The Country Girl Escaped from Paradise

After making several stops at “tiendas del campo” (country stores), and exchanging small talk with the owners on new consumer products and radios, “El Flaco” arrived at the Pupo family farm where two young men who asked him if he had brought over the “portable records player” greeted him. Pulling a suitcase-like box from the trunk of the car, “El Flaco” says, “lets go inside and see if it works”. Once inside the farmhouse, “El Flaco” is taken to a large well-furnished living room where suddenly about ten handsome young men and beautiful women gather to hear and see him play some records.

Surprised by the reception, but elated, “El Flaco” plays a few 45 rpm single records of Cha Cha Cha, and Beny More. The young women found “El Flaco” instantly “muy simpatico”, especially since it was rare for a young man from the city to show up in their farm, wearing a cotton drill suit and tie with shiny black leather shoes. After one of the young men paid “El Flaco” for the record player and records, “El Flaco” told all present that his “big dance” was starting at 8:00 and he hoped all could go. Several of the young women appeared to hesitate and he asked why they were not going. Answering that their father was still leery of letting them go out to parties without a chaperone, “El Flaco” asked if their brothers didn’t count as chaperones. The answer was that a good chaperone had to be female, over 30 years old, and from a good family. Thinking for a minute, “El Flaco” called the oldest brother, “Ramon”, over to the side for a quick private talk. Having known him for several years “El Flaco” spoke in a friendly and direct tone. “You remember Matilda that voluptuous “Muchachona” (Big Girl) that works at the “Bar Azul” in Chaparra? She’s working for me tonight. Well, she’s over 30 years old, and I can tell your parents she comes from a good family. You think you can force yourself to go along with me on this one. You chaperone Matilda, while she chaperones your sisters. That way everyone can go?” Thinking for a minute, “Ramon” said, “are you kidding me, Matilda is gorgeous, but you’re crazy, my father would see right through that in a second. You’ll make a fool of yourself in the attempt, and I’ll have to explain why I went along with you.”

Thinking for a minute, “El Flaco” decided to try a different approach. Calling “Rafael”, one of the younger brothers, he said, “you know Matilda the big breasted “Muchachona” from the “Bar Azul”? While “Ramon’s” jaw dropped to the floor, “El Flaco” made his offer, and “Rafael” accepted, saying, “I’ll take care of everything. Go now and don’t come back until 7:30 PM so we have time to get ready, then you can do your act with my parents.” Without explaining anything to the girls, “El Flaco” bid farewell and said to “Rafael”, “I’ll see you soon”. Turning to his brother, “Rafael” with a smile said, “you chicken. I’m going to get Matilda tonight”. As “El Flaco” headed back to oversee the preparations, he thought to himself what a great thing it was that there were going to be four more women in the party, since he always felt that there were more men than women at these countryside events. “El Flaco’s” main concern, to make sure he had a successful and profitable event was well on track.

One of the beautiful young Pupo girls who got to go to this crazy Guajiro party in the middle of the countryside, thanks to “El Flaco”, was my mother, Rosa Natividad Pupo Nieves. The youngest girl in a family of twelve children, in some ways she was the most sheltered of the bunch. She was introverted, studious, very beautiful, attached to her mother, and deadly afraid of her father. Her knowledge of the world was limited to the second hand information she absorbed from her siblings, a fifth grade education, reading Readers Digest, the poetry of Jose Marti, and an occasional magazine article on Hollywood stars.

Although, she had a great curiosity for new things, and yearned for greater education, her father’s low expectations of women, and the geographical fact that she lived in a farm in rural Oriente province had always stood in her way. Of the “acceptable” things that a girl in that environment could do, cooking, sewing, and gardening, she loved sewing the most and learned at an early age to use her mothers foot pedaled Singer sewing machine, to make beautiful clothes for herself and relatives. Otherwise, along with her sisters, she catered to her brothers, and waited to become a good wife to a man acceptable to her parents. When she saw “El Flaco” she noticed that he was different from her brothers, but aside from the formal clothes it was difficult to pinpoint exactly how. But, she didn’t think much else.

