winner of the 2005 fiction contest

2005 Fiction Contest, First Prize

Han Transcurrido Los Años . . .

MARISABEL ALMER

Department of AnthropologyUniversity of MichiganAnn Arbor, MI 48109-1092

My father was the most beautiful man in all of Matanzas,Cuba.1 I say this because everybody says so. By everybody, I meaneveryone who saw him in his youth, and everyone who has seenthe black-and-white photo that sits atop the piano in the livingroom of my parents’ home in Los Angeles. Everyone alwayslooks at that picture and asks:

“Is that your father?” To which I always reply, “Uh huh.” Towhich everyone always replies, “Oh wow.” Not “Oh wow!!” Or“Oh, wow?” but “Oh wow.” And then they always add, “Helooks like a movie star.”

My father was six feet tall, and had dark brown, almost black,hair, with green almond-shaped eyes that gave him the appear-ance of always being a little sleepy or a little in love. In that pic-ture on the piano, he has a thin mustache, like Errol Flynn, andhis head is tilted a little to the right. All that is needed is, “To myfans, with all my love, Carlitos” at the bottom of the photo.

Even my mother’s family, who met him only once duringDecember of 1967 when he went to Colombia for their wedding,still remembers the way he looked then. There is even a picture,and a story to go along with it, in which my mother’s family, allof whom are shorter than my father, are standing at the airportsurrounding my mother. In the back, towering over everybodyelse is my father, looking a little shy, a little uncomfortable, a lit-tle out of place, as he always does whenever he is not at home. Hehas never gone back to Colombia. He says it is because he doesnot like staying in anyone else’s house. I think it is because hedoes not want to betray their perfect memory of him.

When I am in Matanzas, I am always introduced to anyonewho would remember, as the daughter of Carlitos, the son ofCarlos the baker.2

At which point everyone who remembers always says, “Oh!Yes! Your father was so good-looking.” Even men say this, butthey always add, “All the girls were crazy for Carlitos.”

Anthropology and Humanism, Vol. 30, Issue 2, pp 208–217, ISSN 0193-5615, electronic ISSN 1548-1409.© 2005 by the American Anthropological Association. All rights reserved. Direct all requests forpermission to photocopy or reproduce article content through the University of California Press’sRights and Permissions website, http://www.ucpress.edu/journals/rights.htm.

Han transcurridomuchos años y aún

vienen a mi memorialos años felices de mi

niñez, aunque nofueron los de una

niña rica, criada en laopulencia como

disfrutan en estosdías en este país hasta

los más pobres.Nuestra niñez se

prolongaba más queahora. Teníamos

tiempo para soñar ydar rienda suelta a

nuestra imaginación.Bastaba contemplar la

naturaleza, mirarhacia arriba y

deleitarnos viendo esainmensidad celesteque erróneamentellamábamos cielo.

Que misterio era parami, como para mis

hermanas máspequeñas, ver los

aviones cruzar unespacio interminable

el cual noentendíamos dondeempezaba y menosdonde terminaba.

Escuchábamos decir aalgunos que en esosaparatos con alas sepodía viajar como ir

uno sentado en la salade una casa. Que

habían baños, queservían comida, queuno podía caminar,etc. ¡Qué cosa más

extraordinaria! ¿Quién pudiese

experimentarlo? Así,y escuchando decir a

mi madre que elmundo no debería

tener fronteras porqueDios lo creó para que

todos los sereshumanos lo

disfrutásemosponiendo cada cual sutalento individual, al

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Almer Han Transcurrido Los Años . . . 209

servicio de unos paracon los otros y asípudiésemosexperimentar yconocer susmaravillas taninalcanzables paraalguien como yo. Sinembargo, a medidaque crecía me fuidando cuenta que siuno lucha y seprepara puede hacerlos sueñosrealidad. Dios nosdejó libres para tomarnuestras propiasdecisiones, si nosequivocamos nadamalo hay con volver aempezar. Mi padre noera muy amigo degastar dineroeducando a sus hijasmujeres. Lainstrucción académicaera para los hijosvarones. Mi madresin embargo, aún enaquellos años pensabacon una sabiduríaextraordinaria y nosaconsejaba a todos sushijos queaprovechásemos todaslas oportunidades deaprender algo mejor,algo diferente a lo quea ellos les habíatocado aprender. Así,nació dentro de mí undeseo de superacióncada día mayor y miautoestima crecía amedida que yo crecíatambién. Aprendí através de la lectura,de profesoras y maestros, que la persona no vale porlas cosas materialesque posee sino por susvalores morales.Entendí que comoseres humanos todosestamos llenos dedefectos y virtudes yque cada quien es loque es, porque así loquiere cada cual.Comprendí que mispadres también teníandefectos y virtudescomo cualquier otro

