forte. I take it all with stride. Each stride becomes more familiar. Buildings, sidewalks, street signs become less distant—walking back from Casa to La Residencia-the 13 floor building to which we reside-the air carried a density reminiscent of what many rainy days carry (including the one this morning).
The waves crashed above El Malecón as if they were competing against me for a grasp of Havana. After several failed attempts to take a picture of the perfect wave the conclusion was reached to leave. Thus I left, somewhat pictureless, and a thousand words less of what I was trying to capture.
Now, as the air becomes more familiar, stomach more settled, and ear more adjusted to the sounds of Español Cubano—I can finally declare that I have arrived.

Homesickness

I miss Mindy Sue, my miniature poodle, and I even think I miss Gemma, my mom’s hyperactive and sometimes annoying wiener dog. I miss not thinking twice about petting a dog I see. I miss cereal. Oh how I miss Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes, the only two cereals I care to stock my apartment pantry with. I miss having something other than hard-boiled and scrambled eggs for breakfast. I miss readily available toilet paper in every bathroom. Charmin Ultra Soft and Bath & Body Works Warm Vanilla hand soap, I miss you. I miss not having to carry a wad of toilet paper in my purse and I miss not having to worry about forgetting to bring that extremely important wad with me to every bathroom I enter. I miss my closet, which beautifully houses my favorite clothes and collection of shoes. It might sound silly but I miss having a wide variety of options when I’m getting dressed in the morning. I miss not having to live out of a suitcase. I really miss living by myself and not having to share my living space with 16 other people. I miss knowing where everything is and knowing what there is to do and at what time I can do it.

Mami y Papi, los extraño tanto. I miss seeing your faces, the most familiar faces I know. I miss the comfort and security that it gives me to know that when I’m in Ann Arbor you are only a one and a half hour drive away. Alma, I miss you more than I can say. So I’ll just leave it at that. My sorority sisters, I miss the crazy, stupid amounts of love that we shower each other with every day. You ladies are my home away from home, but here I don’t have a home away from home away from home. Tia, my protégé, I miss being there to guide you and see you grow. You are never far from my thoughts. Jeff, mi mejor amigo through thick and thin. I miss our silly fights and all the joy that just being in the same room with you brings me.

Yes, I am absolutely blessed and incredibly grateful to have had this opportunity to experience living in Havana for three months. Yes, it is the opportunity of a lifetime; one that very few undergraduate American students have the chance to experience. Yes, I am truly enjoying my time here and yes, I have learned more than my mind can even begin to process right now. However, I would be lying to myself if I said that during my time here I missed none of the people, comforts, and material possessions from my life back in the states. Obviously, I do. Yet, when I catch myself thinking about it too much or for too long, I quickly try to snap myself out of it. What’s the point of crowding my head and thoughts with the people and things I miss if my days in Havana are numbered? I want to make sure that I take advantage of as much as I can while I’m here, knowing that when I leave on April 2nd I’m instantly going to miss a million and one things about being here. But I can’t help it. I do miss home.

A neon sunset

I’m never expecting it or waiting to see it, but it’s always a breathtaking surprise when I do. It usually happens at 1ra y C at around 6:30pm, once I’ve turned the corner and passed the “Playa Girón” block letter sign. I’m usually completely lost in my thoughts, or making sure I don’t get run over by a speeding car while absent-mindedly crossing the street, or focused on the waves crashing fiercely on the Malecón wall and spilling over on the street forcing cars to slow down for once. However, my thoughts come to a screeching halt when I see the neon pink and orange rays of dim sunlight amidst a grayish blue sky. The sun is setting over the Malecón. The clouds are stretched out into long, uneven wisps and I’m not even sure if they are the neon or the grayish blue.

Only three more cuadras until I reach the residencia. I purposefully slow down. These three blocks are familiar to me now and I like walking them on my own. I am used to the sound of engines constantly roaring past me, away from the fluorescent spectacle, not amused by the sun’s final performance of the day. Couples sit intimately on the Malecón, sweetly kissing each other, and for once I am not annoyed at their public display of affection because I know that I would be doing the exact same thing with that special someone. But I don’t feel lonely. If anything, it’s comforting to see and feel these strangers’ affection from across the street. From across the street, on days when the sea is rough, I also feel the mist of the sea carried by the wind. It hits my face ever so lightly and I lick the salitre from my lips. And before I know it I’ve reached the residencia. I linger for a little longer admiring the organic beauty of the sun’s departure for a few more seconds and finally turn my back on it and pray that it comes out tomorrow.

La mejor noche en Varadero

Lights are down. I have just been escorted to my front row, stage right seat. Although I know that what awaits will be infiltrated with extremely problematic racial dynamics, and blatant exoticization of women of color, I try to justify me being here by telling myself that I’ve never been to a cabaret. I am seated for no more than one minute, when the music starts and the lights come on. The dancers quickly emerge from both sides of a blood red velvet curtain. My initial excitement quickly sizzles away as I think damn, these women do not want to be here at all right now. In fact, I think they would rather be anywhere else but here right now. The sign behind me reads, “La mejor noche en Varadero.” I’m only at the Hotel Internacional for one night, but if I were here for more I doubt this would be the best night in Varadero. Why is the sign behind me? It’s almost as if this sign was purposefully placed there as motivation for these cabaret dancers, knowing that they would need it. The show just started and over half of them have absolutely no expression on their faces, like they have done this a million times before, like they are performing a monotonous chore that has become routine. Twirl twice on beat this, stick chest out on beat that. It has become so mechanical and repetitive that they don’t even bother to stay on beat. It’s hard to watch. The syncopated rhythm of their steps makes them look so messy. If I were able to hear it through the music, it would sound like wild popping popcorn. Ironically, their worn costumes are different shades of blue, a color that has come to be associated with sadness.