During the party, everyone had a good time. The Pupo brothers all got drunk, and hugged and kissed lots of willing girls. Most of the Pupo girls got chances at dancing with boys, and enjoyed watching their brothers do silly things. By 2:30 AM Rafael and the beautiful voluptuous Matilda had returned from their long walk in the bush, and the whole clan prepared to go home. Since the boys were drunk, no one could drive the Jeep and trailer used as an impromptu party vehicle, back to the farm. “El Flaco” overhearing this, and knowing it was only a five-minute ride volunteered to drive them home after he finished cleaning up. Unbeknownst to “El Flaco” this deed endeared him to the Pupo girls, who from that night on thought of him as a friend, and not just an acquaintance of their brothers. Instead of referring to him as “El Flaco”, they called him by his name, Joel.

During the next several months, the girls indirectly tormented their brothers with comments like, “You should dress more like Joel”, or “I bet Joel treats women with more respect than you”, and “Joel is very smart, he makes his own money”. The boys on the other hand, often responded with, “El Flaco” is a crazy guy, no one takes him serious”, or “how can you like a skinny guy like that, he’s probably a sissy”, or “he is crazy about making money because he doesn’t have any”. After a while, my mother Rosa, started thinking a little bit more about Joel. Her brother’s derogatory comments actually made him more appealing. She wondered why they disliked him in private, while they publicly treated him on friendly terms.

These questions opened the floodgates to other issues. She loved her brothers but she knew that most of them lived off her father’s money, felt superior and acted condescending towards most people outside the family, and treated women like children. She loved her father and mother, but wondered how other families lived, and whether every family went through the same machinations as hers, in order to keep their children from making their own decisions, and aloof from the world. Why didn’t her brothers go out to work and find independence from her parents, like Joel? What was wrong with having different ideas?

Several times during this interlude, my mother visited Chaparra with her sisters and mother on shopping trips to “El Departamento Comerical”, then the biggest store in town, and each time they came in contact with “El Flaco’s” uncle Manolo Font who was the store’s manager, and “El Flaco” would always be around. During one of these chance meetings, “El Flaco” concluded that there was something appealing about Rosa, and found himself focusing more attention on her. Unlike the women he had become accustomed to in his entertainment and promotions business, Rosa’s reserved shy personality and natural beauty seemed refreshing and he felt challenged by her different ness.

Six months later, my grandfather Jose Pupo, three of his sons, my grandmother, and an Albino stopped by “El Flaco’s” radio shop to buy a dozen radios, which were to be given away as gifts to their employees. “El Flaco” had become well known in the region for his locally built private label radios, which he called, “Radios Vociferosos”, the vociferous radios. After placing the order, my grandmother Carmelina surprised him and the others by asking him to deliver the radios himself early the following Saturday so he could have lunch with them and spend sometime in the countryside. After a minute of awkward silence my grandfather reached over to his ear and whispered, “if you pull another Matilda trick on me ever again, I’ll break your neck.” Stunned first by the invitation, then by the threat, “El Flaco” was left speechless. What kind of invitation was this, he thought?

But, sensing that my grandmother may have been acting on behalf of one of her daughters, and remembering that all the Pupo girls were beautiful, especially Rosa, his response was, “I’ll come by the farm with my father, since he hasn’t been out to the country in a while”. The Pupo’s seemed to like what they heard, and left the shop in a happy mood.

The truth was that my grandmother had not acted on behalf of my mother, but impulsively on behalf of all her daughters. And, my grandfather had gone along with her invitation only because of his dislike of public disagreements with his wife. But, such an invitation would have never come from him because he already knew a little about my father, his father, and the Font family in general. What he knew did not excite him. Furthermore, the idea of a strange “Cuaquero matraquilloso”, fastidious Quaker, with an urbane accountant father, did not fit well with his view of the world. Had “El Flaco” been the son of a “Colono”, a rich sugar farmer like himself, a Galician, or a Canarian, Jose Pupo would have been very happy. But, he had daughters to marry off, and a wife who long ago made these types of decisions, often over his objections. “El Viejo Pupo” as the family fondly called him, had one major satisfaction, and that was that he maintained absolute control over what was really important to him, and that was his sons.