Carlitos is my father. Not to me. To me, Carlitos is my oldestbrother. But to everybody else, Carlitos is my father. To me, myfather is not my father, nor is he my dad—he is Papi. Sometimesmy father is also Faf, which I think comes from a failed attemptat saying father. He is also Papi to my brothers, and to my mother,who is also not my mother, nor my mom, but is Mami.

My aunt says that many of her friends were her friends justto be near Carlitos. She never knew who her real friends werebecause she suspected they loved him more than her. One of herlittle friends finally asked her to put in a good word on herbehalf. But my aunt told her she never got involved in his lovelife. She never spoke to my aunt again.

My father says that once while walking around the ParqueLibertad in Matanzas a girl came up to him with a handkerchiefand wiped his face because she wanted to see if he had on anymakeup. She could not believe how perfect his skin was. He hadon no makeup and the girl went away jealous and upset. Jealousbecause she wanted his skin, and upset because she wanted him.

My father remembers all this. He remembers how beautiful hewas; he remembers his sister’s friends and my mother’s family.

He remembers how beautiful he was so well, that now some-times he does not even recognize himself in the mirror. When hesaw my brother’s wedding picture, he asked who the old manwas dancing with my mother before realizing he was pointing athimself.

My father’s departure from Cuba was very anticlimactic. Hewas not fleeing anything, nor did he have anything taken awayfrom him. In fact he went back and forth between the U.S. andCuba before he finally, or rather, before my grandfather, finallydecided that he should stay in the United States with my grand-mother and my aunt. My grandmother lived in Los Angeles withmy aunt because she had left my grandfather a few years earlier.

I only met my grandfather once, when I was seven years old. Wehit it off. Apparently he was very mean, very strict, and did not likeanybody except my aunt. Apparently he was also hard to live with.He expected complete silence while he slept, complete order whileawake, and total discipline at all times. I didn’t experience any ofthis, because he adored me, and I adored him back, and for thosefew days he stayed at our house we were inseparable.

My grandmother did not want him to come visit. She said thatunder no conditions would she let that man step foot in thehouse. My grandmother had left him in Matanzas twenty-twoyears earlier because he brought another woman home and shegot tired of cooking for three. On the eve of her departure for theU.S., my grandfather took her a chicken and asked her to cook itfor him because nobody cooked like she did. And so she did. Andwhile she did she told him that she would stay and forget every-thing if he left the other woman. He told her he couldn’t. And shetold him she wouldn’t. And they ate.

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210 Anthropology and Humanism Volume 30, Number 2

All my life—seven years at the time—I had heard about thisawful, shameless man who had brought this other woman home.You could maybe understand why he had if she had been pretty,but she wasn’t. She had long teeth, like a rabbit, and when shelaughed, she looked and sounded like a witch. And she didn’teven know how to cook.

Some mornings my grandmother would wake up to find littledolls of herself hanging from the window. And occasionally theother woman would throw a bucket of water with chopped upflowers on my grandmother.

Seven years of stories, and fifteen more before those, of insultsagainst his mother, of cursing the day he was born, and of curs-ing his looks that had made her act so stupidly in the first place.Why did she ever leave her other boyfriend, the one who hadbeen so good to her, for this guy who she knew all along was nogood? Even her mother had told her that. Even his first wifewould have told her that if she had ever spoken to her. But goddamn he was so good-looking.

At so it was, I was prepared for the showdown, the fight ofa lifetime, the “Thrilla in Manila” between my divorced grand-parents. I couldn’t wait. My grandmother was going to showhim, she was going to show him what he had missed out on, howmuch better her life had turned out because she was over hereand he had stayed behind. And when he walked through thosedoors—after complaining the whole ride home that my fatherwas cheap, that he didn’t even have a decent car that worked,that he couldn’t believe we all had to take a taxi home becausethe car had broken down, but if only he had known that myfather had bought that new used car exclusively for his visit—nofight, no insults. Only smiles and pleasantries.

