Ceiba

*NOTE: Names that appear in quotes are pseudonyms we have chosen to protect each individual’s privacy.

Heard about a possible study abroad program in Cuba. Waited for the program to gain approval. Waited some more. Applied to study abroad in Havana, Cuba. Got accepted. Fundraised to pay for the program. Raised enough money to actually go. Confirmed my acceptance. Packed to live for two and a half months in Havana. Said goodbye to my family in Ann Arbor. Left Ann Arbor. Had a small panic attack after finally realizing I was going to a place that was inaccessible to my friends and family. Cried incessantly in the car while my brother drove me home. I know he wanted to console me, but instead sat silent. But I know my brother and I know he will miss me. Said goodbye to my family in Kalamazoo. Left Kalamazoo. Arrived in Toronto. Checked in to the hotel where I would spend my last night in North America for the next few months. Promised my parents there would be no incidentals due to irresponsible and loud college kids. Hugged them real tight and watched them drive away. Wiped the few tears that I cried. Left Toronto. Landed in Havana.

It is Tuesday, January 19, 2010. The sky is blue above El Templete and there are clouds. It smells like Viejo San Juan, but today I am in La Habana Vieja. I listen intently to “Fernando” explain the founding of the city. He is a wiry man with laughing eyes and a squiggly vein on his left temple. Knowledge spills from his mouth like it has never been able to spill from mine and I can’t believe he is one of my new professors. Upon arriving, I instantly notice the colossal ceiba tree to my left. I wonder why there is money intentionally placed by its roots, but my thoughts quickly drift to my mother. Although she lived in Fajardo, a town on the eastern coast of Puerto Rico, she did most of her growing up in Ceiba, the next town over. At first I think the connection to this ceiba tree and my mother is coincidental, but now I wonder. People wish at this tree. Habaneros wish at this tree. Cubans wish at this tree. Now I get to wish at this tree. However, today the ceiba does not receive any wishes or money from me. The connection I immediately feel to it is too personal for me to make my first wish in front of so many strangers. So today, I just think of my mother y mi patria.

Poem for the first 2 weeks

After the night I spill purple ink on Grandma Mimi’s bedspread and remember that she is sleeping in her grandson’s room, I know I will remember my first days in Habana like this:

(dedicated to January 6-18)

I.

Dust and fumes rolling off the corners of my eyes,

packed in dead skin,

on the tip of my pointer finger.

Paint the color of thin faded tee shirts,

the ones I like to wear,

flaking off square edificios.

Blunt windows gaping dark and cool.

The old men leaning there,

squinting and unsmiling.

Me afraid to take photos,

to show any disrespect-

With my shiny digital camera

I can’t even pretend to be an artist

and not a voyeur.

Street smart dogs

(those flaquitos),

lazy mosquitoes-

Their borrowed blood between my clapped hands.

Purple ink stains

I scrub off satiny blankets sacrificed by Mimi.

And Me the purple ink stain

the men make sure I notice

(¡ssss! ¡sssss!)

they notice.

The women pretend not to

notice,

the children-

Truly indifferent.

Abuelas at the paradas don’t care about this extranjera.

Have more important things on their minds

or more like behind their eyes.

(24 pesos cubanos only equal 1 CUC.

Hija only earns 15 CUC a month).

Their wrinkles look a lot like the trees on Paseo,

which look a lot like hands

or bench pressing arms

veins popped out,

thick with hairs.

But on the old ladies,

perfectly arreglados

beneath scarves or headbands.

II.

Ciudad Deportiva on Calle Primelles in Cerro

is wide burnt fields and fences

with holes large enough to sneak peeks for free:

The sharp-looking players

in their blue and red uniforms,

shouting in round-nasal Spanish,

roaring off on motos.

Wirey boys in caps with sticks

and bottle caps,

hitting singles into the streets on purpose.

Ruins of sidewalks,

and men who don’t harass me on the guaguas.

Who give up their seats for older men with rusty muscles

and women with round bellies,

or round niños.

III.

How the streets are the dogs,

are the boys,

are behind the eyes of the old ladies,

are the thick arms.

How everyone gathers by the ocean to be romantic.

How Junior told me not to make a generalization.

How maybe I am not a purple stain but only a broken pen.

IV.

Ornate balcony grillwork,

like 1959’s old promises.

Kaleidoscopes of drying wash

splayed over clotheslines,

like the 90s. Like what really happened.

TV channels that show stories on animals and artists,

broadcast movies in all languages with subtitles.

Backstreet Boys music videos as though they’re still the latest hot thing,

marshmallow butt jeans even.

¡Que horror!

The green and the brown and the piel at the fería

even smells like cured cow skin

(The olor of dog shit,

the olor of tired

the olor of tostones).

How gorditas with curly hair are not feas

on this TV.

V.

But also,

how men clustered on corners see my white skin,

call me muñeca.

Me gusta,

they say

and I pretend not to notice them noticing

me

not even look at them.

Want to hiss back.

Maybe that would be more like brave,

and less like these first two weeks

I’ve been coaxing my shadow to be my friend.

