Five New Stories in the Works....

Dear Readers,

I have been fine tuning five new stories since the last posting and will be uploading them to the blog soon.

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
All Rights Reserved
For Usage Rights Contact the Author
---------------------------------------------

Our Dentist, the Toilet Cleaner

After my Saturday morning duties as a “Shabbats Boy” for the Ocean Parkway Moroccan Synagogue, I often biked over to Manuel’s house in Brighton Beach where his mother waited for me with a snack. Like in Cuba, condensed milk, crackers and “café con leche” were a great way to treat a child to a temporary heaven. Manuel, his sister Elena, his older brother Ricardo, and their parents where for a long time the only Cuban family we knew in southern Brooklyn. Manuel’s father Ruben Gonzalez was a successful dentist in Cuba, but was now, like my father, cleaning toilets, and moonlighting as a watchman at a warehouse by the port. Like us they had ended up in Brooklyn, and not Miami. But, our end of Brooklyn was far from Brooklyn Heights, where the majority of Cubans then lived, and our feeling of isolation was tangible, although we were surrounded by perhaps four million other Brooklynites. Sometime after we discovered the Gonzalez family, the elder Gonzalez found a better paying job as a handyman in a nearby apartment building, and kept plungers, electric snakes, buckets, brooms and a navy pair of overalls, his new tools of the trade, in a huge closet in their overcrowded apartment, a detail I’ll always remember. His mother Marta was a nurse in Cuba, but in Brooklyn was doing “piece goods” sewing at home for seven cents apiece.

In our neighborhood, no one besides us had any idea of our pasts in Cuba, and no one really cared, or attempted to find out. It felt to us like in the entire city of New York we were the only ones who knew who we really were, where we came from, what we had left behind, and why we were, where we were.

Prior to my parents’ divorce, Ruben and Marta were my parent’s only friends, because by then my mother’s relatives had become estranged from my father. While tensions between my parents were high, they would manage to put on a good front when we got together with the Gonzalez’s, and the get-togethers were always joyous.

For short periods during those get-togethers, we provided each other with a strong sense of worth, and lifted the curtain of invisibility, which was all around us. We were far away from home, penniless, in a strange society, but damn it, we were Cubans, and we knew we were important people, even if only to ourselves.

Following the custom from Cuba, where tragedy is always made into a joke or fable, my parents and Manuel’s used to invent jokes about the nostalgia and sadness of exile. One joke I clearly remember goes like this: One Cuban meets another, each from a different part of the island, and shaking hands, one says, “So, Pepe tell me, what did you do in Cuba?” Pepe, with great confidence and arrogance says, “Oh, in Cuba? I owned half the island. From the border of Las Villas, west it was all mine. And, here I am now, just like that standing here in front of you!” The other Cuban un-impressed says, “I knew we would met one day. Do you know that I was the guy who owned the rest of the Island? Everything east of Las Villas was mine!” They shake hands again and the other Cuban then says; “How much money do you have now? Maybe we can pitch in and buy a beer to celebrate this meeting?"

From time to time, Ruben would call my father to let him know of the arrival in Brooklyn of a Cuban family from the Puerto Padre region of Oriente. Often, word would get to Ruben or my father from someone who was a friend of a relative of an acquaintance, who had mentioned to someone that we were from the Puerto Padre region, and they would contact us to tell us that someone’s aunt or uncle was arriving from Cuba. In exile, this long chain of contacts extending ten or twelve people from one end to the other was considered normal, and when my parents spoke of the arriving family, they spoke of “Miguel and his wife, the niece of Raquel Perez from Gibara.” Miguel was considered almost family, even though my parents had never met him, his wife or Raquel Perez, and only knew of the existence of the Perez’s family from Gibara, from their childhood memories. Needless to say my parents and the Gonzalez’s would always find time to visit and welcome these new arrivals. With a few chickens, yuccas, rice and beans and Cuban spices, an impromptu dinner party was always put together in someone’s tiny apartment as fifteen or twenty “guajiros” would reminisce about Oriente and sad stories of life under socialism were exchanged.

After the initial jubilation of seeing people from back home, the parties would often turn melancholic. After playing music, and under the influence of two or three Cuba Libres, someone would play the Cuban national anthem, and in an incredible exercise of synchronized pain, many would burst into tears. If not for our ability to laugh at ourselves, our knack for making jokes out of tragedies, and generous amounts of rum, some of these parties would have resembled funerals. When no one could lift the sad clouds, the recordings of Alvares Guedes and Tres Patines always saved the day. Most of us were in the United States for less than five years, and although youngsters like my brother and I were quickly Americanizing, there was no doubt that in the minds of the adults, we were in the US temporarily, and we all missed Cuba very much.

“Nosotros estamos aqui temporaneamente nadamas;” We are here only temporarily, my father would say, and everyone else would agree. When Fidel falls, we are all heading back the following day. This reminder was repeated often, especially after someone would compare Cuba with the US by saying: “Este pais es maravilloso, pero no es Cuba”. This is a marvelous country, but it's not Cuba! The comforts of America were good, but the love of a Cuba free of Fidel Castro was still overwhelming. For the adults, the thought of any of us staying in the US permanently was unimaginable! It was believed that the nature of the Cuban soul was contradictory to communism, and it would only be a matter of time before those confused into supporting Castro would wake up and return to their normal selves!

While our parents welcomed new arrivals, worked at menial jobs to support us, and experienced the pain of exile, most of us exiled kids began to unconsciously adapt to the America of the late 1960’s and early 1970’s. At age 9 and 13, my brother and I became more interested in hamburgers, Star Trek, model airplanes, American Music, American girls, and Bugs Bunny, than the poetry of Jose Marti, pictures of the Morro Castle, the songs of Beny More, or stories about Miami Cubans.

Because of the marital problems between my parents, and my father’s attempt to forcibly re-create Cuba on the corner of Ocean Avenue and Voorhees Avenue in Brooklyn, my brother Jose Luis and I were psychologically paddling away from our Cuban identities as fast as we could. Early on we knew an artificial Cuba was impossible. By the time I reached 14, I began to feel that Cuba was no longer ours, and it belonged to people we didn’t like, and had little intention of liking. Unlike our parents, we saw the misery, to which Cuba had already sunk, as a payback to those who had tormented us and turned our lives upside down. Although, I did not think of it in terms of justice versus in-justice, I remember telling my father, “let them eat garbage, they deserve it. And, stop saying we are going back next year, because we are not.”

I began to notice that although my father continued to laud the official “we will return next year” line, he began to add qualifications to “how” we would return. We will return if Fidel leaves along with all his cronies. We will return after elections are held and a new government is in place. We will return when all the private properties and businesses are returned to their rightful owners. We will return when there is stability, and we can be sure there will be no vandalism and bloodshed in the streets. We will return when all the murderers who have blood in their hands are punished, and, so on.

I think my father’s deep dive into depression began when he started to add qualifications to how we would return to Cuba. I think his past and social links in Cuba, his view of himself, and the peer pressures of exile kept him from seeing the international political web, which made us exiles into pawns in the Cold War. My father took many years before he allowed himself to contemplate the possibility that the United States was going to be his new country. When that happened it occurred as a result of a visit to Cuba to see my ill grandparents in the late 1980’s, and experiencing deep pain, dissatisfaction and realizing that many old friendships were irreparably torn because of politics.

Manuel’s father Ruben on the other hand seemed to have assessed the Cuba situation much clearer than my father, and as a result for a long time, he was the black sheep in the group. He was the guy who went against the current. The guy who did not believe in the viability of the “we will return next year to Cuba” song, and questioned how we could all be sure that the Cuban soul was by nature anti-communist? To everyone’s chagrin he would say, “Castro is there because the majority of the people support him!” “You are crazy,” my father would say to him, “it’s the other way around. People support him because everyone is at gun point!”

Ruben would point out that if the United States wanted to take over Cuba, it could do so in probably less than two days. He was never comfortable with the authenticity of stories about bungled CIA attempts against Castro, and used to put the Cuba versus United States conflict in local New York City terms, which always resulted in everyone getting upset and in a shouting match. He would say; “Cuba has less people than the city of New York. To the Americans, the problems of Cuba are like a garbage strike in Brooklyn.” He used to say that half of the bungled CIA attempts against Castro were actually stories fabricated by Castro himself to make it appear as a David versus Goliath conflict. He would ad that as long as the people in Cuba lived in fear of an American invasion, Fidel will be in power. “Fidel needs the Americans more than he needs the Russians. And, because of the Cold War chess game, we exiles are nothing but accidental players in the game.”

If not because everyone knew Ruben well and liked him personally when not talking politics, some of the exchanges he would instigate would have exploded into fistfights. I used to watch these exchanges and think to myself that Ruben was the only one in the group who was actually listening to the news and analyzing American society. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think the Americans are telling us all there is about Cuba. If they were going to fix the problem, they’ve had plenty of opportunities. President Johnson went to the Dominican Republic in the blink of an eye and fixed that problem. Why not Cuba? The new president here, this Nixon, is not going to do anything about Cuba either!” Poor Ruben, his political opinions were never welcome.

One Saturday afternoon, after I was done with my duties sweeping and vacuuming the Beth Shalom Yeshiva, a job I obtained thanks to Mrs. Winthrop, I went to visit Manuel and his family. While visiting I overheard Ruben and Marta talking about how they could improve their lives and perhaps regain their professions in the United States. Ruben and Marta had concluded that a return to Cuba was unlikely, and they needed to focus their minds on a future without Cuba. There was a conversation on the phone with relatives in Miami, but it appeared to be an offer to move to Miami, which did not satisfy Marta. Later there were tense discussions, full of disappointing conclusions, ending with one realization: As a family they did not have enough money and time to implement any plan that required that they first learn English at a college level, and that they enroll at a University part time, in order to be accepted in a Dentistry or Nursing program. Their desire to re-start their careers was strong, but the obstacles huge.

But, that day there in Brighton Beach in 1972, while we kids played with new American toys, and quized each other on esoteric questions from the encyclopedia, and a scratchy record of Orquesta Aragon played “Virgen de Regla”, Manuel’s parents were tormented by the undeniable reality of their options. In order for them to recover and re-build the standard of living, and class standing they had achieved in Cuba in the late 1950’s, they would have to scrub floors, clean toilets and hold menial jobs until the early 1980’s. Then I witnessed one of those things whose significance did not register in my mind until years later.

Ruben and Marta sat in their kitchen table, had some Cuban coffee, and without commotion simply began to speak to one another as if they were two people with one mind. “Lets create an outline first, then we can fill in the details as they come,” said Ruben. Marta with a pencil and writing pad in hand began to list things as Ruben elaborated on each item. “And, how long do you think that will take?” And, “Lets create another list of the things we are not sure about, but we need to know before we start.” This process lasted about four hours, and it looked to me as if time was standing still for Ruben and Marta that Saturday.

When Ruben realized it was 6:00 PM and we kids were hungry, he proclaimed to Marta, “We are on our way now. Lets make some “Picadillo” otherwise we’re all going to drop dead from hunger”. After dinner my father came by to pick me up and as usual a brief conversation ensued. Before my father could start on his usual Fidel Castro is a pig discussion, Marta announced to him with great jubilation, “Ruben and I have decided that he is going to get his dentistry license here, and we are going to make every sacrifice needed to do it”. Ruben standing in front of my father with a half smile on his face said; “Well, don’t you think I can pull American teeth?” My father’s response was, “Usted sabe bien que nosotros estamos aqui para alludarlo.” Or , you know very well that we are here to help you. As my father began to react to the news, the phone rang and Marta picking up could not contain her excitement, and began to tell who ever it was, about their plans. Her response to the questions on the phone went something like this. “Yes, we have little money.” And, “Yes, it will probably take 8 or 10 years.” And, “Yes, if Fidel falls it will probably all be a waste of time and money.” And, “Yes, he will not have free time for anything”. And, “No, I’m not afraid of the sacrifices we have to make.” She finally said, “Look here he is, let him tell you the good news.”