Every night my grandfather asked my grandmother to makehim toast for his coffee and milk before going to bed, and everynight she complied. Every night he told her how much he hadmissed her cooking because nobody cooked like she did. Andevery night they sat across the table from each other and didn’tsay much to each other out loud. As I watched them interact witheach other, I felt the same tingling feeling in my stomach andlight-headedness that I felt when I watched a love scene on a soapopera where the protagonists shared silent glances.

All my memories of my grandfather are good ones because I did not really know him. From what everybody else tells me, hecould be a very mean person. He made my grandmother worklike a mule in the bakery. She had to be awake before dawnand would not stop until late at night. And of course she wasexpected to raise a family, keep house, and keep husband all atthe same time. She was so sick of making desserts and cakes,especially cakes, that I never tasted one of her cakes. After she lefthim she said she never wanted to make another cake again. Andshe didn’t.

ser humano y que enmí estaba el aceptar o

rechazar lo que másconveniente fuera

para mí. Finalmentellegó el año 1964,

cuando después dehaber batallado

duramente durantedos años por adquiriruna visa de residente

y de tener unaoportunidad de ir a

los EE.UU. deNorteamérica por un

lapso de dos añosúnicamente, para

estudiar un poco deinglés y regresar a

mi patria con la posibilidad de

adquirir un buenempleo que me

permitiría ganar unbuen sueldo y en cada

vacación, viajar aEuropa y otros

continentes para verde cerca esas

maravillas inal-canzables en los

sueños de mi niñez.Las cosas no salen

siempre como uno lassueña. Sinceramente

lo confieso, nuncahubiese salido de mi

patria con elconvencimiento

absoluto de que nuncamás regresaría a vivirahí por el resto de mi

vida. Ahí se quedaban toda mi

familia, mis amistadesy los años

inolvidables de unaniñez y adolescencia

llenas de felicidad.Ahora, llevo en mi

corazón el dolor y latristeza de una Patria

lacerada y destruidapor el crimen, la

violencia y la diariapreocupación por la

suerte de tantos seres queridos ahí

dejados pero, nuncasin perder la fe y la

confianza en El TodoPoderoso quien ha

sido siempre mi norteen mi diario vivir. Un

22 de mayo del 64,

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sábado, llegamos porprimera vez mi amigay yo al aeropuerto deMiami, en unaaerolínea cuyonombre eraEcuatoriana. Antes debajarnos del avión enque veníamos, paratremenda sorpresanuestra, nos vimosfumigadas porque de acuerdo a lasreglas de aquelentonces, no sepermitía dejar entraral país gente quepodría tener ciertosvirus contagiosostraídos de nuestroslugares de origen, quepudiesen contaminara su puebloamericano. ¡Quéironías tiene la vida!¿verdad?. . . Al salirde Colombia, patriaamada, nuestrosfamiliares, amistades,etc. nos despidieronno sin antesadvertirnos una y milveces más que noscuidáramos mucho delos cubanos quienesestaban invadiendo elestado de La Floridapor razonesconocidas, y serumoraba quealgunos de ellos eransumamentepeligrosos. Porsupuesto quedesembarcamos concierto recelo e íbamosa la defensiva. Nostocaba pasar la nocheen el HotelInternacional paracontinuar al díasiguient a nuestrodestino Los Ángeles,California. Por temora los cubanos ocualquiera otrapersona extraña,decidimos encerrarnosrápido en nuestrocuarto y trancamosfuertemente nuestrapuerta. Dormimostranquilamente y sesuponía quedeberíamos estar al

The day my grandfather left I was devastated. My grand-mother had even bought him a boom box, paid from her socialsecurity checks, for him to take back to Cuba. As soon as the doorclosed behind him, my grandmother asked us if we had seen howshamelessly he had acted, and insulted his mother and cursed theday he was born. She no longer cursed his good looks, because hewas no longer good-looking. He was an old man. “That was notthe man I married,” she told my mother in disbelief.

