I act as the tongue of you, tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen’d. 

                                                                                                            Walt Whitman

A humorous character, nicknamed Chicken Mind, carries us away with laughter every Wednesday. In the primetime Channel Cubavisión, this sharp “teacher” says what we whisper in the streets.  He can do it, even though he’s in front of the television cameras, because the joke and the metaphor protect him.  Still, sometimes his critiques are so clear and direct that at home we end up worrying about what will happen to the actor who plays the part.  We are thankful that he makes fun of our absurd daily life and that he manages to show us what our own parliamentarians are not able to articulate when they meet.  Hence, Chicken Mind has turned out to be the only public figure in which I see my demands represented.  But with all the mocking and fooling around, do the critics go too far? 

Last Thursday I met several friends who said, “They are about to close the program ‘Let me tell you.’  They are criticizing very hard…”    But no, the honorable and very wise Doctor Chicken Mind and his other colleagues only put into the language of jest what we say every day in all seriousness.  For example, in his next to last appearance he predicted the dismay of future archeologists when they find the remains of a chicken from our time.  It will be difficult for them to reconstruct this animal that, whether in its appearance in the ration stores, or sold for convertible pesos, never has a breast. 

The program of Chicken Mind, Incompetent Lindoro, the Left Workshop Screw, and Pacifier Perez says more about our reality and our doubts – even with its apparent bedlam – than the National News, the Roundtable and all the analysts that appear on TV.

5:00 p.m. I’m at the door of the Café Cantante at the National Theatre. The program doesn’t interest me much, but I came with friend who is crazy about dancing.

5:27 p.m. The doorman asks as for our institutional affiliation, as the tables for nationals are reserved for a group of outstanding accountants.  I explain that we are “independents,” and instead of being upset at this, he roars with laughter. He let’s us in.

6:10 p.m. A screen plays video clips from the United States, while the bar serves beer, rum and soft drinks in convertible pesos.  My friend and I are cornered by some young men in tight-fitting clothes who are dancing lasciviously.  When they hear us speaking “Cuban” they take fright and leave.

7:00 p.m. The recorded music continues.  It appears that the band doesn’t want to play or one of their members hasn’t shown up.  The boys next to us are fidgeting in front of three Spanish women who appear to be interested in them.  Each of them is wearing something white; with the lights in the disco it’s a striking effect.

7:40 p.m.  Nobody else has approached our table, which is a strange thing considering that we are two single women in a club.  It seems that nationality determines approachability.

8:20 p.m.  Nothing about the ambiance here: young guys wink at women twice their age; sequins and designer clothes everywhere, and the general flutter about every foreigner who enters – reminds me of the slogans of austerity, ideological firmness and discipline that swarm outside.

8:40 p.m.  The Café is about to close and I realize that when I cross the street I will come face to face with the many tall ministries that crowd this area.  I cannot shake the idea of inhabiting two parallel worlds, a pair of dimensions that emphatically negate each other’s existence.

9:00 p.m.  As I leave I see the boys with the white clothes leaving with the women who spoke with the “zeta” accent.  I’m going home and on the road I stumble upon the huge fence on the side of the Council of State.  A phrase from Marti warns me, “One should become in any given moment, that which is needed in that moment.”

Owning a home isn’t always a source of endless joys. Yes, the house is yours, but if you do not have resources to repair it or convertible pesos to buy the paint, cement or tiles that it needs, then you are the owner of a problem in the shape of a house. Of course there are many, especially those on the outskirts of this city who are squatters without any legal title, who dream of having a complication similar to yours.

As the years pass, you notice how the facade deteriorates, how your balcony is no longer safe to stand on, or how the stairs have been cracked by the force of buckets of water.  Everything suffers from your unusual condition of being both owner and dispossessed.  The latter, because the regulations, prohibitions and restrictions on your property are so many that you have the impression you must ask permission for everything related to your house.

This home, that cost so many hours of work, resources, or the morbid waiting for a relative to die so that you may inherit it, is now your “wing” and your “anchor.”  It lets you invite friends to share your roof, but you cannot transfer the deed to whomever you’d like.  Plus, if you go abroad for more than eleven months, the confiscation threshold, you can kiss your whole dream good-bye.  It would seem that the house is no longer a shelter and refuge, but a burden that you carry on your back.

Then you think you could rent it to foreigners, and so stop the deterioration that you find everywhere, but it’s been years since they gave new licenses for this occupation.  Then you decide to trade it for something smaller and in a better condition.  A friendly voice warns you that if the Urban Reform gets wind of the fact that you received money for downsizing, they can take your home.