That evening Manuel’s family did one of those hard to describe things that keeps Cuban exiles believing that they are somehow different than other immigrant groups in the United States. It is a propensity to do things that are either suicidal, or of heroic proportions. The exiles have adopted this “Cuban man with bare hands kills the dragon” type of thing, and since this belief is admirable, behaviors have been adopted to propagate it. If something is difficult to do, and there is a group of people in a room who may opt to do it, and one of them is a Cuban, that one Cuban will feel something in his bones that often irrationally, makes him think that he is more qualified than the others to undertake the challenge. There are high failure rates, as a result of this belief, but at the same time, there are enough success stories to nourish the belief and continue to create the psychological and economic supports needed to pass it on to the young.

When faced with a major undertaking, seemingly insurmountable, a group of Cubans will simply ask each other, “Somos Cubanos, o que?” Meaning, are we Cubans, or what? This without further elaboration is all that is needed to motivate people into action. Those who dislike us describe this behavior as “that Cuban arrogance”. Fidel’s supporters hate us for it, because it’s behaviors like those that have kept us from sinking to object poverty, as they expected and told the world would happen. Every time a Cuban exile succeeds in business, culture and society, we see it as a victory against Castro and his regime. Like Castro needs the United States to stay in power, we need Castro to keep us motivated!

Manuel’s parents after a long time of painful reflection did not decide to give up. Instead at a crucial point when things looked very bad, they somehow found an inner strength that allowed them to act outside the norm, and were able to dream about a possibility, that although difficult, could be made into a reality. Their strength came from within because the thought of looking for an external solution did not even figure in the equation. And, because of their sense of self worth, they did not sit down to plan a scheme to rob a bank, cheat local merchants, run a prostitution ring, or distribute illegal drugs. Although, they were cleaning toilets, they knew that they were not really toilet cleaners. As they and my parents would often remark, “we’re Cubans, and we need to get ahead.”

A few months after the incident at Manuel’s house my parents separated and I moved away from Sheapshead Bay losing direct contact with Manuel and his family for more than fifteen years. From time to time my mother and I would hear stories about Ruben and Marta’s struggles, how Ricardo had managed to win a scholarship to a prestigious university in Chicago and was studying engineering, and how Manuel and Elena where both working part time to help the family and pay for their studies in New York’s City College. I learned that my father and other friends had helped Ruben with small loans and other things that nowadays seem insignificant, but are important when you are a struggling exile with three children, a wife and a limited income.

In 1984 after a long struggle Dr. Ruben Robles Gonzalez reclaimed his license as a dentist and opened a private practice in Manhattan Beach where he provided dental services until his death in 1998. My friend Manuel became an architect, his sister Elena is a clinical psychologist, and his brother Ricardo is an engineer. In fourteen years Dr. Gonzalez brought his family from the social level of toilet cleaner, to the middle classes and beyond.

During a recent visit to my father in Hialeah, I found to my great pleasure that Marta and Manuel were visiting Miami, and my father took me to see her at a friend’s house in Coral Gables. She is a wonderful woman in her 70’s with a sharp mind and a most dignified demeanor. I spoke to her about our times in Brooklyn and I asked her why she and Ruben decided to take such a hard road, when there were probably easier things they could have done to survive in America. Her answer was, “We could not have lived in peace if we didn’t at least try to achieve success for ourselves and our children. What were we to do, accept that we were now floor sweepers and dishwashers when we knew we were not?” She then gave me a very serious look, and pointing her finger at me said; “We cannot allow others to tell us who we are. When we do that the game is over.” With those words of wisdom in the air I looked around the room and found my father, and four other old Cubans in their 70’s looking at me as if they were thinking: “What else did you expect to hear?” I then thought to myself, "Old Cuban exiles are wise, because they’re old and they've seen a lot and because they've had to remake themselves from scratch a few times with little but their pride to lean on. Like my grandfather Pedro, they've been to hell and back."

Stories of perseverance and success abound in our community, but from time to time I also wonder how many doctors, lawyers, architects, engineers, professors, accountants, businessmen and simple honest workers have struggled quietly without anyone knowing of their failures; how many became disheartened and were eaten by the melancholy and depression of exile. How many our jokes could not comfort, and Alvares Guedes could not fool into a sense of happiness?

When my father and I were ready to leave, we walked out the house with Manuel who was eager to show my father his new $64,000 Mercedes-Benz. In front of the car, Manuel said to my father, "We've come a long way from cleaning toilets in Brooklyn. I only wish my father was here with us." Looking at the car, my father turned to Manuel and said, “Dame un habrazo muchacho, que usted se ha ganado esto como un verdadero hombre.” Meaning, come and give me a hug my boy, you’ve earned this like a real man! After they hugged, my father said to me; "If Ruben was here I know he would not like this car!" Manuel perplexed asked, "why not?" "Because this is a metallic color, and your father hated metallic colors! He liked strong manly colors, like a tomato red." "No me jodas," or stop busting my chops, said Manuel and then we all burst into laughter.

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
All Rights Reserved
For Usage Rights Contact the Author
------------------------------------------------

The Quakers Wore Guayaberas

Cuban Quakers? You must be kidding! Is the response I get from both Americans and Cubans, when I mention that I come from a Cuban Quaker family. Cubans tend to add the “what’s a Quaker?” question, which then forces me to explain the profound differences in outlook and religious practices that Quakers have compared to Catholics and most other Christians. This lack of familiarity with the Quaker experience in Cuba is normal given the lack of information that exists on Quakers in general, and the fact that average people have never had any direct political, or economic interest in this trivial detail. Furthermore, Cubans are ignorant of this issue because they have always enjoyed the self-deception of thinking that somehow by magic, everyone in the island was the same. In religious matters this meant that everyone was, in one flavor or another, considered Catholic. But, prior to 1959, Cuba had more religious, ethnic, and cultural diversity than most countries of the Western Hemisphere. Its Jewish population was one of the largest in Latin America, with a vibrant and growing Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian, and Adventist population as well. Cuban blacks who composed more than 40% of the population, practiced the Santeria and Palo Monte religions with their African roots, and many in the Cuban Chinese community who had been in Cuba since the early 19th. century still practiced Buddhism. And, there were large numbers of Masons, Odd Fellows, and Rotarians, as well as countless other ethnic and secular organizations throughout the island.

Cuba also had, like most countries, a significant number of atheists and agnostics. Jose Marti, the great poet and the father of the Cuban nation was a Mason and an agnostic who viewed religion with disinterest. The romantic reinvention of Marti as the “Apostle” of the nation reflects the dependence of average Cubans on Catholic symbolism, without concern, or in ignorance of the fact that such a title would have been considered an insult to Marti, the rational intellectual.

Because of this “we are all the same innocence”, there was never a Christian fundamentalist movement with the fervor that has often manifested itself in the United States. In general terms, Cuba was never a very religious society. The heritage of the Spanish Empire made the Catholic Church the institution of the elite’s by default. And, given the sensuality of the tropics, the average person chose a day at the beach, or a roasted pig party, to a morning in Church.

The Quakers have never been famous as a religion obsessed with converting others. Quakers are a stealthy people who believe others may come to know about Quaker beliefs, and join them, by simple exposure to “Friendly” ideas, and by being attracted by the good deeds and lives of practicing Quakers. Upon this gentle exposure, interested individuals are supposed to “convince themselves” that this lifestyle is in harmony with their personalities. The person is then supposed to commit to a regimen of study where they learn about Quaker history, religious faith and practices, and acclimatizes himself or herself to a disciplined lifestyle focused on a rational understanding of human relationships and the environment. Quakers do not believe in the trinity, priests, saints, the sacraments, fancy ornate churches, confessions, communion, original sin, or the Pope.

Of all the Protestant religions, the Quakers are the least dogmatic, the most decentralized, and some claim, one of the most focused on work and social equality. Their pacifist efforts are known the world over. This low-key approach to seeking converts and its lack of bombastic rituals has guaranteed that their numbers have always been small.

During the second half of the 19th. century many Cubans fled to the United States due to the semi-constant state of war that existed in the island. Some of these emigrants became exposed to Quaker ideals, and became Quakers. The most notable of these people was Don Tomas Estrada Palma, who in 1902 became the first president of the Republic of Cuba. Estrada Palma lived in Happy Valley, New York for many years, and as a “Convinced” Quaker followed the disciplined peaceful lifestyle of the “Quiet” branch of the religion. A member of Jose Marti’s independence movement in exile, he was eventually ousted from office by an insurgency that took advantage of the fact that his “friendly” government lacked the force and authority of a standing Army. Criticized by many as naïve or even incompetent, for his dependency on American advisers, Estrada Palma left an outstanding reputation for financial integrity never repeated thereafter by any Cuban administration until 1959.

But, like Woodrow Wilson, Herbert Hoover, and Richard Nixon, (all Quakers) Don Tomas Estrada Palma showed that even though Quakers often have excellent intentions, when involved with the administration of governments, non-Quakers have proven to have sharper skills. So, the history books show that the first president of the Republic of Cuba was a Quaker, a fact forgotten or ignored by most people today. Cuba has the distinction of being the only country on Earth whose founding father was a poet, and its first president a pacifist. Clearly its claim of being a country full of idealists is well established.

During the 1890’s, the “Evangelical” Quakers were experiencing a burst of energy and creativity, which caused many of the faithful to venture to the Four Corners of the world. Like most Americans of the period, they shared the feeling of “Manifest Destiny” which for good or bad brought American ideas and values to the doors of non Anglo Saxon peoples living in places like Cuba. Because of the timing of their burst of energy, and political events in Cuba, the Quakers were invited and were welcomed in Cuba. Independent of Don Tomas Estrada Palma, they found a fertile environment for their “convincement” process and planted roots that sprouted a new kind of “Friend”. The Quakers are also known as the Religious Society of Friends.

In May of 1900, an American banana boat (the cheapest means of transport during that time) landed in Gibara, northern Oriente province. On board was an unimposing man named Zenas Martin, agent and superintendent of the Iowa based American Friends Board of Foreign Missions, one of the most active Evangelical Quaker movements of that period. After observing the locals, Zenas wrote to his wife that, “this country is delightful, it has been cool and pleasant, the air has such a refreshing feeling about it,” and the people he felt, were charming, graceful, intelligent and, to his surprise, mostly white. “Among them are some of the most beautiful people I ever saw”. Zenas Martin was of course, politically incorrect by today’s standards.

In typical understated Quaker fashion, Zenas’ arrival represented a response to a call for help from one of the first native Cuban Quakers, a man named Francisco Cala, whose reason for conversion to The Religious Society of Friends, and activities prior to this date have always been a mystery. Observant, religious, and industrious, Zenas quickly understood why Mr. Cala had so desperately asked for help. In 1900, Cuba and Oriente province in particular were in ruins. The 30 year long war of independence from Spain, which had ended less than two years before, and the tropical diseases it precipitated, had ravaged the land, and claimed almost 300,000 lives, out of a total population of 1.8 million! Despair, disease and hungers were rampant, and the people were still in shock and spiritually disoriented. For years, the Catholic Church had been indifferent to the needs of the people due to its allegiance to the defeated Spanish colonial government, and at this juncture, lacked the resources or fortitude to do anything beyond offering prayers for those who mostly viewed it with suspicion. Ninety percent of the priests were Spaniards who rarely ventured beyond the walls of their parish churches. Soon, Zenas stopped writing about the beauty of the people and the pleasant air, and sent a report back to Iowa Friends explaining the desperate conditions he found.

On November 14, 1900, two years before Don Tomas Estrada Palma’s inauguration, an army of five Quakers arrived in Gibara and began organizing an international aid program that brought food, medicine, and basic necessities to northern Oriente at a time when there was no effective government in the area. The Quaker arrival also coincided with a massive influx of American land speculators, sugar barons, industrialists, and get rich quick schemes that took advantage of the unstable situation, and laid the foundations for American dominance over the Cuban economy. But, before that type of American dominance had taken hold, Quakers were busy with the unromantic task of feeding the hungry, and saving the sick.