After “El Flaco” explained to his father, my grandfather Pedro, that he was going to drop off some radios by “El Tres del Vedado” and afterwards he was planning to stop by to visit the farm of Juaquin Batista a friend of the family, his father agreed to come along. He then explained that the radios where for the Pupo family, and they had been invited there for lunch. As customary with my grandfather Pedro, he said; “well, then we just can’t show up empty handed. I’ll get a few books to bring along as gifts!” Thinking for a moment, he added, “these people are very wealthy, but they are very backwards in their thinking. I hope you make the visit as diligently as possible.”

Saturday morning around 10:30 my father and grandfather drove off to “El Tres del Vedado” with a small box containing 8 books, and twelve radios in the trunk. Arriving about forty five minutes later, they drove up the main road to the farmhouse, blew the horn a few times, and an Albino with three barking dogs came out to greet them. The Albino said they were expected, but that the family was by the big barn preparing for the party. My grandfather Pedro in his khaki suit and polished black shoes, along with my father wearing a white linen Guayabera black pants and patent leather shoes, had come ready for a formal sit down lunch, and could not help but ask where the big barn was. Pointing past a muddy field, the Albino said; “when you get to the Mango trees, turn left. There you’ll see a corral with a bunch of guys castrating some pigs, they’ll tell you where to go from there.” Hesitating to embark on a muddy hike, my father asked the Albino to go to the big barn and let the Pupo’s know he had arrived with his father. When the Albino left, my grandfather asked if they were there for lunch or some type of party. My father responded that the invitation was for lunch.

About fifteen minutes later a tractor pulling a cart with people on it could be seen approaching from the direction of the Mango trees. Jose Pupo, the patriarch of the family was driving the tractor, with several of his sons tagging along in the cart. Stopping in front of my father and grandfather, they deeply contrasted their farm overalls, and muddied boots with my father and grandfather’s neat appearance. Without a formal greeting, Jose Pupo jumped down from the tractor and asked; “you brought my radios?” “Yes they’re in the car”, my father responded. “Very well” he said, and pointing to the Albino he ordered, “Jose, get the radios out of the car and put them in the storage room.” Extending a hand to Pedro Font, Jose Pupo said; “we have a few friends over, and are having a little fun with some wild horses.” Looking at his clothes he concluded, “but I can tell by your clothes that you are not going to join us. But, at least you’ll get something to eat, and you’ll learn how real men conduct themselves here in the countryside”. At this point, Jose the Albino, called out; “hey Flaco, what are these books for?” My father in a loud voice responded; “they are gifts my father brought for the Pupo family.” Hearing this, for some reason caused the Pupo’s to giggle and laugh. Jose Pupo then said; “put those books in a sack and throw them in the back of the storage room, along with the other ones we got last year.” Without further discussion, Jose Pupo clapped his hands and said; “come on hurry up, everybody is waiting for the two of you,” and signaling to my father and grandfather, he told them to jump on the cart for a ride back to the big barn.

The big barn was located on a quiet corner of the farm, surrounded by ancient Guira trees whose bending thick branches were used as monkey bars by children. With dozens of chickens, turkeys, and pigs running loose, and several cows and ponies gracing in an enclosure, the scene was serene, full of healthy innocence, and full of natural beauty. As they walked around to the back or the barn, they could hear laughter and animated conversations. The first thing the Fonts noticed was a magnificent view of a distant valley with fields of sugarcane broken up by small forests and tall Royal Palms. Then they noticed that the back of the barn was actually a circus like environment with about 80 people, reminiscent of an ancient Roman gladiatorial event as depicted in a Hollywood movie. There appeared to be a good amount of arm wrestling, eating, drinking, laughter, joke telling, and two loud teams playing tug of war. There was a huge circular fenced area in front of the revelers, with several young men on horseback chasing horses in a Rodeo like fashion and many onlookers cheering. On the right side of the barn there were five pits where five huge pigs where being roasted, and several men entertained themselves by playing guitars.