As before, the insults continued and her words seemed as fullof anger, hurt, and hatred as before. But unlike before, I couldnow recognize love, or maybe it was pity, in her voice. I think shefelt betrayed by him, not because he had betrayed her with otherwomen, but because he had aged.

Many years later I decided to write to my grandfather. Mymother was actually the one in our family who wrote to him overthe years, instead of my father. They had a long correspondencevia letters. Mostly mundane letters—that my brothers and I weredoing well in school, that my father was fine, the occasionalscholastic or athletic award, and every once in a while with aneedle or two woven into the paper for the other woman—theone he never left—to mend his shirts.

One day, for some reason I now cannot remember, I decided towrite to him. He wrote me back. I wrote him. He wrote me back.He told me that I was the only one of all his grandchildren thatwrote to him. I knew he was sick. I wanted to tell him that despiteall the bad things I had always heard about him at home, thatdespite the fact that he had been cruel to my grandmother—because he really had been—and that despite the fact that we hadonly met on that one occasion when he stayed with us, I wantedto tell him that I loved him. I wanted him to know that he neverdid anything mean to me, even though he had to other people,but that still I loved him because he was my grandfather. I feltstupid saying all that, so I didn’t. Instead I decided to wait untilhis next letter to tell him. He died. And I never told him I lovedhim despite, or because of, who he was.

When I started planning my first trip to Cuba, my grandfathercame to me in a dream. At first he wouldn’t talk to me, he justlooked at me and smiled from afar. I realized he couldn’t talk tome because my grandmother, who by this point had also passedaway, was there and wouldn’t let him come near me. Finally shecame up to me and told me that she would let him talk to me butwarned me to be careful because he was not to be trusted. So mygrandfather showed me around Matanzas and took me to hisformer home on Zaragoza no. 49. We walked up and down thestreets and eventually we got to the Puente Sánchez Figueras thatcrosses the Río San Juan. He told me he used to dive from thebridge to get money from tourists. My grandmother followedus the entire time. She would sneak behind trees, behind cars,behind whatever she could find because she did not trust him.

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The dead often come to me in my sleep. I met my Colombiangrandfather, who died three months before I was born, in a dream.He told me he wanted to meet me because he had heard so muchabout me.

A warm breeze covered me like a familiar embrace when I gotoff the plane the first time I went to Cuba. Everything was just asI had remembered, just as I had left it that day when I went for awalk with my grandfather in a dream. Everything was exactlylike in the stories my father and grandmother told. I inheritedtheir memories.

A couple of years ago my father had a stroke. The doctor saidit was a mild stroke, and that it would not affect anything, excepthis memory.

My father and I went to the Galapagos Islands this summer.The local crew on board loved my father because he was Cuban,and Ecuadorians, it seems, love everything Cuban. The ship’sdoctor even had a Cuban wife and a Cuban son. He also had aRussian ex-wife and a Russian son—remnants of the Cold Warand the time he spent in the Soviet Union as a medical student.

There was a Cuban lady onboard—a Cuban-American fromNew York. Her husband was a gringo who cut his leg whiletransferring from the dingy to the main boat. As a result, hewas in his room for most of the trip. They were very rich, andvery snooty, and they had a daughter who was very rich and verysnooty. She was young, probably around 18, and still at that stagein life where you do anything to try to draw attention to yourself—even if that means making a fool out of yourself.

The Cuban-American lady and I actually had a little exchangeon the plane from Guayaquil to Baltra. She claimed that myfather’s aisle seat was hers. She was wrong. She didn’t under-stand the difference between fila and pasillo, and in any case, shedidn’t understand the little figure drawing that clearly indicatedthat she had the window seat.3 It was a common mistake really,nothing out of the ordinary. Except that she addressed us withsuch arrogance, an arrogance of someone who is rarely wrong, orat least rarely thinks, or is rarely told, that she is wrong.

This all happened before we knew she was Cuban. If we hadknown that she was Cuban, my father might have felt more comfortable to kindly ask her to go to hell. Instead he let me doit—sometimes things are better handled between women.

I sat between the Cuban-American lady on my left and myCuban father on my right for the two-hour flight. She obviouslyfelt stupid, or silly, or maybe she just didn’t have an appetite, butshe gave my father her dessert as a peace offering. “Not worththe calories,” she said.