By 1905, Zenas and a handful of hardworking American and Mexican Quakers had established Quaker Meetinghouses, schools, and relief organizations in Puerto Padre, Holguin, Gibara, and Banes, and reported attendance in these organizations in the hundreds. By 1912 there were Meetinghouses in places like Chaparra, Delicias, Velasco, Potrerillo, Los Angeles, Bocas, and Santa Lucia; an incredible accomplishment for a small group of people whose command of the Spanish language was described by observers of the time as “most rudimentary”, and whose first collection for the local treasury was a pitiful six cents. The Quakers established a network of social services where none existed before, with their bare hands and the force of their will.

“Los Amigos”, as they became known in Cuba, established a tradition for running strict high quality schools and helping the poor. Their straight independent talk, rational views on business, and minimal involvement in Cuban politics, gave them great appeal to many people whose temperament or worldviews were different than those of the majority population. By coincidence, Zenas Martin had landed in a region of Oriente province that had a high concentration of Catalan immigrants, traditionally a group known within the Spanish world as industrious, frugal, and independent minded, or as some have said, “ideal minds for Quaker conversion”. So, it came to pass that a large number of the early Cuban Quakers were second or third generation Cuban Catalans, but this detail went unnoticed by the early missionaries.

By the 1920’s the Cuban Quakers had become an independent group functioning with little assistance from American Quakers, and by 1927 there were enough native Cuban Quakers to warrant the formation of the “Cuba Yearly Meeting”, the Quaker equivalent of a Catholic Dioceses. By 1948 there were no American Quakers left in any positions of authority in Cuba. This is how the Quakers took root in tropical Cuba, the land of Cha Cha Cha, Mambo, and Cuba Libres. The mingling of the teachings and cultures of George Fox, Jose Marti, the African Sages, and the Chinese, created a Quaker that sometimes wears colorful clothing, smokes big cigars, and gyrates his/her hips to the sounds of music in a way that makes their religious cousins in Philadelphia, or London faint in disbelief. The Spanish “Creole Quaker” shaped by the tropics had arrived. Bring on the Conga drums!

In general, Cuban culture was ambivalent towards the Quakers, like it was ambivalent towards Protestants and Jews. Fulgencio Batista, a Creole of white, Chinese, Taino, and black heritage, and the last dictator before Castro, was educated in a Quaker school in the city of Banes, but never became a “convinced” Quaker. He joined the Army as a young man, and when he became a politician declared himself a Catholic. Fidel Castro, the son of a Galician emigrant, who was educated by the Jesuits, had his rebel army wear crucifixes to battle, and once he became dictator, announced that he was an atheist, and then tried to abolish religion all together. To complicate this matter, most so called Catholics, were also practicing the Afro-Cuban Santeria religion. This nonchalant religion a-la-Carte attitude was the norm rather than the exception in Cuba. Except it was not a polite issue for discussion.

Because of this natural ambivalence, it was not uncommon for middle class families who professed to be Catholic to send their children to Quaker schools. But, throughout the history of these schools, the vast majority of the students came from poor humble families whose tuition was covered in part or in full by scholarships, or by an intricate system where parents and relatives would barter services to a variety of Quaker organizations or causes.

In the early years of the 20th. century, when more than eighty percent of the population of northern Oriente province was illiterate and the Cuban government cared little about it, the Quakers provided the only means of education for many. By the mid 1940’s and early 1950’s there had developed a significant number of second and third generation Cuban “birthright” Quakers (Quakers born to Quaker families, not convinced in adulthood) who had graduated from these schools and were taking leadership roles in the society. These native Cuban Quakers formed on Quaker principles of justice, hard work, discipline, and fair play were generally not well liked by the Cuban upper classes, and were viewed with perplexion by the lower classes.

The group composed mostly of professionals represented a rare meritocracy in the clannish paternalistic Latin society of Oriente province. Its members, from humble origins, were treated as upstarts and often ridiculed for restraining from getting drunk, not having multiple mistresses, or refusing to take or give bribes. Because of these factors, valued by Anglo-Saxon Protestant cultures, large numbers of Cuban Quakers in Oriente were recruited by American companies and given positions of authority, which improved their standard of living relative to their peers, but did little to change their relationships with the Cuban elite’s. In a country where social standing, access to resources, and political power was controlled by a system that dispensed it based on family connections, bribery, and often brute force, the concept of social mobility and merit based on honest hard work and intellectual prowess was revolutionary and threatening.

Family lore says that on his birth, my grandfather’s Catholic family named him after a Catalan saint, Sant Pere Nolasco, the founder of an ancient order devoted to rescuing Christians from Muslim enslavement. But, as events unfurled during his childhood, my grandfather remained within the bosom of the Catholic Church for only a brief period. The religious beliefs, life style, and ideology of the Religious Society of Friends instead shaped his life.

Pedro Nolasco Font e Hidalgo, was the product of the Quaker school in Puerto Padre, Oriente, Cuba. He was one of the first Cuban Quakers and like many of his generation, a man who rose from dire poverty and hunger, to a respected position in his community. From an old Catalan noble family that had settled in Cuba in the late 18th. century, and initially supported the Spanish Royalist cause, they had seen their fortune lost during the 30 year long war of independence, and were impoverished by the time of his birth. His life reflects much of the history of the Quakers in Cuba during the 20th. century, from his birth in 1892, to his death in 1982.

During the last year of the war with Spain, my grandfather’s father abandoned his family out of desperation and depression after watching many of his relatives’ die of illness and hunger. Later in his life, my grandfather would recall how his mother had to hunt for rats in order for them to eat, and how difficult things got when he was fourteen years old and his mother died, leaving him and his three younger brothers with a poor uncle. So, when Zenas Martin and his unimposing Quakers visited Puerto Padre in 1900, my grandfather and his brothers may have been part of the many destitute hungry children that were begging for scraps in the streets. Little is known of his early activities with the Quakers, or how he and his brothers survived from 1900 to 1910.

From his Catholic family, he was the only one to change religion. We do know that by 1911, he was already calling himself an “Amigo”, whether he was a full member of The Religious Society of Friends, we are not sure, but he had already been attending the “Colegio Los Amigos”, or Quaker school, as well as assisting the American missionaries in their travels. The years during his schooling had to be very difficult as well because they have been described by family members as “the years of desperation”, where my grandfather was the main breadwinner for himself and his three siblings. While attending the “Colegio Los Amigos” in Puerto Padre, and befriending the headmistress Mrs. Martinez; his affinity for numbers became clear, and he was encouraged to study bookkeeping.

He excelled in his studies and also became known as a serious student of the Bible. Somehow, he began to assist Quaker Missionaries with bookkeeping matters, and gained a reputation for efficiency and good work habits, finding bookkeeping work with small businesses that had dealings with the Quakers in northern Oriente.

In 1916 he applied for a bookkeeping job with the Royal Bank of Canada, which had opened a branch in Puerto Padre, but was offered instead the job of “barrendero” - a floor sweeper. This was because the bank manager, a tall blond Englishman, doubted his abilities and mistrusted Cubans, and he thought floor sweeper was a more appropriate job for him. This conclusion may have also been precipitated by the fact that my grandfather still lacked money to buy himself “clothes worthy of a bookkeeper.” After several months, the Canadians realized that Cuban Quakers did not steal, and he was able to convince them that his bookkeeping skills were real, resulting in a promotion to head teller. During his tenure with the Canadians he became a full accountant by studying part time, and when he left the Royal Bank of Canada in the early 1930’s he had become branch manager, and head of the business development group.

When he moved to his next job during the depression, he was recruited by the Cuban-American Sugar Company to head its accounting and personnel departments in the Chaparra and Delicias sugar mills, the largest sugar mills in the world at that time, employing more than 11,000 workers. The job in the sugar mill also allowed him to run an independent accounting and consulting firm, which he and a partner profitably ran for many years.

Moved by the carnage and destruction of World War I, and with memories of the War of Independence still in his mind, my grandfather told his family at that time that he was going to devote his life to Quaker concerns and pacifism. He met my grandmother Maria Ferraz at a Quaker fundraiser for European orphans in 1919. After a long old style courtship, which included never meeting without a chaperon, they were married. Both coming from old Majorcan and Catalan families, they shared similar cultural backgrounds, and although her family was considered well off, they took a liking to him. My grandmother’s strong feminists will, Quaker zeal for taking on controversial social issues, and feistiness endeared her to him. As his social and economic conditions improved later on, she enthusiastically took on a leadership role in the community, and helped him polish off his rough edges. In 1926 my aunt Ruth was born, followed by my father Joel, in 1929. My grandfather, the man who lived in poverty as a child and ate rats in order to survive had pulled himself out of misery and had a decent existence by the time the depression of 1929 hit.

When my father was a boy, he too was sent to Quaker school, and although by then my grandfather could afford it, he made arrangements so that my father was obliged to contribute to his tuition expenses by selling soap and household items door to door throughout Chaparra and the nearby town of Delicias. After school and on weekends, he washed cars, sold sugarcane juice “melao”, and delivered groceries. My father also studied bookkeeping, but later decided to study electronics and never followed in my grandfather’s accounting footsteps. Years later, my father told me that as a youngster he hated selling soap for two cents a bar, but later he realized what a great thing his father had done for him by giving him the opportunity to pay for his education, and that experience had given him a taste of business he always respected. “El Viejo knows about the ups and downs of life,” my father would say, “and no one can look at him in the eye and tell him anything about suffering, because he’s been through it in the worse way.”

There were other men and women like my grandfather in the Cuban Quaker community, leaders who earned the respect of their neighbors by their actions. These people’s very existence in remote Oriente province acted as living proof of their faith, and a magnet that attracted new members. The belief that giving to one’s community was a responsibility for both rich and poor was seriously taken. Giving and helping others was not done from guilt, or because it was mandated, but because of the belief that Quakers should do good things, and helping others is a good thing.

Since the 1930’s when he was able to afford it, and until his retirement, my grandfather gave on average 10% of his wages to Cuba Yearly Meeting, and acted on a pro-bono basis, as the national treasurer of the organization until shortly before his death. He acted as the un-paid pastor of the Puerto Padre Meetinghouse for ten years, and the Chaparra Meetinghouse for more than thirty years. He also taught business, and Quaker studies at the Puerto Padre Quaker School during most of his free time. Consistent in his belief to contribute to society, he advocated for prison and public school reforms in Cuba. His house was considered a meeting place where all kinds of people would visit in search of financial help, spiritual help, and mundane things like what to do with unruly children. Groups of Quaker men wearing the uniform of the day, long sleeved white linen Guayaberas and black pants, seemed to always follow him wherever he went. As Pastor, or “Clerk” of the Chaparra Meetinghouse, he participated in weddings, births, funerals, and had to attend public events representing the Quaker community throughout Cuba.

When people met him, they never knew what a difficult life he had endured, or how committed he was to humanitarian ideals. Tall, fair skinned, well spoken, and impeccably dressed; he always spoke of the future, of ways to live better and how to improve other’s lives. He never dwelled on his past, and shied away from anyone who tried to aggrandize him for it. He believed in simplicity, life long study, and the idea that work was the best therapy to cure all ills, social and personal. He strongly believed in the Quaker concept that every man had that of God in him, and everyone was capable of some mistakes, but with a little guidance, one could return to our “normal good nature”. Almost all non-Quakers that knew him, including some members of his family criticized him for what they used to call his “inability to take advantage of a good situation.” In Cuba that meant that he didn’t take or give bribes. His “incredible” habit of letting petty conflicts just bounce off his daily routine was also misunderstood in a culture not famous for calmness.