So you resign yourself to seeing your house fall down around you.  At least you have the property title to fan yourself with while you watch it crumble!

Here is the document that the Immigration office gave me with the denial “for the moment” of my request to travel abroad.  Click to download.

negativa_viaje.pdf

For several weeks a new bus line has been circulating through the streets of Havana.  Painted bright red, plastered with huge advertisements and having an unusual upper floor, this new “spaceship” moves along the city’s main arterials on a ride that costs five convertible pesos.  Its clients are those tourists interested in a short tour through our city’s main attractions. It’s a marvelous opportunity for those who prefer to see, from the second floor, things that those of us on the ground see totally differently.  

Scorched by the strong May sun, they squeeze the shutters of their cameras, safe from broken culverts, disastrous sidewalks, and the mangy dogs that make up my urban landscape.  Meanwhile, we stare at the doubledecker bus as if it had materialized from a travel brochure for New York or Tokyo.  From the seats “up there” the happy faces of the passengers speak to us of a Havana only they seem to see.  The truth is, such myopia doesn’t surprise me, because the effects, on vision, caused by a refreshing mojito are well known.

Seeing them in their rolling terraces reminds me of a neighbor who asked me one day, “What is the most visible difference between a tourist and a Cuban?”  In my simplemindedness I listed sun screen lotions, Lonely Planet guides, and mosquito repellent… but no.  The answer was obvious, “A tourist always looks up.  They are captivated by the architecture, the stained glass windows, the arches and columns.  But when we Cubans walk we look out for the gaps in the sidewalk that would be dangerous to our ankles.”  Although this threatens to be one of those exaggerations that ends in cliché, it seems to me that these doubledecker buses are heading in the same direction as my neighbor’s joke.  From up there, nothing stands between the dazzled eyes of the tourists and the buildings more than a century old.  While we – mere extras in this stage set – are a hindrance to their enjoyment of what is above our heads.

Given the magnitude and importance that the comments in this Blog have taken, it is time to regulate their publication so that they do not result in insults, verbal violence and personal attacks. In the interest of productive dialogue and frank and respectful debate it is necessary to augment the moderation of Generation Y.

The well-known problems we Cuban citizens have in accessing the web prevents me from acting as “referee-moderator” between debaters, so I’ve managed to organize a group of collaborators who – without any fee, without participating themselves in discussions and without interfering in the subject matter – will apply the following rules:

• Comments will be deleted if they contain insults to anyone, or incite or support violence.

• Comments that contain more than two links will not be posted until the recommended websites have been verified. That way, we will avoid the flood of spam that we have suffered in recent weeks.

• The filters of WordPress will automatically clean up all those comments that contain obscene words and also remove texts that are repeated.

• If you want to add a document that supports your argument, it is better to link to the website where people can read the text, along with a short description of the relevance of the link. All links will be verified and those that do not meet the criterion of relevance will be erased. Replacing lengthy documents with links will help to reduce the amount of text in the comments section, at the same time we are looking for ways to shorten comments.

• Commentators who use the identity of others will be excluded.

• Comments must be posted in the Latin alphabet.

• Emphatically, please do not write comments in all capital letters – it looks like you are screaming.

Those who regularly participate in this public square of dialogue feel that the new rules will help raise the level of debate. The boycotters and the boys of the Cybernetics Response Brigade may not feel very comfortable… but in the end, it is impossible to please everyone.

Two weeks ago Marta’s tiny pension was increased by thirty-five Cuban pesos.  Waiting in the line at the bank where she cashes her check she ran into a friend who warned, “Watch out, now comes the corresponding rise in prices!”  But, in light of the pessimists and naysayers our street seems to be full of, she didn’t believe these alarming forecasts.  Big mistake, because on Saturday when she went shopping she noticed she needed more money to buy the basic products in the shops that sell in convertible pesos.

With her sixty-two years, Marta is surprised by just about nothing.  However, she got quite a scare when she saw a bottle of oil that used to cost 1.90 CUC – about 45 Cuban pesos – with the new price tag of 2.30 CUC.  She didn’t remember a single official announcement about price increases and could have sworn that most people’s expectations pointed in the opposite direction.  So the “generous” increase in her retirement pay was just enough to buy a little box of soup concentrate and a 300 gram bag of detergent.  The latter product alone now costs 1.30 CUC, 30 percent more than it cost last week.