Looking at my father my grandfather Pedro said, “I don’t think we’ll be able to make it to Juaquin Batista’s house today before 3:00 o’clock.” Waving at a long table where the Pupo women where seated, my father responded with; “I agree, and I think this lunch party started at 9:00 o’clock this morning! Lets make the best of it, please”. Walking over to the table were the women were seated, my father introduced my grandfather to everyone, and was then brought over to another table were there were some other guests, mostly “colonos” (Land Owners) from the area. The “colonos” immediately began to question my grandfather Pedro about certain business procedures at the Chaparra sugar mill, and his opinion on how to best operate a company store. My father left the table and went over to where Jose Pupo was engaged in a conversation with several of his sons. It turned out that part of that day’s event was the taming of a wild horse by Jose Pupo himself. A ferocious wild horse had been selected for the day and everyone waited the arrival of “El Come Balas”, the man who eats bullets, Jose Pupo’s 104-year-old father, and my great grandfather, who would officially start this honored family ritual.

Back at the table, my grandfather Pedro Font was getting along very well with the other guests. He invited one of the “colonos” to visit him when in Chaparra so they could have more in depth discussions about his business ideas. Then a young man brought over a big bottle of rum and placed it next to him and said; “Here is a token of our gratitude for the excellent books you gave to us this morning. Lets open it up and drink in the spirit of friendship.” Looking up at the young man, who had obviously had a few drinks, my grandfather said; “young man I am moved by your offer, and I am happy that you appreciate good books, but I don’t drink rum. Let us celebrate by having a simple good time.” “What do you mean”, said the young man. “No rum? What about Brandy, or Whiskey?” My grandfather Pedro shook his head. “Come on you’re kidding me.” Insisted the young man, “how about Cerveza?” My grandfather shook his head again. “Whose ever heard of a Cuban that doesn’t drink? You’re crazy!”. Patiently, my grandfather Pedro responded. “Young man, I don’t drink rum or any other alcohol because its use leads to intoxication, and when intoxicated men loose control of their rational behavior, and in that state of mind we cease to act as civilized human beings.” Totally perplexed, the young man walked away and returned to his table and his bottle.

Turning his attention back to his table, my grandfather Pedro noticed that everyone was quiet, and they where staring at him. One of the women asked, “do you eat?” One of the men said, “Pedro, that young man didn’t want any trouble. Why did you have to be so rude to him? You can’t be serious about this drinking thing?” Again, patiently my grandfather tried to explain his views. “Look I’m a Quaker. We believe that in order for people to have enjoyment and happiness, we need not be intoxicated. The money spent on liquor can be put to better use. That is my belief, and I don’t force it on anyone, but I expect those with other views to respect me.” Totally stunned, a woman then said; “huh, the next thing you’ll tell us is that you don’t believe in Jesus and the Pope!” My grandfather Pedro, again digging into his fountain of self-control said; “senora, we are all Christians here, and as such we believe in Jesus. But, as you know the Pope is the leader of the Catholics only. To us the Pope is nothing more than a fine decent man.” The “colono” my grandfather Pedro had invited to his office to discuss business, turned to him and seriously asked; “well then, do you consider yourself an Atheist. And, if so are you also a Communist?” He then crossed his arms and stared at him waiting for his answer.

While my grandfather Pedro was struggling trying to explain that Quakers were not Atheists, or Communists, a bell rang repeatedly in the background. It was the signal telling everyone that the pigs were ready to be eaten, and the long awaited “El Come Balas” had arrived. Everyone stood up and looked around.

“El Come Balas”, true to his reputation, came with great fanfare riding a white horse accompanied by two young men on black Andalucian stallions doing the Spanish step. Although, 104 years old, he looked like he was in his late 60’s. Getting off his horse unassisted, he waved at everyone as young women gathered around him competing for his hugs and kisses. He walked over to the side of the big barn where his sons, grandsons, and other relatives had setup a special table for him, and he gave a short speech directed at the young people about the importance of virility and having a strong large family. He then addressed all the guests in a most careful manner, explaining the proper method for growing 88-pound Yuccas in record time, without the need for inorganic fertilizers. The speech was so well received that he got a five-minute standing ovation. Then three men brought one of the famous 88-pound Yuccas out of the barn, and ceremoniously placed it by the foot of his table.

Oblivious to these events where Joel and Rosa, my parents who in a rare and precious moment got a chance to talk to each other without a chaperone. In the environment of that period, expressions of affection in public were unthinkable. So, they said everything they could in ways that left little doubt that they liked each other, and as was customary, they agreed to correspond via a common friend. They then stood there admiring the way “El Come Balas” waved at everyone, and giggled when an 11 year old girl came by and asked Rosa if the skinny guy was her “novio”, boyfriend.