By the time of Fidel Castro’s revolution in 1959, the Cuban Quakers were a successful and institutionalized religious order with a bright future in Cuba. They tried their best to remain out of the conflict, never officially joining either side, which indirectly caused both sides to view them with suspicion. But, like most Cubans at that time, they felt concerned about the future of the country and tried, in “the manner of Friends”, to reason with both warring sides sending open letters to Fulgencio Batista and Fidel Castro, asking that the conflict be resolved peacefully.

After Castro’s victory, they protested the public televised executions and excesses of the revolution, but generally supported the new government. When Castro established universal obligatory military conscription in Cuba, the Quakers protested, explaining their pacifist traditions. This appeal was ignored and ridiculed. Soon after, the attitude of ambivalence that had characterized Cuban society’s dealings with the Quakers for the previous fifty-nine years began to change.

As Cuba declared itself communist and atheist, and the Castro regime began to drum up anti-American sentiments, everything that smelled of North America was targeted for destruction. Suddenly, men like my grandfather were suspect, and accused of being stooges of the Americans. The Cuban Quakers, after all, “learned” their religion from the “Yankis”. The decentralized organizational structure of the Quaker faith, and its foreign links became a target for the KGB trained cadres of the new intelligence service and the infamous G.2. Word was sent down to the local “Committees for the Defense of the Revolution”, (the CDR); that they should carefully watch and harass this dangerous group who may at any moment betray the fatherland. Che Guevara’s antipathy towards religion took its toll. Many of the very people, who had been fed and clothed by my grandparents and their co-religionists since childhood, turned against them with vigor. Personal insults, racial slurs, and sexual innuendoes became common practice, along with the defacing of Meetinghouses and other Church properties.

Ignoring the very essence of the Quaker faith, its lack of participation in politics, its refusal to be involved in corrupt practices, its good deeds in Cuba in the last fifty nine years, and its 100% Cuban leadership, the “good socialist patriots” as they were called, put in place a destabilizing program designed to drive away new members, and force its leaders into exile.

By 1961, all Quaker schools were nationalized depriving the Cuba Yearly Meeting of its main social and economic function in the island. Soon after, the government confiscated all private property and small businesses. The entrepreneurial spirit, and the small business culture that was so carefully cultivated and valued by Cuban Quakers, was declared un-patriotic. The new social and political order de-emphasized individualism and demanded that the future of the country and everyone of its people be under the tight control of a central authority. In every way but in name, a new “religion” descended on Cuba, it was the cult of Communism and state sanctioned atheism, a new religion that acted violently towards the slightest expression of criticism or dissent. Under the flag of Socialist Humanism, men and women were forced to replace god, with the state, Jesus with Karl Marx.

This new revolutionary government set out to create a new man in Cuba. “El Nuevo Hombre” which was to be nurtured from the ruins of the “decadent” society of which the Quakers were supposed to be an integral part. Social engineering on a massive scale quickly began, with book burnings, the renaming of every minute thing that may have reminded people of the past, and the re-education of the young based on a “socialist approved” vocabulary, which for example required that “Friends” (Amigos) no longer be addressed as friends, but “Comrades”, or “Companeros”. Laws were passed requiring the militarization of the entire society, the imposition of state policies over those of the family, and the encouragement of wanton sexual behavior, so there would be plenty of “Nuevo Hombres” for the future.

The deconstruction of all the old values, the good ones and the bad ones, took place mostly under the leadership of young political zealots whose experience in life was often an elementary school education, with two years of fighting in the mountains. The gusto and euphoria that these “heroes of the people” brought to the destruction of private property and other “symbols of imperialism” could never be exaggerated, or easily described to those who didn’t witness that period of time. In order to build a new “consciousness” new books were printed, artwork, statues and songs commissioned, plays and television shows produced, toys created and the entire education system revamped from Kindergarten to the Universities.

Veneration of Che Guevara and international guerrilla movements took center stage in daily life. The display of pictures of Fidel and Che holding guns was viewed as a sign of loyalty to the “fatherland” and expected of every “good Cuban.” In this environment, many Quakers found themselves hanging these pictures in their living rooms.

During the late 1960’s, when rebellious young Americans were smoking pot, (punishable by death in Cuba) waving communist Vietcong flags, and protesting the unjust involvement of the U.S. in Vietnam, Saint Anthony’s Catholic Church in Chaparra, the most beautiful church in our town was burned to the ground allegedly due to “mysterious circumstances”. Several years after, the Chaparra Quaker Meetinghouse, the place where my family worshiped, and my grandfather was Clerk, also burned to the ground due to “mysterious circumstances”. In the streets we regularly heard the “good revolutionaries” boast of how well Cuba was being “cleansed” of Capitalist influences like religion, and how excited they were that one day soon, the U.S. would lose the war in Vietnam.

Their boasts of “international solidarity with the oppressed people’s of the world,” gave us a chill down our backs. And, every time the U.S. mounted a major bombing campaign in Vietnam, we “Gusanos” in Cuba were made to suffer. Years later in the United States, a college professor asked me why it was that most Cuban exiles supported the US involvement in Vietnam? After looking at him, and realizing that he was of the hippie pot smoking love child generation, I just said: “We saw the war from a different angle. An angle that you will never be able to understand.” And, I left it at that. I know that to this day he believes we exiles are all fascist pigs.

The elimination of the intellectual and economic infrastructure that occurred in Cuba, in the 1960’s and 1970’s, and yielded so much misery years later, was not the result of a foreign plot, or an anti-revolutionary strategy, but the well thought out centrally planned policy of Fidel Castro, and his government to eliminate opposing and alternative economic, political, and religious ideas. Current claims to the contrary by American religious groups and other socialist sympathizers who operate from the safety of the US Constitution, while advocating for totalitarian ideals, are fabrications based on either ignorance, or purposefully created to misinform the innocent and gullible.

Along with the more than one million people who fled Cuba as a result of Fidel Castro’s revolution, more than half of the Quaker population also left. Like the majority of the exiles, they established themselves in Miami, and built “La Iglesia de los Amigos” which stands today, with most of its elders now dead, as a living reminder of a once vibrant past in Cuba.

Fidel Castro’s effort to cleanse Cuba of religion or “the Opium of the people” was effective, and culminated with the abolition of Christmas, which remained outlawed until 1998. By 1965, thousands of religious leaders from the Protestant, Jewish, and Catholic communities had been harassed into exile.

For people like my grandfather who refused to leave his beloved Cuba, because as he said, “Cuba is my country, and I have a responsibility to help my people here,” what Fidel Castro brought was a betrayal of everything he stood for and caused bitterness to his last days.

When my parents, my brother and I saw my grandfather for the last time in 1968, when we were coming to the United States, after a five year torturous wait, he said to us, “go because here there is only conditional freedom, and we live at the whims of a man with a poor character who forces his opinions on the innocent. Go, because up north you can disagree without fear, you can succeed based on your labor, and you can go to sleep knowing that your property will not be confiscated by the state by the time you wake up.”

Now, years after his death, I realize how lucky I am that I haven’t had to eat rats out of desperation, or that I will never have to endure the pain of watching people I considered to be friends and good neighbors, humiliate me, steal from me, and spy against me.

The Quakers who remained in Cuba, and have survived are an admirable group. Many stayed for the same reasons my grandfather did, others were denied the right to leave, and still many stayed because they accommodated themselves with the communist regime in order to live. Many of the new leaders are graduates of a state controlled “religious institute” with questionable authenticity, and affiliations with pro-Castro groups in the US. But, this is all part of the phenomenon of the Cuban experience.

When an American asks me, “why did your family leave Cuba?” I really have a problem answering in a neat well-defined 30 second American style sound byte. Most Americans now days have accepted the leftist story that says that we were all part of the corrupt, racist, mafia infested, inhuman, capitalist, and oppressive white minority that lived to destroy and kill the poor, and keep the workers in chains. When I start by telling them that we were Quakers, and I discuss a few of the things in this story, they question my honesty, and then they hate me. They hate me because my existence challenges their reality.

In Cuba today Quakers no longer wear long sleeve white linen Guayaberas because such a luxury would cost about $75.00 US dollars, and the average Cuban’s monthly salary is now less than $10.00 US dollars a month, less than the average wage people earned when my grandfather took his job as “barrendero” or floor sweeper, for the Royal Bank of Canada, in 1916!

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
All Rights Reserved
For Usage Rights Contact the Author
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Some Relatives Don't Eat Pork

My fathers’ third job in the U.S.A. after our stint in Harlem, turned out to be back in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. My uncle Fernando learned that a superintendent’s position had opened up a block away from his house, and was able to convince the landlord to give my father a chance at the job, even though he lacked some of the required qualifications. Fernando also arranged for several Cuban superintendents whom he knew from different parts of Brooklyn, to meet him so they could help him in the event of an emergency.

My father enthusiastically took the job, which paid $310.00 per month, and we moved back to Brooklyn during the winter of 1968. Although this represented a great leap forward for us, it was still significantly lower than the income he had been earning in Capitalist Cuba during the 1950’s and even later in the early and mid 1960’s during Socialism when he was involved in the black market.

The corner of Ocean Avenue and Voorhees Avenue was in a clean neighborhood with shady trees, and well dressed people who strolled around the neighborhood in the afternoons and evenings, without fear of crime, politely greeting one another as they ended up by the Bay where they took the sea air and chatted as they watched the fishing boats rhythmically ride the waves in their dockings.

Sheepshead Bay was a middle class Jewish, Italian, and Irish neighborhood, where Jewish mothers babysat Italian and Irish kids, and Irish men took Jewish and Italian kids to baseball games. Our building reflected this mixture of people, and we later learned that my aunt and uncle were the only other Hispanics in the area, with the next nearest Spanish speakers, a Puerto Rican family, living about four miles away in Coney Island Avenue. This was the genteel New York of Nelson Rockefeller, the City of John Lindsey, the big apple that few now remember prior to the large influx of South Americans, Dominicans, West Indians, Russians, Mexicans, Indians and Asians that later changed its social and political face during the 1980’s. From the early 1960’s to the early 1980’s the Puerto Ricans and us Cubans were the only Hispanics of consequence in the city, and prior to our exodus to Miami in the late 1980’s, more than half of all the Hispanic owned businesses in New York City were Cuban. This is the New York in which I grew up, where my parents tried to rebuild their lives, and my brother and I tried to assimilate.

A week after we moved to our spacious two-bedroom apartment, which had been sparsely furnished with second hand furniture, a strange elderly woman named Mrs. Winthrop, who had strange numbers tattooed on her left arm, visited us. Since we spoke no English, and Mrs. Winthrop spoke no Spanish, we had no idea what she said to us. But, she seemed friendly and looked at my brother and I with great interest. Mrs. Winthrop returned the following day with two shopping bags with clothes, and underwear for my brother and I, and communicated to us via signs, grunts, and strange words, that we should try our new clothes on. As we modeled for Mrs. Winthrop in a state of disbelief at what was going on, it became clear how happy she was that her gifts fitted us. She then sat down in our living room, and proceeded to give us all an English lesson. Pointing to every physical object in the room she made us repeat its English name a few times, asking afterwards to tell her the Spanish name for the object. “Ein Espanishe” she would ask. When Mrs. Winthrop finally left, we weren’t sure if she had given us a lesson in English, or we had given her a lesson in Spanish, but her good heart and incredible gesture needed no translation.

For the next six months Mrs. Winthrop came by our house once a week to teach my parents English, and help my brother and I with our homework until we gained control of the English language. We later learned that Mrs. Winthrop was a Holocaust survivor who had lost all her close relatives in Auschwitz and lived alone with two cats in our building. After a short period of time, my brother and I adopted Mrs. Winthrop as our stand in grandmother, and created many good memories with her as she took us to libraries, museums, the beach, parks, and introduced us to the old folks in the neighborhood. Thanks to the kindness of this old Jewish woman my parents learned to communicate in English, and our transition to American culture became less traumatic.

