Tía Rosa September 2, 2009

She has a painting of Fidel in her living room.  He was young in his trademark green.  Tía Rosa loves Fidel so much that she doesn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t like him.  He has given maternity leave to women for a whole year, she told me once.  I smiled.  I couldn’t tell her that he is not perfect.  She wouldn’t understand the concept of loving someone in all their complexities. To her there is nothing complex about Fidel.

She is the one that stayed.  The one with a chest full of revolutionary medals.  I am not sure if she ever picked up a rifle.  She must of.   At least once.  Tía Rosa received medals for her outstanding work in education.  Education is revolution.

In all my trips to Cuba I have learned, don’t hate the people, just hate the government.  That is what my family tells me about the US.

Tía Rosa’s husband died this past May.  They bickered constantly.  I used to wonder if they still loved each other.  Then every now and then I saw the look they gave each other.  She misses his voice, the way he walked with his cane.  She misses his scent in bed.  I wonder where his things are.  Is his comb still left by the bathroom or did she give it away?  In Cuba nothing gets thrown out.  Not even pain.

My cousin wrote to me today asking me to call her more often because she always feels better when she hears from one of us in the states.  He wrote me that she spends her days so sad and alone.  No husband to take care of, her children now in their fifties and not all the grandkids remember to visit.  Except him, of course, he visits her and is greeted with her wails and tears.  His words pulled at my heart.  It’s sad when the matriarch feels all alone.  It is not suppose to be that way.

Awhile back she told us that she wanted us to start the paperwork so she could come for a visit.  People over 60 years old can leave the island for a period of time.  I never thought Tía Rosa would want this but she wanted her sisters.  She’s the one that stayed.  Mami and Tía Cheffy left.  Tío Nene did, too, but he died a long time ago.  A shot in the head.

I did the first step.  A phone call to the embassy.  She was given a date to be interviewed.  December 23, 2010.  I called in 2008.

Tía Rosa is 78 and her biggest worry right now is that she will die before she will get to visit.  I try to call the embassy every so often but each call costs $11.  Each time they tell me they can’t move up her date.  I called Tía Cheffy in Miami she said she has heard that there are ways to do it.  How much?, I asked.  She said she would find out tomorrow.  It doesn’t matter where you are money moves everything.

I am thinking I should go to Cuba soon and spend some time with her.  I am not sure.  I have to wait and see.  I think about how I want to go to take care of her but all she will want to do is take care of me.  She will sit right next to me and make me eats mounds of food.  She will wash my clothes and get water from the well.  I will say, please, please, let me do something and she will give me the task of making coffee.  Maybe she’ll let me get water from the well.  Maybe but just once.  She will see how long it will take me and not understand that I need to practice in order to get better.  She will get live chickens to feed me and toilet paper.  They only use toilet paper when I am there.  The rest of the time it is ripped up newspaper.  I tried it once.  I prefer toilet paper.

I will call again tomorrow, inshaAllah, maybe they can move up her date.  Then I will call her, inshaAllah and tell her good news or no news.  She will cry and tell me about her loneliness.  I will cry, too.  I won’t say anything about me wanting to go there.  I still have to wait and see but I think it might be a good idea.  I can write in between making coffee and hearing her stories.  I can hitchhike my way to a town an hour away for jummah with the new Cuban Muslims.  I can find a river to swim in.  Maybe the one my mami used to swim in as a child.  We will see, inshaAllah.

the end.

Death and Cuba May 30, 2009

The bed seemed almost as old as their marriage.  Over fifty years.  I wondered when they stopped cuddling.  Two big dents.  The middle up high.  Did they ever just throw their arms around each other?

I finally called Cuba this morning.  Calling Cuba is one of the biggest struggles I have to deal with.  The call drops, the repeating of words, the delay.  “¡¿Me oyes?!  The expense.  $1.25 a minute.  Cuba is 90 miles off the coast of Florida.  You can call Africa for less than that.

My Tía Rosa just lost her husband.  He died on Sunday.  He fainted.  Twice.  His son gave him a bath and right afterwards his breath stopped.  So typically Cuban.  Our cleanliness always in check even when going to the next life.

She is the matriarch.  Her strength has pulled together the whole family.  Even with her iron fist she is able to break down into tears.  Unlike my mother.  Before calling I had to prepare myself.  Had to remember all the prayers I made for her, my family, and my Tío who just passed away.  I thought of them and the light that I see around them.  How I wished I could be there to make her café and lift water from the well.  But I am here in Oakland, a place she forgets to write down.  She hears stories of what happens in the US on the three TV channels in Cuba.  She prays for my safety not knowing the distance between New York, Iowa and California.

Tía Rosa wants to come here for a visit.  I have been trying to get a closer appointment date for her interview at the embassy.  The only date available is December 23, 2010.  I made this appointment last year.  Every so often I call again and get $11 charged to my debit card for an 8 minute phone call to hear that no one has died or cancelled their appt to speed up hers.  I try.  I will keep on trying, insha’Allah.  The woman more than ever wants to be with her sisters.  

It’s moments like these that I really pray that Barack Obama will lift the embargo.  I hope that having an immigrant experience in his family while help shift things.  I wonder what would happen if it was this difficult for everyone who makes these laws to see their family.  Like my niece once said, “Bush gets to see his family everyday.  Why can’t I?”

This week I kept on trying to change her appointment and each time I was told I had the wrong passport number.  I called my aunt in Miami.  Same number.  I called my father.  Same number.  I called my Tía today to give her love and listen to her in tears.  Same number.  I called again.  I was so frustrated but knew I had to persist because if I could give anything to the woman who believed in me before my mother ever did, I would give her this trip to be close to her sisters.  Finally someone helped me figure out the right passport number.  Fortysomething dollars later no one has died, no one has cancelled.  I will have to call again.

I wonder if she will now sleep on his side of the bed.  Have the dent cradle her.  I wonder if she smells his clothes.  Touches the hair left on his comb.  I wonder if she hears his footsteps behind her or calls his name forgetting that he is no longer there.  Over fifty years is longer than I have lived.  Even in moments of bickering and yelling the love was still there.  I saw this when I asked him why he loved her.  His eyes brightened up and talked about her as if she was 20 again.

She told me that he loved me.  This I know.  He used to say that I was sweet.  I just listened to his stories even if it took him a long time to speak.  He planted spinach for me.  He talked about the revolution and why he chose to stay.  He was a good man.  I pray that his soul is where it is suppose to be, that the light on 217 24 de febrero entre Martí y Cucalambé is bright, that I will keep on the embassy to change the date for my Tía, that someday, somehow this madness ends and we can have a normalized relationship with Cuba.

the end.