Lost boy in a land

where the people grow up and the buildings fall down.

Despite the murals “¡Venceremos!”

La lucha.

But that one little boy holds a torn black nylon on a string

and the wind tells him it’s a kite.

So he is the purple and the blue

and my hands wear him for now,

because my blue pen broke

and my new purse is made of purple skin.

Finally Here!

My father and I hopped in the car and headed down 16^th Street to a place I had been many times as a child. Only ten minutes down the road from our house in Washington, D.C., the Cuban Interest Section was a place where my family would go for New Year’s parties and often to celebrate the Cuban Independence Day on July 26^th. But all I really knew of Cuba was the smell of Cohiba cigars and the minty taste of mojitos. My father had been to Habana many times in the 1980s and ‘90s in political solidarity efforts, and I had met many of his wonderful friends and heard stories about this beautiful island, but not until my teenage years did I truly understand the purpose of his travels and the uniqueness of this communist country.

Then last fall I took Professor Ruth Behar’s class on Cuban Diaspora, which significantly galvanized my interest and desire to actually set foot in Habana and learn about Cuba’s amazing history. Upon hearing about the opportunity to study abroad in this place that seemed so close to my heart but yet so far from my grasp, I eagerly collected all of my savings and pleaded with my parents to help me pay for the trip.

Well, let me tell you, our trip to Cuba was indeed quite the excursion; but, of course, the U.S. Government would have it no other way. Days of packing and anticipation in the cold winter snow left my nerves uneasy and restless, but I knew that in due time our absolutely unreal opportunity to study in such a wonderland would soon come true. First, a car ride from Ann Arbor to Windsor in the snowy streets of the Midwest. Next, an uncomfortably stiff train to Toronto with two would-be classmates I barely knew. But after getting off the train with bags full of luggage and two of my skateboards, we still had to get to the hotel where we would spend the night with three other classmates packed into one room. We woke up at 6AM, took turns taking showers, loaded up a shuttle to the airport, and the reality of being in Cuba slowly crept closer and closer. We patiently waited to check in, get through security, and board the plane. Then finally, after a four-and-a-half hour plane trip, we arrived in beautiful Habana.

Once we collected our baggage and got processed through customs, which surprisingly took less time than we all imagined, the warm air of a Cuba winter refreshed and cleansed me—mentally, physically, and most of all, spiritually. Even still, the road less traveled hadn’t yet been completed. The bus ride to our residency was rather exciting and the cars and roadside sights of Habana were nothing short of amazing, but still we weren’t quite there. And unfortunately, however, upon arriving at the residency, we still had another 13 floors to climb until we could finally unpack and settle in. For me, the thought of actually being in Cuba wouldn’t ingrain itself into my mind until I would be able to hit “las calles con mi patineta.” I took Rey Ray—my favorite longboard—onto the surprisingly cleanly paved streets surrounding la residencia, and carved away.

I felt the breeze, saw the most friendly of faces, the antique cars from a half-century ago, and finally realized, “estoy aqui!” The thought of being in Cuba has always been a dream of mine, but in all the anticipation I could never truly visualize what it would be like. I’d had a million conversations with friends and family members in the States and each said, “What! You’re going to Cuba? How is that even possible? You’re gonna see the most incredible cars from the 1950s! Dude, you gotta bring me back some Cohibas…You gonna chill with Fidel or what?” All these queries and pre-conceived notions were stirring around my head for months and months, and finally, finally, I was here!

I rode for hours, but upon returning for dinner, I realized I had only begun to retrace the footsteps of my father. I was zooming all around town, kicking and pushing around some of the same streets that heroes such as Antonio Maceo—the “Bronze Titan” who was crucial to the victory of the Ten Years War in 1868, Cuban Independence, and the freedom of slaves and Afro-Cubans—once rode; he on his horse, me on my board.

We met our fellow residence-mates from Northeastern University in Boston and our magnificent abuela “Mima”—who is an absolutely genuine woman who looks over us all, cooks us meals every day, and continually speaks words of wisdom through her experienced accent, muffled by Cuban cigars. I even felt as though I had met Ché, Fidel, and the hero of the Cuban independence struggle, Jose Martí, after catching glimpses of their faces etched into billboards and graffiti all around the city. So I skated around the block, time after time, pinching myself to see if indeed I was in this terrain where my father too once cruised the streets with his young revolutionary ideals. For three months my classmates and I will be living the most unique of lifestyles, exploring extraordinary sights and studying the revolutionary ways that have shaped and redefined this society. The dynamics of life are undoubtedly quite different here than those we have grown accustomed to in a place we call home only 90 miles north, but in our excursions, relationships, and experiences, I only hope to become something of the “new man” that Ché once wrote about following the 1959 Cuban Revolution.

liquids, first impressions of

The air is heavy. I’m a bit sticky. The sound of the harmonium weaves its way through the cars that weave their way along the Malecón, tracing the lines of the ocean’s edge though the ocean knows no edges, knows no walls, breaks over walls onto streets and cars before settling and slowly drawing back, seeming to pull both with it. We arrived in mid-afternoon and paused before our new residence to watch the ocean, our professor telling us how rare this is. “This only happens in January, the ocean breaking over the walls of the Malecón. I’ve come here in January specifically to film these waves.”