Arriving in Sheepshead Bay during the summer time, school was out. So, I had a few weeks to learn the neighborhood, and with Mrs. Winthrop’s help I met a few kids from the building and the nearby houses. Although, my parents were still concerned about safety, in light of the Harlem experience, they quickly realized Sheepshead Bay was not unsafe, and I was allowed to play with my new friends, although I did not yet understand them. Two kids invited me to their homes, Kevin O’Brien, whose mother introduced me to the pleasures of Oreo Cookies and a glass of cold milk, and Luigi Turano, whose father was a cabinet maker and used to explain to me, in Italian, how to cut Formica. I have no idea what Mr. Turano used to tell me in Italian, and I never learned to cut Formica, but the man loved his work and probably thought that since Spanish is so close to Italian, I would catch some of his instructions. The fact that I listened attentively and was impressed by his many tools seemed to be appreciated and I was often rewarded with snacks of Prosciutto ham, olives and Ricotta cheese.

Kevin used to have posters of the Beatles, the Monkeys, and the Archies in his room, and loved listening to “Sugar, Sugar” over and over again. Kevin’s father worked in the post office and was home from work everyday by 3:30 in the afternoon. After changing his clothes, he would take Kevin’s little sister for walks around the neighborhood, where everyone knew him and stopped him for little chats. Kevin seemed to come from a very big extended Irish family, since on weekends their house swelled with visiting skinny blond and freckled face kids who looked like him. It was amazing that these eleven and twelve year old kids befriended me, and their parents allowed me in their homes, given the fact that I could hardly communicate with them, and we had so few cultural links.

By the time school was ready to start my brother Jose Luis and I felt good about the new surroundings and we looked forward to the challenge. A few days before the first day of school, uncle Fernando arranged to have a friend of my aunt, Mrs. Schiffton who spoke broken Spanish, and was a member of the Parents Teacher Association, to enroll us at Public School 254. Mrs. Schiffton was an aristocratic looking woman whose family owned a furniture store in the neighborhood and had a son named Mitchell. On the first day of school, Mrs. Schiffton, my brother and I, and Mitchell walked to PS 254 where I found a very different school to the one I had known in Harlem. Here, the kids looked neat, and did not seem to gather in aggressive gang like groups, but a big surprise awaited me after registration.

Not having any transcripts, or academic records from Cuba indicating our grade levels or educational achievements, and not having concluded the semester in the Harlem school, PS 254 officials placed my brother and I at the grade levels they thought we belonged, based on our ages. But, there was a twist. In 1968 PS 254 did not have any bilingual teachers, and there were only three Spanish-speaking kids in the whole school. Myself, my brother and a Puerto Rican kid I later met named Freddy. Although, I had picked up some English by this time, I was still shy about holding a conversation with adults. So, the school did what it could to accommodate me. I was placed in a class with mentally retarded and handicapped children. First, I thought I was placed in that particular class for a few hours, while some issues were ironed out with my records. I felt that any minute another teacher would come in to the room, and take me to another classroom. Unfortunately, the kids in the classroom, about fifteen of them, did not act, or look normal. The first few hours in class, on that first day of school at PS 254 felt strange, then scary, and eventually I felt angry at the thought that this was going to be my regular class. I soon realized that my lack of English had put me there, and probably the only way out was to learn English as quickly as possible.

The fact that I had been promoted to the sixth grade in Cuba, was an over achieving A student, loved reading and writing, and felt positively challenged by most academic pursuits, became irrelevant. Within a period of nine months I went from being a model student in Cuba, to a class with retarded students at PS 254. My first impressions of the American education system were not good, an impression that did not change throughout my High School and college years, and remains today.

On that first day of school I returned home full of anxiety, and described the situation to my parents, who called my aunt Ana for advice. After speaking to Mrs. Schiffton my aunt stopped by our apartment and informed us that indeed, my tenure with the retarded children was to be temporary and due to the school not having any other way to accommodate foreign children. My aunt looked at me and said, “tienes que aprender Ingles rapido, para que te saquen de hesa classe de locos.” Or, “you have to learn English quickly so they can get you out of that class full of crazies”. My immediate goal in life had just been clearly set.

That afternoon, my parents, my aunt and I strategized on ways I could quickly learn to hold conversations in English. It was decided that my aunt would buy me comic books, that I should watch daily cartoons, the Three Stooges, the Bowery Boys, and the Little Rascals on TV, and that I should be very diligent with my schoolwork. It was also agreed that playing with my new American friends was going to be a great help. Used to a methodical way of studying I quickly found studying English to be easy, and the comic books, cartoons, slapstick TV shows and socializing with my new friends became a regimen I welcomed. I learned conversational English with a humorous twist, and with a tremendous fear that if I did not, I’d be condemned to stay in a class with retarded kids forever.

After a few weeks of diligent study, I built enough courage to hold a broken but understandable conversation in English, and I planted myself by the school principal’s office and told her, “I speak English now, I don’t belong in that class with the crazy kids.” Perplexed by my presence, and my comments, the principal said something about an exam, my teacher, and next week. I went away feeling that next week I’d leave the crazy class. I went home and told my mother, who was so happy she made a special “Arroz con Pollo” that night in my honor. But, by the following Wednesday, nothing had happened, and I was still in the crazy class. So, Thursday morning I again planted myself by the principal’s office. “I speak English now, I don’t belong in that class anymore”. Without saying anything to me, the principal called someone on the phone, and a few minutes later a teacher came by the office and an animated conversation ensued. Then the teacher left, and returned five minutes later with a skinny black haired boy. “This is Freddy”, said the teacher in English to me. “He speaks Spanish.” Turning to Freddy she instructed, “tell him he can’t keep coming to the principal’s office like this. That we will take him out of his special class when he learns English.” Freddy began to tell me in Spanish what was just said, when I turned to the teacher and said in English, “I’m ready to leave that class now, I don’t belong in that class, if you don’t take me out of that class I’m going to come back here every day.” Finally, their ears opened. The two women who did not expect to hear clear English uttered from my mouth realized that although choppy, the sounds coming out of my mouth were not in Spanish. Then I heard what I wanted to hear from the Principal. “OK, we’ll give you a test this coming Friday to see if you are ready for regular classes.”

The test was easy, since it contained other subjects besides English. The math and social studies were at a lower level than I had studied in Cuba, and the English reading and writing was manageable. My pronunciation however was bad. But overall, I managed to pass the test and the following Monday my teacher, in the crazy class, told me to go see the Principal. With lots of tension, I went to see the Principal, who with a smile told me “you did very well”. She then called someone on the phone, and a very tall and muscular blond woman who looked like a Viking came and was instructed to take me to my new class.

My new class was composed of about thirty boys and girls. The teacher after chatting for a minute with the tall blond Viking, told me where to sit, then asked the class to pay attention because she had an announcement. “Class, please pay attention. We have a new student in class. His name is Joel, and he comes from Cuba. Joel is learning to speak English and you should speak slowly to him. OK?” Most of the students were unimpressed with the announcement and went about normally as if nothing had happened. The class seemed to be very casual and the teacher was discussing social studies. I could pick out most of the information in the back and forth discussions that were ensuing and I felt satisfied at the realization that I was finally at a level where I belonged. I spent the rest of the day watching, listening to the teacher, taking notes, and admiring the cute American girls.

After several weeks I made friends with most of the kids in my class, and became friendly with many others I met in the school playground. Freddy, the Puerto Rican kid and I became good friends, and I learned his real name was Fernando Enrique Maldonado, and his family came from a place called Rio Piedras. I found most of my school acquaintances to be happy, relaxed, and friendly, with a variety of interests outside the school environment. Generally, my new friends in Sheepshead Bay were good kids, whose parents adored them, were proud of them, and the entire neighborhood cared and looked after them. Conspicuously missing where the tensions of childhood in Cuba, the political risks, the neighborhood spies, the scarcity of food, clothes, and toys, and the fear of having your parents unexpectedly arrested by the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, for some minute digression.

Walking around the neighborhood without hearing people accuse me of being a “Gusano” was refreshing, as well as knowing the fact that if someone bothered me, I could now fight back without worrying that the incident could ruin my family’s possibilities of leaving the country. I remember saying to myself, “aqui no ahi comunistas, y la gente ni saben lo que es un comunista,” meaning here there are no communists, and the people don’t even know what a communist is! Although in Harlem we knew we were in America, the racial tensions prevented us from fully absorbing the impact of freedom, and we temporarily replaced the tensions of Cuba, with the tensions of the Ghetto. Sheepshead Bay was on the other hand, the America we expected. No communists, and no racial tensions.

After a year at PS 254 my command of English was pretty good, and I graduated. From PS 254 I went to Shell Bank Junior High School on Batchelder Street, and loved it. Shell Bank was full of great looking girls who appreciated my accent, and were impressed with my ability to hug and kiss them. And, I did a lot of hugging and kissing. How wonderful it was to be the only Cuban boy in a school full of young beautiful healthy girls just discovering the effects of their estrogen. Soon, I had a new Irish girlfriend, followed by an Austrian girlfriend, who in turn introduced me to an Italian girl named Roberta who after punching me in the chest told me she wanted me to be her boyfriend. Compared to the more reserved Cuban girls I used to know, these Brooklyn girls knew what they wanted, and they knew how to get it.

In the academic area I did well, and began to enjoy my family’s visits to the Batista family (no relation to Fulgencio), my parents friends from Cuba whose son Felix Batista had an Encyclopedia Britannica, and we both quizzed each other on scientific trivia and memorized entire chapters on esoteric subjects just for the fun of it, something my American friends did not seem to understand. My instinctual thirst for history and geography was satisfied by that Encyclopedia like no teacher could have ever done. The disciplined study methods brought from Cuba and the desire to excel in order to make up for what I perceived as a disadvantage due to having come from another country, eventually put me ahead of most of my peers in school. Something I did not realize until later, and something that created a habit of self-teaching and the pursuit of intellectual minutia as a sport. A trait now considered “typical” of Cuban exiled children of my generation.

As my brother and I adjusted to the new culture and language, my parents tried as best they could to understand it, while maintaining a little bit of Cuba within our apartment. Soon we became aware of every Cuban enclave within the metropolitan New York region, and every weekend my parents would make trips to Queens, Manhattan, and Union City, to purchase Cuban food, music, and of special interest to my father, white cotton Guayaberas which he would occasionally send to Cuba, along with razor blades, shaving cream, B-12 vitamins, condoms, men’s and women’s undergarments, Milk of Magnesia, Alka-Seltzer, bandages, iodine, and Aspirin. All items that had disappeared from Cuba, and our relatives would regularly request from us, via sad heartbreaking letters. It became common knowledge that the Cuban government stole more than half of the parcels sent to relatives, and ninety percent of our letters were opened and read prior to arriving at their destinations. All the letters we used to receive asking for basic necessities were always signed; “Viva la Revolucion”, or “Con Fidel asta la Muerte”, (With Fidel until Death), and the ever present “Desde Cuba, Territorio Libre De America” (From Cuba, The Only Free Territory in the Americas). Our parcels to relatives had to be shipped to Canada first, where someone would then re-ship them to Cuba because direct shipments from the United States to Cuba were not allowed.

One day during a stroll under the Roosevelt Avenue El, in Jackson Heights, Queens we found a Cuban Domino set at a Bodega called “Los Cubanitos”, and we felt like we had discovered America. Jackson Heights during that time was a Cuban neighborhood, and my father found a Cuban Chinese Restaurant near a Cuban sandwich take out place called “La Lechonera,” and he was so happy that he got on the phone and called all the other Cubans we knew in Brooklyn to let them know. The following weekend about eight families trekked from Brooklyn to Jackson Heights to meet a very happy, “Alberto, el Chino Cubano,” who to our delight made us the most delicious “Tostones”, or fried bananas and beef fried rice we had ever tasted. Our visits to Alberto’s restaurant were usually concluded after a typical Chinese fare, with flan, Cuban pastries, and Cuban coffee, while everyone listened to Alberto’s father tell stories of Havana during the 1930’s. Often, as the old man went over some special memories, he would pause, and in a heavily accented Chinese Spanish, he would say, “me cago en Fidel, cono.” Or, I shit on Fidel, damn it. The most impressive thing about Alberto, aside from his love of Beny More and Celia Cruz, whose music often echoed from the back kitchen, was indeed his family, who like us had escaped Fidel’s communist paradise penniless and had through hard work, prospered. Alberto’s restaurant was regularly full of white, black and Chinese exiled Cuban’s dreaming that we were all back some where in Havana, Oriente, or Las Villas.