One of the nature guides, Sergio, was obsessed with Cuba andwent there regularly. He was a singer and a musician and told ushe had gotten many Cuban musicians and singers to Canada orMexico. He loved everything Cuban—the music, the women, and

día siguiente a eso delas siete de la mañana en la

sección nacional para abordar el

avión de AmericanAirlines. Como era la

primera vez quesalíamos de nuestro

país, no teníamossuficiente experienciapara desenvolvernos

como veteranas,estábamos tímidas y

los letreros todoseran en inglés.

Entendíamos algunospero otros no muy

bien. Nosconfundimos y nossentamos a esperar

que nos llamaranpara abordar nuestroavión pero estábamos

en la sección deEcuatoriana deAviación. Nos

admirábamos de queno llegaban los

empleados temprano aabrir el servicio para

el público y perdimosprecioso tiempo en

ello. Cuandorealizamos que las

equivocadas éramosnosotras, corrimos

a la sección deAmerican Airlinespero, con tan mala

suerte porque noalcanzamos a salir atiempo. Perdimos el

vuelo. Nos asignaronpara otro siguiente y

llegamos con treshoras de retrazo a Los

Ángeles. Entonces,llamamos una amiga

nuestra quien porcarta nos había

ofrecido ayuda encaso de necesitarla.

Esta familia eranconocidos míos.

Vivían en la calleAlvarado muy

cerca de la Beverly ypor ende nos quedaba

cerca la escuelaBelmont donde

podíamos ir a recibirclases de inglés, todas

las noches.Casualmente nuestro

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arribo a Los Ángelesfue un día domingo,fiesta de La SantísimaTrinidad, mi devociónpor excelencia, ynuestros ruegosfueron escuchados. Laprimera iglesia quevisitamos fue la deLoreto que queda enla Union St. El díamiércoles siguiente yaestábamos asistiendoa la escuela porprimera vez, y al serentrevistadas por elPrincipal de laescuela para adultos,nos envió a un salóndonde asistía nadamás ni nada menosque el “cubano”quien hoy es miesposo y padre de mistres maravillososhijos: dos varones yuna mujer. Lodivertido de estahistoria es quesalimos de Colombiacon una psicosis detemor y desconfianzahacia los cubanos ycuando yo vi porprimera vez a estehombre, quedémaravillada y de ahíen adelante no tuveojos para nadie más.Transcurrieron tresaños y mipermanencia en estepaís, según mi padre,no era sino por dosaños y se prolongabaya a tres cuando unpoco desanimada sinmucha esperanza deconquistarrotundamente alcubano resbaladizopoco dispuesto acomprometerseseriamente, decidíregresar a casa. Unavez que se locomuniqué al cubanoparece que por fin sedecidió a no perdertan valiosa joya y fueentonces cuando porprimera vez despuésde haber pasado todaslas pruebas habidas ypor haber, me dijo

especially my father, at least on that trip. The crew joked with usthat he was more Cuban than Ecuadorian. I told them that he wasmore Cuban than my father.

Sergio liked to sing to us because he said Cuban music waslike poetry:

EnvidiaTengo envidia de los vallesDe los montes y los ríosDe los pueblos y las calles que has cruzado tú sin miEnvidiaTengo envidia de tus cosasTengo envidia de tu sombraDe tu casa y de tu raza, porque están cerca de tiY mira si es grande mi amorque cuando digo tu nombretengo envidia de mi voz4

My father smiled as he listened to him. He told Sergio that hewas very good—that anyone would think he was Cuban. Sergioasked me to take a picture of him with my father because henever wanted to forget him.

A couple of weeks after we came back from the trip I asked myfather if he remembered the trip. He said he did. I asked him if heremembered the waiters, Gonzalo, Juan, Pedro, Carlos, and theother Carlos that liked to be called Erik. He said yes.

— “How about the guides, Sergio, José, Miguel, and Betty?”— “Yes.”— “How about the Captain and the Doctor?”— “Yes.”

A couple of months after we came back from the trip, I askedmy father if he remembered the trip. He said he did.

— “What do you remember?”— “Everything.”— “Do you remember Sergio—the one that thought he was

Cuban?”— “Sergio?? Oh, yes, yes, of course I remember Sergio. And

what was the name of the boat again, it was somethingpretty?”