But their form tells me that they are in fact good dancers. However, the best of dancers would probably not feel that way if they had to wear costumes that looked like hand-me-down-down-downs, if they had to perform with several holes in their fishnet stockings, if their leotard had a gaping hole right under their titty tassle adorned left breast, if their shoes were so worn that it felt as though they had no soles to dance on, while making sure not to trip over the exposed wires on the stage. I keep watching and become fixated on one particular dancer. Out of all the others who have at least flashed a smile once or twice, her face has not changed. Her expression is blank except for her right eyebrow, which is arched ever so slightly. Where is she from? Where does she live? Does she have any children? What is she missing right now, because she has to be here tonight dancing for me?

Now that I am trying to remember her, the elderly lady who must be below five feet tall because I look down at her in my memory, I only recall her in shades of yellow. It is possible that she has a very wrinkled face, eyes pouched so tightly in bags of skin that I cannot surmise their color, a shock of white hair cut at geometric angles. Her clothes might be plain, or I am just bad at recalling outfits. Either way, she appears in sepia.

She stands in front of the peeling white and blue wall tagged with the black inscriptions: “El Choco 411” and “Yaris 413.” I want to document my time waiting for and riding the guagua: Number 27 from Palatino in Cerro to Avenida de los Presidentes in Vedado. I like the guagua culture. How people cooperate, don’t get irritable over lack of space, and operate on an honor system. How I have never seen a bus map or schedule, and sometimes I don’t see signs, but somehow everyone knows where to catch the bus, when it will come, and where it will go.

She waits, just to the left of these tags, under the shadow cast by the awning of the parada. An aesthetically pleasing photograph forms in my imagination. Gathering my nerves, I approach this very serious looking woman. I try to explain in Spanish, “I’m a student from the United States. I’m doing a project for school about the guagua. Can I take a picture of you?” Not a very convincing argument. She squints at me, than quarter smiles and shrugs. “You don’t want me to?” I ask. She shrugs again. Shakes her head. I stammer, “I’m sorry,” then wander away from her line of sight to the other side of the bus stop.

Discouraged, I contemplate not asking other people for their photographs. I feel slightly criminal as I snap shots of the bus stop from afar, of people’s backs, justifying my actions by reminding myself that I would never take a picture close-up or of someone’s face without their permission.

“¿Que es el último?” call out three different people as they arrive in succession over the course of a few minutes. “¿Veinte-siete?” responds the chorus. When each arrival nods, someone raises his or her hand. They acknowledge each other, then lean, or settle into conversation, or lower slowly to a bench. I move to sit across from a group of three: Two men and a woman. I try again to ask for a photograph. This time I add the disclaimer that I know it’s strange but I think the bus is interesting and they have a bus stop sign behind them. They translate my muddled Spanish to each other, then look at me blankly. The woman with the straightened hair and smooth brown cheeks confirms that I want a picture of her. She breaks out into laughter, shakes her head at me. No. I apologize, banish myself to another bench. Procure myself a place in line after the last woman who asked. Raise my hand when the next person asks. Clutch my 5 centavos CUC (the closest equivalent to 40 centavos moneda nacional, but still worth more than one entire peso cubano. Even my pennies are privileged). Try to listen in on the snippets of conversation around me, but the Spanish is too quiet, or too far, or too fast.

The 27 arrives, and because it’s Sunday, there is not a huge crowd scrambling to climb onto the bus or squeezing into an already limited space. I stand behind the woman with the headscarf and wait my turn to press my coin into the driver’s firm hand.

I plan to take pictures on the guagua. I sit in the back, thinking I will continue to photograph from afar. I hope to capture the interactions of friendly strangers talking about baseball, or the way a couple doesn’t mind being forced up against each other, or a child sitting on her mother’s lap, or the raucous laughter of uniformed students on their way back from school. But another old lady sits next to me, and I feel ashamed. I can’t take secret pictures with her watching.

If we were in the front of the bus, she might be sitting and I might be standing, arms outstretched to grab hold of the bar overhead. She might offer to hold my bag in her lap for me, like other old women do for the younger ones who give up their seats. Then maybe we could talk, and maybe I could take her picture. Instead, I am afraid to bother her, and I take a few blurry photos of views out the window before the vibrations of the motor rock me to sleep. Remember, it’s Sunday, and there’s not much going on anyway. When I wake up, another woman is sitting next to me and I have to squeeze past her, allowing her to hold my elbow and help me along, “Con permiso,” past a few men laughing and shouting, “¡Permiso!” until I am stumbling out onto the curb, taking a parting shot at the guagua with my camera as it roars away, turning and heading the twenty five blocks back to the Residencia.