When everyone had finished eating, my grandfather Pedro noticed that a line of teenage boys had formed by one of the Guira trees and some adults where instructing the kids on some type of game that was soon to begin. Curious to see the game, my grandfather went over to the group. As he approached, one of the adults raised his hand and said “disparen”, or shoot. At this order all the boys dropped their pants, and at once began a most joyful pissing contest. After a few minutes the winner, whose urine had reached a distance of more than 4 feet, got a brand new slingshot as a prize. As the group of boys broke up, one of the adults reminded them of the importance of cleanliness when “massaging” their penises. Several of the boys remained near the Guira trees comparing the length and girth of their penises. It is difficult to determine the type of impression my grandfather Pedro, the conservative urbane Quaker must have gotten from this interesting game. Years later my father mentioned that this was the only time his father had ever seen this type of sporting event, which for a time had gained popularity in rural Oriente.

Walking over to where his son was talking to Rosa, my grandfather Pedro asked my father if it was not time to start heading back. Thinking for a minute, and wishing to extend his conversation with Rosa, my father told him that out of respect for their hosts, they had to wait until after Jose Pupo had done his horse taming show, which was an hour away. Rosa, realizing that something was wrong, and having noticed my grandfather Pedro previously involved in a discussion about religion, decided to apologize to him for any offense anyone there may have caused him. She then said to him with great sincerity, “I admire you and your son very much and I hope whatever may have happened here today does not create a wedge between our new friendship.” Thinking about what a wonderful reminder this young woman was of the miracle of the good nature that dwelled in the hearts of mankind, my grandfathers’ spirits were lifted and he said to her. “Senorita, your sentiments are like a ray of sunlight on a hazy day. Please tell your parents that you will always be welcomed in my house, and when ever you come to Chaparra you should have no hesitation in visiting us.” Thanking my grandfather, she then asked my father to tell her a little about his religion.

Impressed with Rosa, and wanting to let my father continue with his conversation undisturbed, my grandfather decided to walk around the area and take in the scenery. Walking away from the big barn he reached an area where there were four windmills that powered the farm’s water pumps and charged the battery powered electric generators. At first, he thought these windmills were the most technologically advanced devices in the farm, aside from the tractors and jeeps he had seen earlier. He then noticed the models and generating capacity of each windmill, and realizing how antiquated they really were, he figured that greater efficiency could be achieved if they were modernized. Quickly making a calculation in his head, he concluded that if all four-windmill generators were modernized, the farm would increase its power output by a factor of 5, or by 4,500 kilowatt hours per day. This would allow the Pupo’s to install all sorts of modern farm machinery, at a very low cost. There would even be enough excess power left over to sell to some of the nearby farms.

Excited by the discovery, and the simplicity of how such a beneficial thing could be implemented, he headed back to share his idea with his son. Immediately grasping the concept and what it could mean in economic benefits for the Pupo’s, both father and son decide to approach Jose Pupo immediately, with the added proposal that my father could do the entire upgrade for a minimal fee, plus the cost of materials.

Getting ready to tame his wild horse, my grandfather Jose Pupo was inside the barn changing his clothes, and putting on his favorite Italian riding boots and gloves. He then began practicing his long whip technique when the two Fonts approached. “Don Jose”, said my father, “we have a great idea to share with you. Please listen to us for just five minutes.” “Very well, but you’re going to have to talk while I practice with my whip. Let’s go outside, and you can start talking.” Ten minutes later, Jose Pupo says, “neither of you have any idea how a farm works. You came here from the city with your shiny shoes and callous-less hands, you eat a little roasted pork and yucca, and suddenly you’re telling me how to run this farm. Why would I want to sell electricity to anyone? Why should I buy new machines, if everything here works fine the way it is? I think this is just a money making trick, and the only one whose going to make any money out of all this will be you.”

Stunned at first, my father and grandfather Pedro looked at each other, then my grandfather Pedro said to my grandfather Jose in a typically Quaker fashion, “If you think this is some mal-intentioned trick, and you believe us to be men whose word and integrity can not be trusted, we will then wish you and your family a happy day, and we will leave so we can all be among those we trust and respect.” Thinking for a minute, Jose Pupo responded with, “look Font, I’m going to tame my wild horse now, if you want to stick around until this afternoon, I’ll let you try to explain this silly idea of yours again then. But, don’t talk to me about kilowatts because this is a farm, not some electronics shop!”