— “They called it the Eclypse, but its official name was theCarmela.”

— “Yes, of course I remember.”

But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t. He might remember bitsand pieces here and there, but he doesn’t remember. Just like hedoesn’t always remember the trip my parents took to the HolyLand, or that my brother is married. Pictures help. Pictures helpto jar his memory.

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Before leaving on our trip to Ecuador, I went to visit my auntwho lives in Virginia with her American husband. She showedme a photo album full of pictures from her youth. She told methat she had asked her daughters if they wanted the pictures andthey had said yes. She said they only had said yes because theyknew the pictures meant so much to her. But she knew the pic-tures, and the memories that accompanied them, meant nothingto her daughters.

They are Virginians, and know nothing of Cuba, not the music,or the women, or the men.

— “They will not know the people in these pictures,” she told me.— “They won’t know their names, or who they were.”

She said I would know, and gave them to me.Included with the pictures are my grandfather’s handwritten

dessert recipes. There are old advertisements for the bakery andpictures of sample wedding cakes he and my grandmother made.

My favorite picture is one taken inside my grandfather’s bak-ery. There are pieces of dough shaped like fat rolls lined up onthe counter. My grandmother is smiling but she looks tired. Mygrandfather is sweaty, but he looks happy. A nameless neighborholds my cousin Luís as a baby, and next to the neighbor areClaudia, María, and Ángela, Luís’s aunts and mother. Toward theend of the counter are my father and my aunt, looking as beauti-ful as everyone remembers—like two perfect dolls atop one ofmy grandfather’s wedding cakes.

Notes

1. Title: “Years Have Passed . . .” All translations by author.2. Dulcero; dulcería.3. Fila: row. Pasillo: aisle.4. Vicentico Valdés: “Envidia” (Hnos. Garcia Segura).

EnvyI am envious of the valleysOf the mountains and the riversOf the towns and the streets that you have crossed without meEnvyI am envious of your thingsI am envious of your shadowOf your house and your race, because they are near youAnd look how great my love isthat when I say your nameI am envious of my voice

5. Written by María Isabel Almer, author’s mother, during02/24/02–03/01/02.

Many years have passed and yet the happy years of my childhoodstill come to my mind, even though they were not those of a rich girl,raised in the opulence that in these days in this country even the poorest