As waves fell over the Malecón I could think of no better grand display of “Welcome to Havana.” Yet as I stood watching the ocean that first night and now as I do so exactly a week later, watching it creep farther and farther over the sidewalks and streets, soaking more of the land in front of us, I increasingly notice my distance from this place, fully feeling the effects of feet moving faster than the eye can absorb, eye moving faster than the mind can process.

The kitchen where “Mima,” the residence’s caretaker, stands, welcomes, kisses, and a boiling pot of pineapple spines that turn to jugs of the spiny juice sitting on clean, sparse, ordered tables which we pour into small flowered glasses before it quickly becomes the damp shine dripping from foreheads, seeping from our little Michigan pores, opening them to the new humidity, to the new strong juice in our juice boxes, to the placement of these rum boxes on shelves next to water, Acqua Panna water, 4 CUC water, perhaps a third of one’s income water, placed on the third floor of the galleria across from the Melia Cohiba hotel, the Melia Cohiba placed three streets east and one south of the market with reused beer bottles holding tomato sauce for sale, 10 peso tomato sauce, placed on one side of a fence on which the other holds a small drum of gasoline, perched, or so it looks, above a driveway which holds a car in repair. So much of the air smells like gasoline, as if the odor liquefies inside of you once inhaled, walking down the street, large breaths, no different than if the drum were to suddenly spill up your nostrils before coming out again, exuding an aura of smoky dampness. But we all have it, the smell and shine, though ours smells newer than others you can still smell it, most prevalent when packed 30 to a room, Santeria ceremony, dancing behind golden necks, glistening necks, the smell of us all, of the liquids and smoke inside, becomes more easily recognizable before being washed away, cleansed, by the water squeezed out of flower petals and baby powder, dripping from foreheads, spilling over bowls, bowls for offering.

I watched the Malecón last night and wondered if the waves would ever reach our feet, if one day we might get soaked, too, or perhaps just stand in a puddle of the ocean’s sprays, have a few of our smaller toes dissolve into it and then seep into the ground, below the sidewalks and buildings, with perhaps the smallest melted particle making it to the ocean, being pulled with it before being thrown back, over the walls again.

*NOTE: Names that appear in quotes are pseudonyms we have chosen to protect each individual’s privacy.

Havana

Havana is the spice my mind is yet to taste-yet to experience-one that bursts with culture with each savory bite, that is what I imagine Havana to be. My expectations are quite high and I hope that Havana fulfills each and every expectation-only time will tell.

cuba, tomorrow

This is toronto, a place I have been, streets I have seen, corners I remember, the walk to chinatown familiar, the trees, the air.. Kensington market seems to map onto the story my friend told me about her walk through the neighborhood, wandering into a reggae-soaked basement, leaving with a black-stone bracelet given to her by the owner. And yesterday was ann arbor where I no longer even see the streets and corners and buildings when walking through them, can't remember when I didn't know what it looked like, how it felt. It is too familiar, my feet know it, no longer need my eyes, my eyes go other places, into my mind, into the town that has been created there, into that ann arbor's yesterday, the day before, tomorrow.



My expectations of places I've never seen are formed by pictures, pictures created from stories. Maybe you told me this story, maybe I read it, maybe I saw another picture and told it to myself. Before a few months ago, I knew no one who had been to Cuba, read little except for a few books on Cuban Santeria, had seen only one movie about the island in 7th grade spanish class, heard only severely diluted stories, mostly of farming and the organic 'revolution' there. I now know one person who has lived there for a few months, read a few more books, seen a few more pictures. Slowly, I no longer swim through blank space when trying to imagine Cuba, what it looks like, how it feels. The country has become a flat, sketchy image. Still, though, how much can pictures, maps of places, or movements of people color themselves in the darkness of a stranger's imagination? For sometimes read histories and second-, third- hand stories still seem so distant, I can't quite translate them into livable space..


Cuba, I expect you to be bright with a dusty tint, warm, with toothpaste air. Everything more, I'll wait to til tomorrow.

Hasta luego USA

Havana, Cuba.
In less than 24 hours I will finally meet the city that will become my new home. Currently, I am sitting in the lobby of a hotel in Toronto anxiously awaiting the arrival of the rest of our group, anxiously awaiting Monday morning and anxiously awaiting the plane ride that will bring us to the place that I have been dreaming of for the past few months and yet have only a vague idea of what to expect. I've moved into two small suitcases, said goodbyes to friends and family and a left a city the city that I know and love and am ready to plant my feet into unfarmiliar territory.

Our first book for professor Behar's class says that Cuba is a city of the imagination and right now that is about all I can do. I imagine beautiful beaches, vibrant neighborhoods, intoxicating music and people that I will grow to love. I have images etched into my brain from pictures and from readings but right now, these are nothing more than outlines which I know will be defined, expanded and illuminated throughout the next couple of months. I expect that Cuba will stretch any limits of my imagination.