During one of our happy trips to “Alberto, el Chino Cubano,” we invited Mrs. Winthrop who was curious to meet these strange Chinese people who spoke Spanish. After my parents and Alberto concluded their discussions explaining to one another why we would all be back in Cuba within two years due to the collapse of Socialism, the food came out. Unfortunately Mrs. Winthrop was only able to eat “Yucca con Mojo”. We had forgotten that pork chops and Kosher people, did not mix. When Alberto’s father came to greet us he saw Mrs. Winthrop’s tattoos and said in Spanish “Sefardita?” Mrs. Winthrop thinking for a minute responded with “No, Askenazi”. We all looked at each other as if we knew the difference. In Oriente province, when someone talked about the “Judios”, most thought it was a reference to a breed of crows that were numerous in the mountains! We knew the Jews existed, and they did not eat pork, but we did not know what Kosher was.

Years later my father explained to me that there were many Jews in Cuba, but people referred to them and most Eastern Europeans simply as “Polacos” or Polacks. He recollected that in our town several stores were owned by “Polacos” but in Cuba no one ever paid much attention to religious categories. If you where white, spoke a little strange, ate weird food, did not enjoy rum, and did not seem to be Catholic, you were “Polaco”. What about if you were Muslim, I asked my father. He corrected me. In Cuba he said, we’ve never had any Muslims, but Moors, Moors we’ve always had. Did the “Polacos” get along with the Moors in Cuba? “Who knows” he said, “we never paid any attention to that stuff. In Cuba, everyone was Cuban!”

Due to our Harlem experience, in Brooklyn, and as we gained a better knowledge of the English language and American culture, we began to see how American’s categorize other people and foreigners. We realized that five minutes after explaining to people that we where Cubans, the Americans would describe us as “Hispanic” or “Latins.” We were not familiar with these labels. To us, other Spanish speakers were “Colombians”, “Spaniards”, “Argentineans”, “Mexicans”, “Puerto Ricans”, and so on. That is, identity based on national origin. We realized that Americans ignore how we see ourselves, and how we define ourselves.

One day a group of visiting Cuban Quakers talked about the Latino and Hispanic labels with my parents and they realized that we Cubans were guilty of doing something similar to the Eastern Europeans and Jews in Cuba, when we categorized them all as “Polacos”. It was laziness, ignorance, and in some ways a method that erased or de-emphasized the past in an attempt to create a new identity we felt comfortable with. But, perhaps because of other positive traits in the Cuban character, the “Polacos” in Cuba became as Cuban as the rest of us, and there were never any American style social animosities.

I have met many Cuban “Polacos” in the United States, my best friend of over thirty years, Rebecca Rosenfeld is one, and none say this label was considered derogatory, realizing that the informal nature of Cuban culture did not transform the label into a hateful term. But, that it would have been nice if people really acknowledged who they were.

Questions of identity have always interested me, and my life as a Cuban exile, the way we started life in America and the racial conflicts experienced left me with a strong need to learn my own family’s lost past. Remnants of which, were forever lost in the family trunk destroyed during Cyclone Flora in the early 1960’s.

And, so it was that fifteen years after the interesting get together with Mrs. Winthrop in Alberto’s restaurant, I visited the Royal Archives of the Kingdom of Aragon, in Barcelona, Spain with my Italian fiancé, with the goal of methodically researching my father’s family history, whose records I knew went back over a thousand years.

During the Inquisition, the family was listed as having Jewish origins; other documents indicate a Moorish link via the Island of Majorca. Intermarriage with Celts and Goths from Provence is also in the pot. In the late Middle Ages when Aragon was the dominant trading power of the Western Mediterranean, a branch of the family moved to Ireland and established a merchant dynasty in Galway. The family is recognized today as one of the “Fourteen Tribes of Galway”, the founding families of the region. From the 13th to the 16th century the family was part of the Catalan nobility, serving the King of Aragon throughout the Mediterranean, and southern Italy until Aragon was absorbed by Spain, and Catalan culture fell into decline.

In the late 1740’s when the Catalans where allowed by the Spanish monarchy to integrate themselves in their American colonies, many of our ancestors began trading textiles with Cuba and some went on to live in Mexico. In 1775 a friar named Pedro Font (also my Quaker grandfather’s name), walked with a train of donkeys and a troop of Catalan Volunteers headed by Lieutenant Colonel Don Juan Bautista de Anza, from northern Mexico to what is today Arizona and New Mexico, leaving behind a diary and map recording the first European exploration of the American Southwest. A year later he participated in the great expeditions of Father Junipero Serra, in California, and went on to discover San Francisco Bay, taking part in the founding of what is today called the city of San Francisco. And, to my surprise, I learned that in the early 19th century, a branch of the family in Havana was established as one of the leading Rum and slave merchants of Cuba. Good thing that by then my branch of the family was in Oriente province, and not Havana. Interesting how all these things mix over time. To these we now have to ad our experiences as Cuban exiles in North America!

Hiking through the Camino Real and Turquoise Way in New Mexico, I once stopped to see the magnificent beauty and uplifting spirit of the people at the Santuario de Chimayo, and then visited the Pueblo de Taos, by the Sacred River of the Pueblo people. In a moment of awe, holding my daughter's hand, I thought to myself: If Pedro Font made it all the way out here, thought these mountains, valleys and deserts, on foot with a few Donkeys, all the way from Mexico, and prior to that on a Carrabelle from Spain, on the other side of the world, then my experiences and challenges in life have all been puny. Life is not so bad. There's just lots of surprises along the way.

My first friends in the United States, Kevin O’Brien, Luigi Turano, Mrs. Winthrop, and Fernando Enrique Maldonado, may have all been long lost relatives!

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
All Rights Reserved
For Usage Rights Contact the Author
------------------------------------------------

The Catalans Sang Old Songs

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and we were all very excited about our trip to El Jiqui. My father Joel P. Font, had spent several hours the previous day cleaning and waxing our 1953 two-tone Chevrolet. Now wearing our best weekend clothes, my mother, my baby brother, and I waited for him as he loaded the trunk of the car with several portable radios, and a large weekend valise. Each radio had been carefully wrapped with a beautiful bow.

As we drove away from the outskirts of Chaparra, the ring of sugar cane fields surrounding the city gave way to small farms and endless greenery with palm trees covering the hills for as far as the eye could see. This peaceful scenery was regularly broken by the sights and sounds of a steam locomotive huffing and puffing in the distance as it pulled a long train of cars full of sugarcane. Spotting the horizon we could see the traditional Cuban bohios, or peasant houses, so common in Oriente province.

I liked and hated these trips. I liked them because of what happened once we arrived at our destinations, but hated them because the three hour trips bored me, and my parents conversations were so removed from my childhood experiences, that inevitably my brother and I would sleep for most of the way. If we were awakened during these outings, it was for some extraordinary event.

As always, we reached Velasco around ten o’clock, entering the colonial cobble stone streets, and slowing down past the old stone bridge to allow the milkmen to pass with their horse drawn milk buggies. As we approached my grandparent’s house, everyone in the street, seemingly aware of our coming, wave at us and smile. My grandparent’s Spanish style home, built in the second half of the 19th. century when Velasco was one of the few Royalist towns in Oriente, had a simple but classic look. Unlike Chaparra, which was a sugar town built in the early Republican era following an industrial urban plan popularized in North America, Velasco's atmosphere and people seemed to reflect an older spirit and time in Cuba's colonial history.

With a keen eye for punctuality, my grandfather Pedro Nolasco Font e Hidalgo stands by the main door of the house looking at his pocket watch. Ready to say something to my father as we approach, he turns to me and says "Arrubiado, come here and give me a hug". Happily, and already knowing that my grandfathers' sense of logic, and well-cultivated formality usually melted when I entered his presence, I hugged him. He then said "Your father tells me you want to be a cowboy. Remember, you can be a cowboy, but you also have to be a lawyer, or an accountant!" At this point my grandmother, Mari, comes out of the house and kisses everyone and tells my father that our breakfast has gotten cold because we were one hour late. With a tame frustration apparently achieved after years of practice, my father looks at the sky and says. "Senores, I did not ask you to prepare a banquet. A cup of coffee and a piece of bread is usually what normal people have. With an annoyed tone, my grandfather responds, "Normal you say. You refuse to understand that we have our ways. You've always tried to adopt street manners, and it always ends up the same. You are not from the street. You have a family that did not invent itself from thin air last week. Look, when you come to our house, we reserve the right to treat you like a civilized person." Knowing that he would never win this type of debate, my father looks at my grandfather and says, "Esta bien viejo, lets see what delicacies Mama has made for us. But, I want to be in El Jiqui before 3 PM."

The table was impeccably set for twelve with silverware, tall crystal glasses, and crisp white linen. A beautiful porcelain Cupid adorned the center of the table. As my grandmother began to place her delicacies on the table, she began a long explanation of how hard she had worked early that morning to have everything just perfect. Their neighbor Clotilde Valls had shown up at 7:30 AM with fresh fruits, which they used to make marmalade, bunuelos, and a Majorcan fruit pudding. My grandmother's Catalan style cooking was famous throughout the region, and she took great pride in everything that had to do with food and dining. My grandfather would regularly say, in reverence to her work, "Senores, your eyes are gazing upon a masterpiece. This work Mari has created is the only artistic endeavor that mankind can admire, and joyfully consume. Can you do that with a painting, or a statue?"

Dressed in his light tan cotton linen suit, white shirt, and navy blue and red tie, my grandfather contrasted with my grandmother's lively flower pattern dress whose reflection shined on the polished black and white Spanish tiled floor. As we were all settling into the table and began to enjoy our potato omelet, Clotilde the neighbor, walks into the dining room from the kitchen, with two well-dressed men and a teenage girl. Holding a wicker basket full of Figs she turns to my grandfather and says, "Viejo, these are the Figs I promised you. Now, Mari can make her famous Figs with Anisette" Standing up, my grandfather said to Clotilde, "Your surprises always bring us joy. Please sit-down." The two men greeted my grandfather with the customary "Que dios lo vendiga, Viejo." At this point my father stood up and shaking each man's hand mentioned his name. "Enrique", "Gustavo". And, turning to the teenage girl said, "Montserrat, I cant believe how much you've grown." At this point my grandfather asked everyone to settle down for a prayer. Holding hands around the table my grandfather began. "Lord thank you for blessing us with this wonderful food. Thank you for giving us health. Thank you for bringing us to this beautiful place where we can enjoy our families in peace, and thank you for giving us the mental capacity to live as rational men."

As we ate that Saturday morning, the sights, sounds, and smells of the tropics embraced us. The bright Cuban sun brought in by colored glass skylights filled the interior of the house. The songs of an infinite variety of wild birds could be heard in the background, and the aroma of fresh mangos and guava fruit floated in the air. And, like always, my grandfather's Agua de Peralta cologne occasionally teased my nose.