seriamente que élquería casarse

conmigo. Eso eraexactamente lo que yo

estaba esperandoescuchar desde mucho

tiempo atrás y lanoticia sin embargo,me cayo como baldede agua fría. Ahora

era yo quien tenía queaceptar o dejar pasar

el tren. Ya seriamentehablando, decidimos

que nuestromatrimonio sería en

Colombia encompañía de toda mi

familia y seresqueridos. En el fondo

de mi corazón yodudaba como cuandoera niña si ese sueñose haría realidad. Al

igual que los cuentosde hadas, regresé a

Colombia y dije paramis adentros que si elcubano no cumplía su

palabra, jamásregresaría yo a

EE.UU. a vivir. Mipadre, incrédulo hastacierto punto, no veía la

hora de conocer esesujeto desconocido

para él y el resto de lafamilia y medio

dudoso me acompañóal aeropuerto pararecibirlo cinco días

antes de nuestra boda.¿Llegaría o no

llegaría? Finalmentelo vimos descender

por la escalinata delavión y cuál no sería

nuestra alegresorpresa. Cumplía su

palabra. Desde esemismo instante le

empezó a caer bien ami padre porque miviejo era un hombrede una sola palabra

cuyo valor no sepagaba con todo el oro

del mundo. Sinhabérmelo propuesto,

resultó que después decasados empecé a

descubrir en miesposo muchísimas

cualidades de mipadre que antes

13.AHU.30_208-217.qxd 21/10/2005 6:30 Page 214


habían pasadoinadvertidas para mí.A pesar de que mipadre le dijo a miesposo que yo eraentre sus hijas la másindependiente,corajuda y de másfuerte carácter, suspalabras resonaronsiempre en mi interiory me ayudaron anunca darme porvencida ante ningunaadversidad. Hoy,bendigo a Dios porhaberme dado lospadres que tuve, portodas las personas quecon sus consejos,enseñanzas, amistad,ejemplos, amor,paciencia etc. me hanpermitido realizarmecomo mujer, hija,hermana, amiga.Sobretodo, ser esposa,amiga y compañerade ese cubano quienme dio el tesoro másvalioso que hayapodido obtener. Mistres hijos que sonnuestro orgullo y eltesoro más valioso quenos haya dado la vida.Hoy, estamossaboreando la dulzura de serabuelos de unprecioso retoño, hijode nuestro segundohijo y allá, muyadentro, muyescondido, en lo másprofundo de micorazón para noofender a nadie y paraque yo no les caigamal y me deseenmales, tengo querepetir algo quesiempre he escuchado:“cada pueblo tiene elgobierno que semerece”. Sin esarevolución cubana nohubiese conocido alcubano que un díarobó mi corazón.Gracias también aeste maravilloso paísque nos abrió suspuertas, nos acogió yes la patria que vio

enjoy. Our childhood was more prolonged than childhood is nowadays.We had time to dream and let our imagination run wild. It was enoughto contemplate nature, to look upwards and find pleasure in gazing atthat celestial enormity we mistakenly called the sky. What a mystery itwas for me, as it was for my younger sisters, to see airplanes cross anendless space, whose beginning and ending we could not comprehend.We heard some say that in those winged machines, one could travel as ifone were sitting in the living room of a house; that there were bath-rooms, that food was served, that one could walk about, etc. What anextraordinary thing! If one could only experience it!

I always heard my mother say that the world should be borderlessbecause God created it for all human beings to enjoy, with everyone put-ting their individual talent at the service of each other, so that someonelike me might know and experience all its unattainable wonders. All thesame, as I grew up I started to understand that if one works hard andstudies, dreams can become reality. God gave us the freedom to make ourown decisions, and if we err, there is nothing wrong with starting over.

My father was not inclined to spend money educating his daughters.Academic learning was for his sons. My mother, however, who even inthose years had extraordinary wisdom, advised all her children to takeadvantage of every opportunity to learn something better, somethingdifferent from what they had been made to learn. As such, the desire tobetter myself was born inside of me, increasing everyday, and my self-esteem grew as I grew. I learned through reading, from professors andteachers, that a person’s worth is not measured by belongings, butinstead by their moral values. I understood how human beings, all of us,are full of faults and virtues, and we are who we are because of what wechoose. I realized that my parents also had faults and virtues like anyother human being, and that it was up to me to accept what was mostuseful.

Nineteen sixty-four finally came, after I had struggled for two years toacquire my resident’s visa to have the opportunity to go to the UnitedStates of America for a period of only two years, to study some Englishand return to my homeland with the possibility of gaining good employ-ment that would permit me to earn good pay and to travel to Europe andother continents, to see up close all those unattainable wonders from mychildhood dreams. But things don’t always turn out how we dream them.

I sincerely confess that I would have never left my homeland had Iknown with absolute certainty that I would never again for the rest ofmy life return to live there. Over there, all my family, my friends, and theunforgettable years of a childhood and adolescence full of happinesshave stayed. Nowadays, I carry in my heart the pain and sadness of ahomeland destroyed by crime, violence, and the daily concern for thefate of so many loved ones left behind, but I have never lost faith andconfidence in the Almighty, who has always been the North Star of myday-to-day life.

One fine Saturday on the 22nd of May, my friend and I arrived for thefirst time at the Miami airport on an airline named Ecuatoriana. To oursurprise, before getting off the plane, we found ourselves being fumi-gated. According to the rules at the time, persons who might be carriersof certain contagious viruses from their place of origin were not allowedinto the country so as to not contaminate the American people.