Suddenly, overcome by a great desire to return to Chaparra, both Fonts thanked Jose Pupo for his kind hospitality, and walked by the tables were the Pupo women were sitting, and waved goodbye as they headed towards the big house where the car was parked. As they walked through the field, they felt the cold mud and occasional manure splash on to their nicely pressed clean pants.

Before arriving in Chaparra, my father told my grandfather Pedro that he liked Rosa and wanted to see her again. He also said that he had only good intentions for the girl, and if things went well, he wanted to propose marriage. My grandfather responded by saying, “she seemed to be the only nice one there, but perhaps you should think this out very carefully, especially in light of today’s events, and her father.” My father looking at the road said, “you’re right, what a pain in the head this is going to be!” My grandfather then said, “I know what you’re going to say, but I think you should try to find a nice Quaker girl.” Thinking for a moment, my father responds with, “all the Quaker girls I know are ugly. And, remember, I’m going to marry the girl of my choice.”

After several months of correspondence and short informal get togethers, an engagement was announced against both families’ wishes. The decision to marry was reached by the young couple after they both agreed that love was stronger than social, religious, and family pressures.

When the marriage announcement was made, the Pupo’s tried every direct and indirect strategy possible to change Rosa’s mind without success. Facing the impending fact that one of his daughters was to marry a Quaker, a rebellious urbane entrepreneur, and a man without strong ties to the rural “Colono” society of Oriente, brought great irritation in Jose Pupo’s mind. If the wedding was to take place, he decided it should at least conform to his values and standards. The daughter of a rich man, the granddaughter of Don Victorio Pupo Pena y Avila, “El Come Balas”, had to follow certain conventions.

Jose Pupo’s generosity was timely and convenient. After learning about the simplicity of Quaker weddings, and Rosa’s agreement to have a Quaker religious ceremony at home, presided by my grandfather Pedro Nolasco Font e Hidalgo, instead of a Catholic ceremony in a grand Church, Jose Pupo offered to pay all expenses, and volunteered to coordinate the festivities in their home. The only requirement placed on the young couple was that they leave all the details in the hands of the Pupo’s.

My fathers family invited forty two relatives and distinguished members of the Quaker community, while the Pupo's invited more than two hundred and seventy five relatives, and one hundred and twenty other “friends” including local Colonos (Land Owners), business associates, politicians, the chief of police, the local judge, veterans from the war of independence, several Parish priests, nuns, and members of the local Catholic Youth Organization. There were half a dozen cows slaughtered to feed the party goers, and so much liquor that everyone was drunk by the time the Quakers arrived in their automobile caravan from Chaparra.

Full of happiness and excitement, the Quakers got out of their cars to what they thought was going to be a memorable wedding between the son of one of their most respected and revered religious elders, and the granddaughter of one of the wealthiest Colonos in northern Oriente. Instead, they were met by a mob of disrespectful, drunk, and poorly educated Catholics who immediately challenged the “authenticity” of the wedding because it was to be conducted without “a real priest”. After trying a last minute attempt at a switch to a Catholic priest, and my mother’s threat to “expose this hypocrisy” to everyone present, the Pupo’s relented and everyone gathered in a huge tent for the ceremony.

My grandfather Pedro Font spoke eloquently about the miracle of the human heart and the special love that bring two human beings together in marriage. Other Quakers spoke in the manner of Friends, and read passages from the Bible, then following the Quaker tradition my father and mother married each other.

During the ceremony, half of the attendees from the Pupo side of the family left the tent in silent “disapproval”, and the members of the Catholic Youth Organization who remained turned their backs to my mother in an expression of “sorrow” and “disappointment” that she had abandoned the Catholic religion. This day, which should have been one of the happiest for my mother, turned out to be one of the saddest, thanks to her family.

During the ceremony and festivities my father chose to act as if nothing irregular was happening, and in his clumsy and insecure way, he joked and danced with the very people that were humiliating him. In spite of this event, my mother never became a convinced Quaker, and never fully renounced Catholicism. But, she does from time to time admit that this experience eroded her previous blind respect of all things Catholic.