"Now lets have Enrique tell us about the trip to Camaguey," said my grandfather. "Well, the business is expanding." responded Enrique. "Uncle Martin has added two new ovens, and one new production conveyor to the factory. They are now selling our candies and lollypops all the way up in Matanzas. But, he complains that the added business is not generating as much profit as planned because the price of sugar has dropped again, and he's been forced to lower his prices sharply." Enrique continued, "The new master candy maker, the man from Valencia, is excellent. He has devised more than a dozen new varieties of Chupetas based on our own fruit extracts, and Martin is hopeful that this man may be the one we need to administer the new factory in Pinar del Rio, if we ever get the right bank financing." "And, what is the problem?" Asked my grandfather. "Well, everyone knows that Perez, the Vice President of the Bank of Camaguey is corrupt. When uncle Martin went to see him, he jokingly said that no one could get that kind of loan without a good uncle. So, now you can imagine," Said Enrique, "If Martin pays off Perez, in no time there will be a line of uncles lining up in front of that factory asking for all kinds of payoffs." Turning to Enrique my father says, "And, this surprises you?" There is silence in the table. Thoughtfully, my grandfather says to Enrique, "I will write to Martin with the name of the Director of the Royal Bank of Canada in Havana, who is a friend, and I am sure we will solve this problem without soiling ourselves in this type of garbage. I have all the papers here and will send them directly to Havana in a few days. Also, tell Martin that we are sending him two young apprentices in August to work as bookkeepers. They are from the Serrat family." Enrique, with both joy and innocent sarcasm turns to my grandmother and says, "Vieja, one day they are going to erect a statue to this man in Camaguey." At which my grandfather responds with, "Stop being an exaggerated man, and finish your omelet."

Now turning to Gustavo, my grandfather says, "and what news do we have from Holguin, and La Brillante?" "More of the same." Responds Gustavo. "Your nephew Pio cant get enough people in Holguin interested in working in a brick factory. They come for a month, and then disappear. Pio offers decent wages but Cubans nowadays don't want to work hard anymore. Things are so bad he can’t keep a steady production run anymore. And, demand for good bricks is terrible. If not for the Terra Cotta business we'd be in bad shape. Shaking his head at Gustavo, my grandfather says, "Remember the last time I visited the Quarterly Representative Meeting at Friends Academy in Holguin, I went to see you boys and gave you my findings on this matter. The problem is not that people don’t want to work, it’s that they don’t want to buy our bricks. You and Pio like your fathers and grandfathers, make excellent bricks. Artistically fired, with hand-crafted textures and colors, but these days everything is cemented over. The Americans have convinced our architects to use these ugly cheap gray blocks in all types of construction. According to Jorge de Lerida, and Pedro Cortina, the best architects in Oriente, there wont be any Cuban brick making firms left within five years." Carefully measuring his words, my grandfather continued. "Have you boys acted on our advice to look for an Almacen (hardware store)? What is keeping you from taking Juan's offer of assistance in Havana. He will take Pio in as an apprentice for a year, then he will help you both setup a new Almacen in Holguin. You will, as always, have our support, but the time to act is running out." With youthful annoyance, Gustavo responds. "Viejo, Pio thinks we can beat the Americans in this business. We are going to copy their ugly cheap gray blocks, and cement trims. Whenever they come out with a new style, we will copy it. That's it."

Looking at Gustavo with astonishment, my grandfather says, "a most direct and simple solution." Gustavo then added, "We don’t even have to invest in creating our own styles." My grandfather turning to my father says, "These boys have not considered that most of the cement we now use in Cuba comes from the United States. And, that their cement block factories are mechanized, and their production quantities are so large that their costs per block is probably the lowest in the world." Turning directly to Gustavo he continued, "You would have to buy new tools, and train these very people who you now say don't want to work, to use these new tools, and you will need to pay them more so they don't quit so quickly, and then you have to convince your old clients, and new ones, that your ugly gray blocks are better than the Americans. I think in the end the Americans will be able to produce more ugly cheap gray blocks than we, and our losses will then, after this great effort, will be much greater than if we stop this now." Turning to my father and Enrique, my grandfather said, "Your opinions count." Then turning to my grandmother he said, " Mari this coffee has gotten cold, can you please warm it up." Breaking the serious mood in the table, my grandmother responds by saying, "May god protect us from cold coffee and finicky Quakers." After reheating the coffee, all the women walked to the Living Room where they held their own lively conversation. "That old brick factory has to be demolished. It's a relic," said Enrique. "Pio has to go to Havana and apprentice with Juan. While he's there Gustavo should go to El Jiqui where everyone knows he's needed. Upon his return, we will follow up with the plan as agreed last year."

"La Brillante is finished. Luckily, Juan will make Pio into an expert in the Almacen business, because everyone knows Juan is the most thorough, frugal, and astute merchant in our family." Said my father. Concluding the discussion, my grandfather informs Gustavo that he and Pio are to come to a family meeting the following Saturday, where final action was to be taken regarding the brick factory.

As we finish our breakfast, someone knocks in the front door. We hear my grandmother open the door and exchange greetings with some people. Soon two older men wearing long sleeve white linen Guayaberas and black pants approach the dining room. They were Roberto Fung, the oldest Chinese person in Velasco, one of my father’s old teachers, and like my grandfather, one of the first Quakers in Cuba. The other was Dr. Emilio Pratts, my grandparents Dentist, a member of the Communist Party of Cuba, and a veteran of the Spanish Civil War. After all the greetings were done, they turn to my grandfather and ask, "Viejo, are you ready for our inspection?" Looking at his pocket watch, my grandfather responded, "I estimate that if we leave here in a half hour, we will arrive in Delicias before 1:30 and we'll catch everyone by surprise." Turning to my father he added, "We are getting the Meetinghouse ready for tomorrow. Fernando Galba and Gladys Lopes are getting married tomorrow morning. But, before I leave, come to the library so I can give you some special things for the folks in El Jiqui." Following my father and grandfather to the library with its huge ceiling fan, were he kept his desks, typewriter, two walls with barrister bookcases, a picture of himself wearing a 1920's style straw hat standing next to Eddy Chibas, a photo of the Capitol building in Havana, and a picture of the Almendares baseball team with a big "Los Campiones de Cuba" sign scrolled on the bottom, was always an experience that made my heart pound. This was my grandfathers' intellectual inner sanctum, this was where he worked as national treasurer for the Cuban Quakers, where he administered all types of businesses for far away clients, where he practiced his accounting profession with two young helpers who always wore suits and ties in 102 degree temperatures, where with some frustration he'd try to teach me about life, George Fox, our family history, and the importance of being an honest man in a dishonest society. Pointing to two boxes full of books, he explained to my father, "Each book is properly labeled for the right person, but if they do not play the book game, just remove the labels. And, when you see Paulo, tell him Pio's time is up, and Gustavo has not been able to convince him to act. Tell him he has to take over the brick factory within a month, otherwise the losses and the grief will give him an ulcer that will torment him for the rest of his life. Tell him I have a buyer for the entire property, and he has to come and see me next Saturday." Picking up one of the books from the box, my father said, "Do you really think that people in El Jiqui are interested in reading about the Rise of the Kingdom of Aragon, and the Usatges of Barcelona in the Late Middle Ages?" The answer was, "Of course, this book has a whole section on agriculture and trade practices whose impact is timeless." My father in his customary sarcasm said, "but they didn’t have tractors back then, what’s the relevance." "The relevance is" answered my grandfather, "that when you come back we need to talk about what is happening with your Taxi business. I met with Luis Aran who has a client in Santiago who is selling off a dozen Taxis due to a family bankruptcy. Luis thinks we can barter for a few of these cars. You realize that if you add three or four more cars to your fleet, you can expand service to Puerto Padre, or Victoria de las Tunas?"

As we left Velasco towards El Jiqui, my father and mother could not stop discussing how my grandfather was able to keep track of so many people and details, and how annoying he could be at times, with his expectations for a strict life style and rationality. A sharp contrast to the majority of our acquaintances, and my mother's family. But, my mother loved my grandfather, and always ended up defending him, as my father would ramble with his criticism.

About thirty minutes after leaving Velasco, and as my brother and I began to doze off to the music of Beny More’s “Corazon Rebelde” playing on the car radio, it started to rain. Looking at each other, my parents knew what this meant. The dirt road would muddy up and our car could, as in many previous occasions, get stuck in the mud. We proceeded, since it was too late to turn back. As we reached the old train station near the entrance to El Jiqui, my father said to us, "I know what is going to happen now." As the car moved forward several hundred feet, there it was. A flood of water had covered the road. Driving slowly onward, we found ourselves in the middle of this shallow flood. Suddenly, the wheels lost their grip and we were stuck in the mud. After a vigorous but futile attempt at moving forward or backwards, my father turns the car off, and says, "we should have taken the train." My mother laughing said, "that’s what you say every time we get stuck." A few minutes after getting stuck, the rain stopped, and about five minutes later the sun was out again as if nothing had happened. Rolling up his pants and taking off his shoes, my father leaves the car in search of help. While my father is away two men dressed as typical Guajiros, the country folk of Oriente, and two oxen approach us and greet my mother, telling her that just like last time, they had come to pull our car out of the mud. With hesitation we all leave the car and get our nice clothes wet and all full of mud, while the oxen pull the car to dry ground. As the men untie the ropes from the car my father returns with another man and four horses. After the men laugh at my father for getting stuck in such a predicament, they also hug us, telling us how happy everyone will be when they see us. And so we enter the famous family finca (farm) of El Jiqui on horseback, wet and full of mud, followed by two oxen carrying a box full of radios with colorful bows, our valise, and my grandfathers’ boxes full of books. I thoroughly enjoyed getting stuck in the mud, and riding the horse, but my mothers' face seemed to show a different sentiment, that of annoyance.

In front of the main house, past a huge wooden archway and a flagpole with a Cuban flag, there was a large boulder with a bronze plate holding the inscription "El Jiqui. Un Campo de Palma en Cuba. Fundado en 1821 por Don Jaime Ferraz." El Jiqui was not just a family farm, it was a way of life, a Utopian experiment, and it was revered by my grandmother Mari's family, the Ferraz's. Located on about 300 acres, in a beautiful and fertile valley with an arroyo running through, El Jiqui was a fruit farm, furniture factory, distillery, and dairy. A diversified family owned cottage industry in the middle of the countryside. Here on a huge rectangular building with sky lights and windmill generated electricity, carpenters and furniture makers, using old style rustic tools, took great pride in making the distinctive rough oak and cowhide furniture so popular throughout Oriente. Here in another identical rectangular building, old men and women speaking a Catalanized Castillian lingo distilled rum and mixed it with tropical fruits and extracts based on old Majorcan recipes passed down from Jaime Ferraz himself. This liquor whose label was fondly named, Joderin Lijero, (Screw You Lightly) was loved by the Guajiros and demand was always incessant. And, the most modern of the businesses, the dairy, located in a fenced off section of the complex holding dozens of cows and goats, was worked by young women who wore white tunics, and produced farmers cheese, feta cheese, and butter for the regional markets. With one of the first rail lines in Cuba running nearby, El Jiqui had a reliable communications link to most markets in Oriente, and although it was far from all major cities it was not unusual to see visiting merchants inspecting one or another of these great buildings. Everything about El Jiqui symbolized self-reliance. Somehow, this place had survived the destruction and carnage of the war of independence from Spain. It survived the terrible depression that befell Cuba during the “Machadato” period, and somehow there it was a surviving oasis for so many people in the middle of an ocean of Royal Palms. In El Jiqui every building had been constructed as a family project, and each building was named after the crew master who constructed it, going back to the 1820's.