Much to her regret, the next time she sees her friend she will have to admit she was right.  Her experience confirms that the increases in salary appear – for some time now – to be tied to proportionate increases in prices.

They put a few cans of meat in their backpacks, some candles and an old Zenit camera.  The couple went to Santiago de Cuba by train and entered the mountains early one Saturday morning.  They wanted to walk to Baracoa, camping out at night in the depths of the mountain, making love in cabins with the boldness that one has only at 16.  He figured that it would take them four days to get there by foot, arriving in the first village founded in Cuba on Tuesday.

After the first night they saw a peasant who led a line of mules.  The boy won the debate over whether or not they should approach him: “Let’s go and ask him for directions to the nearest cabin.”  She, the more prudent one, warned him that the mountains were not as they once were, that the country people shared little information with outsiders.  Nevertheless, they went up to the herder, who cried out, “What are you doing here?  You can’t be on these mountains without government permission.”

Already too late to fix their mistake, they had to go with the man to the closest town, where they would regret having asked a question.  The principal of a one-room schoolhouse told them that they would have to stay calm until the police arrived, and he insisted in finding out what had given them the idea to enter the Sierra Maestra Mountains.  She spoke of Zen, cosmic energy and Tai Chi exercises that connected her with nature.  Neither the herder nor the policeman believed her.

That night the regional manager arrived, and the couple had to repeat their story – that they had only wanted to go on a hike, to camp together among the trees and get to Baracoa.  They were taken back to the police station in Santiago and were forced to take a bus back to Havana.  During the long journey back, they could not stop thinking about the inhabitants of a lost nation who had alerted the police. “Arrest them.  They are going on a strange walk.  Who would want to hike these mountains?”

They warn me that on the table in some office rests “my case.”  A file full of evidence of infractions committed, a bulky dossier of illegalities I have accumulated on these years.  The neighbors hint to me to disguise myself with sunglasses and disconnect the phone when I would like to talk about something private.

Soon, very soon – they warn me – I could hear a knock at my door very early one morning.

In anticipation of this, I would like to point out that I do not keep weapons under the bed.  However, I have committed an unfailing and heinous offence:  I have believed myself to be free.  Nor do I have a firm plan to change things, but for me the complaint has replaced triumphalism and this – definitely – is punishable.  

I never slapped anyone, nevertheless, I refused to accept the systematic swatting at my “rights as a citizen.”    This last is reprehensible in the highest degree.  On top of that, and in spite of having stolen nothing that belongs to others, they have wanted “to rob” – again and again – that which I believed belonged to me:  an island, her dreams, her legacy.

But don’t fool yourself; I’m not entirely innocent.  I carry with me a mountain of misdeeds; I have routinely bought on the black market, I have commented in a low voice – and in critical terms – about those who govern us, I have nicknamed politicians and agreed with pessimism.  To top it off, I have committed the abominable office of believing in a future without “them” and in a version of history different from that which they have taught me.  I repeated the slogans without conviction, washed the dirty laundry in full view and – the greatest transgression – I have joined words and phrases together without permission.

I confess – and accept the punishment for it – that I have not been able to survive and comply with all the laws at the same time.

Words on painting:  I am hunting you

(Text written on Sunday, May 11 and waiting for an Internet connection that finally worked today.)

My son is becoming a man and already requires his own space. At the moment his territory is small: one room, the chaos of which is not so much the boring order of things, as the anarchic slogan, “I want to do what I want to do.”

Already I can predict the clash, when the demands for autonomy extend to his city and his country.  When the sense of conquest achieved by hanging his icons on the walls gives way to the need to outwardly express some “uncomfortable” preference.

The day will come when it may not be enough, the hairstyle, the fashion, the music, to feel different.  Then he will become an agitator, reactionary, or extremist, with the absolute complicity – hear me well – of his mother.  I do not think I will banish him from the house, denounce his actions, deny his deeds, or declare – to avoid my responsibility – “I didn’t bring you up like that.”

After all, he has also had to support me and put up with me.  Come what may: eccentricity, pyromania, rebelliousness, even indifference, I will be by his side.  You must ask him if he will do the same for me.  If one day this Blog, my history, my excesses, will not weigh too heavily on his life.

Photo caption:

The caption reads: Sticker at the corner of Belascoain and Reina [streets]

The sticker itself reads: “DURA, Escuchamos TODO,”  which translates as: “Keep doing what you’re doing, we hear everything.”