Life is full of ironies, isn’t it? Upon leaving Colombia, beloved home-land, our families, friends, etc., said goodbye to us by first warning us athousand and one times to be careful of the Cubans who were invadingthe state of Florida for known reasons, some of whom were rumored tobe extremely dangerous. Understandably, we disembarked with certainmisgivings and were on the defensive. We had to spend the night at the

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Hotel International in order to continue the following day to our desti-nation of Los Angeles, California. Out of fear of the Cubans or any otherunknown person, we decided to quickly shut ourselves in our room andfirmly locked the door. We slept peacefully, and we were supposed to beat the domestic flight section the following day at around seven in themorning to board the plane from American Airlines. Since it was the firsttime we had left the country, we did not have sufficient experience tohandle ourselves like old veterans. We were shy and all the signs were inEnglish, we understood some but not others. Confused, we sat down towait for our flight to be announced for boarding but we were in the wait-ing area for Ecuatoriana airlines. We were surprised that the employeesdid not arrive early to open service to the public and we wasted precioustime in doing so. When we realized that we were in the wrong, we ranto the boarding area for American Airlines, but we were already out ofluck since we did not make it on time. We missed the flight. We were puton the next flight and we arrived three hours late to Los Angeles.

We called a mutual friend who had previously written to us to offerany help if needed. This family were friends of mine. They lived onAlvarado Street, close to Beverly, which coincidently was near BelmontSchool where we could take English classes at night. By chance, ourarrival to Los Angeles was on a Sunday, feast of the Holy Trinity, my veneration par excellence: our prayers were heard. The first church wevisited was Loreto, on Union Street.

The following Wednesday we were attending class for the first time,and after being interviewed by the principal of the adult night school, wewere sent to a class attended by none other than the “Cuban” who todayis my husband and the father of my three wonderful children: two sonsand a daughter. The funny thing about this story is that we left Colombiawith a psychosis of fear and mistrust toward Cubans, but when I sawthat man for the first time, I was in awe and from then on I only had eyesfor him.

Three years passed and my stay in this country, which according tomy father was only to be for two years, was now going on three. A littlediscouraged and without much hope of winning over the evasive Cubanwho was little willing to seriously commit, I decided to return home.Once I communicated my plans to the Cuban, it seems he finally madeup his mind to not lose such a precious jewel and it was then, for the firsttime after having passed so many tests, that he told me that he sincerelywanted to marry me. This was exactly what I had been waiting to hearfor a long time. However, the pronouncement hit me like a bucket of coldwater. Now it was I who had to accept or let the opportunity pass.

After talking it over, we decided that our marriage ceremony wouldtake place in Colombia in the company of all my family and loved ones.Deep inside my heart, just like when I was a little girl, I doubted thisdream would become a reality. Like in fairy tales, I returned to Colombiaand told myself that if the Cuban did not keep his word I would neverreturn to live in the United States. My father, incredulous up to a point,could not wait to meet this man, unknown to him and the rest of the fam-ily, and with some uncertainty accompanied me to the airport to wel-come him five days before our wedding. Would he come, or would henot? Finally, pleasantly surprised, we saw him descend the steps of theplane! He had kept his word. From that very moment my father beganto like him since my old man was a man of his word, which was worthmore than all the gold in the world. It turned out after being married Idiscovered very many of my father’s qualities in my husband that I hadpreviously not noticed. My father had told my husband that of all hisdaughters I was the most independent, quick-tempered, with thestrongest character, and those words always resonated inside me andhelped me to never give up in the face of adversity.

nacer a nuestros hijosy un día a nosotrosnos adoptó. Gracias

Dios mío porqueaunque muchos dicen

que Tú escribes conrenglones torcidos, yo

siempre digo quesomos nosotros

quienes torcemos losrenglones derechos

con los que Tú trazasnuestro camino

hacia Ti.5

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Now, I thank God for giving me the parents I had and for all the people who, through their advice, teachings, friendship, example, love,patience, etc., have allowed me to realize myself as a woman, daughter,sister, and friend. And above all, to be the wife, friend, and companionof that Cuban who gave me the most valuable treasure that I could have.My three children are our pride and the most valuable treasure that lifehas given us. These days, we are tasting the sweetness of being grand-parents to a precious child, the son of our second son.

Deep down, very hidden, in the depths of my heart, in order not tooffend anybody, and so that no one dislikes me or wishes me ill will, Ihave to repeat something that I have always heard: “Every country hasthe government it deserves.” Without that Cuban Revolution I wouldnever have met the Cuban who one day stole my heart. And I am grate-ful also to this wonderful country that opened its doors to us, took us in,and is the homeland that saw the birth of our children, and one daywould adopt us. Thank you my God because even though many say thatyou write in twisted lines, I always say that it is we who twist thestraight lines with which you trace our path toward you.

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winner of the 2005 fiction contest

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