Waiting for us sitting on a swing in the shaded veranda of the main house was Vicente Ferraz, 104 years old and the family prankster. "Joel, I've been waiting here all day for my new girlfriend Josefa, and instead you show up. Turn around right now and don’t come back until you find me a beautiful 30 year old princess." Laughing, my father responds, "and what are you going to do with a 30 year old princess?" The response was, "I'm going to teach her all the lovemaking secrets I've learned in the last 104 years." Suddenly, more than fifty people of all ages appear from within the main house and come out to greet us. This multitude represented not only my grandmothers and grandfathers’ family, but also representatives of many of the old Catalan and Majorcan families that had settled northern Oriente province since the middle of the 18th century. Although, all were Cubans by birth, some of the women wore espadrilles, flowered pattern dirndl skirts, white blouses, and loose kerchiefs, a style of dress not characteristic of Cuba, but mimicking the old folk dress of Catalonia. On the other hand, the men all wore Cuban white Guayaberas, and black pants. The group did not have a single non-European looking person in it. We looked different from the general population that surrounded us in Oriente, we also ate differently, thought differently, danced to different musical rhythms, and chose mates differently. All these things were not so clearly evident to the general public, or ourselves, unless we were in a concentrated form, like the yearly feast and book games held in El Jiqui, and several other places like it in the region. It was easy to understand why my grandfather used to say that "in Cuba you can spot a Catalan from 10 leagues away." But, regardless of the aesthetic differences, my grandfather also pointed out that we were Cubans, and my father would ad with pride that we were also Guajiros.

Having changed into clean clothes, my parents proceeded to make the customary rounds greeting old friends, and soon I found a group of boys, and cousins, I could have a top-spinning contest with. The comings and goings of an army of people responsible for the smooth operations of the party was occurring flawlessly, and every half hour that passed saw the arrival of one or two dozen new guests, with the greatest number arriving around 5:00 PM by train. In total I heard that more than 225 people had arrived by 6:30 PM. Everyone seemed to know each other, and everyone came with a box full of gifts, or books. As the sun began to set, Ortensia Ferraz, my grandmothers cousin and the respected matron of El Jiqui, came out of her kitchen smoking a huge Cuban cigar and said, "Senores, it is time for us to walk over to Las Palmas to enjoy the moonlight." Without much commotion, everyone began to walk towards a distant field surrounded by Royal Palms, with the arroyo in the distance, and several huts. As both adults and children approached, we could see the perimeter of the field lit by torches, and a wooden dance platform flanked by long tables full of food and liquor. In front of one of the huts there was a typical Guajiro organ band, with a huge hand cranked organ, a timbalero, a congolero, a clavero, and a contrarrallista. In front of another hut there were several tables full of boxes were all the books had been placed, and other tables full of a variety of gifts. Upon closer look, you could see large barbecue pits near the arroyo, and several large cauldrons over bon fires. This is where people where roasting pigs, several cows, making rice, ajiaco, and dozens of chickens which were to be vigorously consumed during the festivities. As people arrived in the field, the syncopated sensual sounds of "El Barbero de Sevilla" could be heard from the organ band. This party was to last all night, or until the Joderin Lijero ran out, which was unlikely. What was to happen here this night and the next day was part of the invisible glue that kept us all together, and reminded us of a long and proud tradition.

After several songs were played by the organ band, the heads of the three main extended families walked up to the dance floor. From the Ferraz family there was Ortensia, Paulo, and Vicente. From the Font family there was Jorge, and Ramon. And from the Montcada family there was Guillermo, and Ofelia. All of these people were past 75 years old. Each made announcements pertaining to births, deaths, or upcoming marriages in their respective families, and provided brief summaries of issues of common interest to the group. There was a brief period opened for questions, and then Ofelia Montcada, the youngest of the group announced, that "now the time has come to reflect on business. Paulo will go first." “As you probably have heard, we are going to close La Brillante, because the business is no longer producing. Next year we will be opening an Almacen in Holguin, and will need your support to make that a success. Those of you interested in doing something in Holguin come to see me soon." Now, Ramon Font has an important announcement, said Ofelia. "I have a letter from Pedro regarding the status of the school in Banes. He says there is an immediate opening for a Mathematics teacher and we need to find someone fast. He also informs me that there are three clerkships open at the Centro de Contabilidad in the Dockyard at Gibara. Please see me later if anyone is interested. "Finally," said Ofelia, "we have Guillermo with his announcement." "Our bitter Orange hybrid finally works." He said. "After trying for more than three years we've achieved a pittless fruit with a half inch crusty skin, and a mild sweet aroma similar to the expensive Valencia's we've been using. We expect to be able to supply El Jiqui with about half of the oranges it needs within two years. And, since each bitter Orange is twice the size of a Valencia, you can imagine what that means." "Now" said Ortensia, "I have the last word. I want everyone to have a nice time here tonight, and remember that all the cots are setup and numbered in the Pere (furniture) building, and the Mateo (distillery) building. The outhouses have not been moved since last year." A signal is given and the organ band starts with "Lagrimas Negras." The party is now officially starting.

After a night of dance and revelry, which ended at 4:30 AM, and without any drunken disorder, my father and I find our cots, which were in the furniture building. My mother and baby brother slept in the main house along with all the other mothers with babies. No one awakened that Sunday morning until past 11:00 AM, when the sounds of a man singing, backed up by a guitar, mandolin, and a flute filled the quiet valley. It was Vicente and several old men singing old Catalan songs that no one younger than 60, any longer understood.

After we all washed and ate breakfast by the distillery building, everyone headed towards the Palm tree shaded area near the arroyo, where small groups of men formed and animated discussions began. The biggest group was discussing Cuban politics and Fidel Castro. Someone asked my father if he had seen Fidel when he passed near Chaparra the previous month. My father answered in the negative. An older man posed an open question. "What do we all make of this?" One by one the answers came. "I'm surprised at the incompetence of the Batista regime." Said one man. "The culture of corruption we have in this country can only be cleaned out by a revolution like this." Said another. "These bearded boys are too young to understand the international politics Cuba needs to navigate in order to be stable." Said another. "I hope a new more mature government is formed soon, so this instability can end. Its bad for business otherwise." Everyone shook their heads at that comment. "If Fidel wins this revolution and forms a new government, he should shave his beard and take on a more professional demeanor. If not, who is going to take this man seriously outside of Cuba?" Said another man. At this point, Jorge Pratts, my grandparent’s Dentist younger brother gives his opinion. "In Spain during the civil war, the anarchist mobs won some battles, but in the end we lost the war because we failed to organize in a rational, logical way. The Fascists, on the other hand calculated all their moves with military discipline. The informality of Fidel, and the mobs in the streets concern me a great deal. Where is the ideology, where is the plan for the future. I'm afraid we have a revolution based on good intentions, and no direction. Its almost irresponsible." To this opinion, another man said, "the average man in Cuba today is not interested in long term plans. They're all intoxicated with the idea of getting rid of Batista and his regime. If Fidel was to stand up tomorrow and say, I am a man without any ideas for the future, but I'm here to fight Batista, his popularity will not diminish." At this statement, everyone nodded in approval. Another man, in a sarcastic tone said, "You all worry too much. I can tell you that this thing is going to end within a year. Batista, or the Americans are going to pay Fidel off with $10 or $15 million dollars, and you'll see all these bearded boys disappear. Fidel will buy a private island off the coast of Portugal, or he'll exile himself off in Galicia, and that’s it. If it doesn’t work out like that, then the Americans will intervene, and in the end it will still be the same. In Cuba things have always had that kind of rhythm." This sour comment brought only silence, and the group broke up.

At the sound of a bell, everyone gathered around the hut with the books and gifts. Seven young women stood in front of the tables, and an older but most beautiful woman who was mistress of ceremonies, read from a paper: "We are happy to be this years' princesses for the Wisdom and Beauty contest. All the participants please line up on the left and get ready to begin." Soon, about a dozen teenage boys, and young men in their early twenties stepped up, each with a piece of paper in his hand. "Miguel Mestres," Shouted one of the girls. Shyly and awkwardly, a boy walked to the center of the group and said, "I will read a poem I wrote about the first time I kissed a girl" When the boy was finished, there was light applause, and another name was called. "I will read a poem in honor of Jose Marti" and this went on until all the boys had a chance to read their poems, or short stories. "Now we will select the winners," said the mistress of ceremonies. All the girls gathered in a circle for a few minutes, and then the mistress of ceremonies announced, "We have chosen the winners for this year. Third prize goes to Esteban Martorell, Second prize goes to Luis Bolet, and the First prize goes to Carlos Montiel." The crowd breaks up in applause, the losers walk away, and the three winners proceed to get their prizes. The third and second place winners got to pick three of their favorite books from the hundreds of books stacked on the tables, and the first prize winner got to pick six books. Then each winner got a chance to explain why he chose each book, and read the name of the book donor, or "patronador" of each book. Each explanation got a vigorous applause from the crowd, filling each boy with pride and washing away the awkwardness they first showed. Incredibly, Esteban had chosen one of my grandfathers’ books, the one my father had pointed out to my grandfather in the library, and tugging my father’s arm I mention this. Looking at Esteban with an incredible face, my father said, "Your grandfather is going to be very happy when he finds out that Esteban is going to read his book about the kingdom of Aragon during the middle ages." When the winners left the area, each of the girls got a bunch of books and reading the names of persons scribbled on the labels, called each person from the crowd to come a get his/her book. In this way, all the remaining books were given away with great fanfare. This is how I got my first book on El Zorro.

After the noise quieted down, the youngest of the girls, announced that, "the chain of gifts" was ready to start. Within a minute everyone had organized themselves into a group six or seven layers thick in front of the girls. "Bring Ortensia to the front," said the Mistress of ceremonies, “she goes first." Walking with a huge smile on her face, Ortensia stands in front of the girls and a wheel barrel full of gifts is brought to her. She turns to the crowd and says, "the biggest pleasure of my life is to see you all here and happy." Two young men take the wheel barrel away and the first name is called. This person receives several gifts, turns to the crowd and waves. This process goes on for about two hours, my father getting most exited when his portable radios are given away to friends and relatives. Walking over to my mother I notice she has gotten a pair of Espadrilles, and an American pressure cooker, and she is happy.

The Wisdom and Beauty contest, or as the old folks used to call it in archaic Catalan, “La Festa de Savi i Beldad”, was something uniquely ours. Something that was often misunderstood, and criticized in a macho society. It was not a beauty pageant where men judged women for their body contours. It was a rite of passage for young people, a ritual where young women judged young men for the wisdom and beauty of their poems and short simple stories. Here young men stood before a crowd of adults and got their respect and acceptance based on the most innocent of the arts. This process did not produce sissies, or effeminate men, and El Jiqui was a sexually charged place, with the old people like Vicente at the lead. But, the expression of sexuality had a different flavor here, with women like Ortensia walking around smoking cigars without anyone lifting an eyebrow. This was perhaps another echo of our Catalan heritage, where women were not told what to do, but had to be consulted. The heat of the tropics affected both sexes equally, but without embarrassing erotic shows. This environment, and this type of order was what my grandfather referred to in his thankful prayers, when he would say, "thank you god for giving us the mental capacity to live as rational men."

Indirectly, and perhaps unconsciously I already understood at this early stage of my life, that we held an invisible line of mannerisms, character, and a worldview that differed from that of the majority of Cubans who did not attend the big family feast in El Jiqui each year. Although, not wholly Catalan, Quaker, or Cuban, this mixture existed in that time and place, and is now only a memory. As Dr. Pratts would often say, “Cubans are an exaggerated people, prone to boastfulness, single minded, and too reliant on superstitions for their conduct.” Then he would add with a chuckle, “and that’s part of the reason this is such a colorful country, and why we are here.” With our idiosyncrasies, we too were part of that exaggeration and diversity that made the island of Cuba, the “Most Beautiful Land Man has ever laid his Eyes Upon”, and the “Pearl of the Antilles”.

Late that afternoon, as we prepared to return home to Chaparra, a young man quietly approached my mother and told her that he was a friend of her cousin Major Paco Cabrera, who had joined the revolution and Fidel Castro, in the hills of the Sierra Maestra two years earlier. He said Paco was fine, and that thanks to my mother’s family, they had been getting food supplies on a regular basis. He told her to tell her family that hopefully, Paco would see them soon. Turning to my father the young man said, “for your family’s safety, when you get to the outskirts of Velasco tonight, don’t continue on the main road past 8:00 oclock.”

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
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