On the day of her wedding the Quakers showed only kindness, patience, and respect for her, my grandfather Pedro treated her like a daughter, and my grandmother Maria comforted her. Everyone else was drunk and focused on their selfish prejudices.

The pattern of social interaction between my mother’s family and my father’s family established during the wedding, lasted throughout the 15 years my parents remained married.

Unfortunately for my mother, the exposure to my father’s family caused her to see the crude, arrogant, loud, and superficial ways of her own family, which caused her much tension and even shame.

Her family habits and training to be a subservient female clouded her perceptions for most of her adult life, even when she made a strong effort to be independent. Among the strong minded, and assertive women of my father’s family and circle of friends, she was always slightly out of balance. As her son, I believe that her life would have turned out much happier had she married someone of her own religion, social values, and someone who shared her superstitions. The young lover’s wishes to go against family, society, and religion, in the end did not work. Although, my brother Jose Luis and I would not be here today, and I would not be telling this story.

For a long time when my mother saw a young person question his or her parents, she interpreted it as “disrespect”. When she heard an open long discussion or brainstorm between people of different ages and sexes, in the fashion so common to Quakers, she interpreted it as “indecisiveness”. When she saw elders asking the opinions of younger people, she was “confused”. When she saw wives strongly disagreeing with their husbands, she felt “uncomfortable”. When she heard husbands tell their wives to manage the household based on their good instincts and common sense, she felt it was “abandonment”. She never truly understood the openness, dislike of rituals, and lack of status symbols practiced by the Quakers. She was perplexed by the “coldness” and rationality in which the Font’s behaved, without the familiar Cuban references to superstitions, lighting candles to Saint Lazarus, or offering an Apple to Santa Barbara.

When it comes to Santeria, my mother “respects” it to the point of appearing afraid of anyone who claims to be a Santero. But, at the same time she participated in Santeria rituals whenever she was away from my father and his family, but never discussed it. The fact that half of the Pupo’s practice Espiritismo, a tradition separate from the Santeria and Palo Monte religions, was something she was only awkwardly able to discuss with me after I was well into my adulthood.

My parents themselves had difficulty understanding their own differences. Theirs was mostly a difference of worldviews. Both were good people, with good intentions, and a desire to follow their love’s instincts. But, without fault, each wore a different set of colored glasses. After a while both began to change, or adjust with the circumstances and each other. My father’s interest in “explaining” things to her wore off, and her interest in “compromising” also wore off.

My parents however kept a decent front, maintaining a home, paying bills, and putting on the image of a nice happy couple. My father with his workaholic patterns had the belief that he was a good provider and his hard work and lack of vices, qualities highly valued within his family, would also be admired and understood by his wife. They were not. Instead, my mother interpreted his behavior as disinterest in her. She complained that he spent more time with his business associates than at home. She felt that he should have provided her with more guidance in domestic matters, and that he should have been more involved in family decision-making. She complained that he was not focused on “me and the family”. In essence she felt that he had not taken on the responsibilities of a husband.

My father was not prepared to understand that my mother did not understand how to use her freedom, that instead of valuing it, it made her lonely and insecure. He did not understand that she had little background in decision making, or acting independently. Although, she was uneasy with her own family’s “Machismo”, she indirectly longed for it because she viewed it as a structure with clear points of reference. On the other hand, my father erroneously thought he would somehow transform my mother into one of the assertive women he had grown up around. Collisions with reality became my parent’s routine, with my mother escaping to a make believe world where the loneliness of her mind created countless plots and intrigues, and my father escaped deeper into his work.

If not for the patience and kindness of my grandparents, Pedro and Maria, the difficult divorce laws of old Cuba, and the social stigma attached to divorced women, my parents would probably have divorced before their fifth anniversary. Instead, by the end of the first anniversary, I came along, and four years later my brother.

With the same clumsiness practiced during the wedding, the Pupos from time to time attempted to convert my father into their ways. Not realizing that aside from the money, they had little to offer to someone like him. And, being that my father considered money not earned from his own direct labor, as tainted, even the money had little effect. The Pupo’s felt frustrated in their failure to manipulate him. My uncles were mostly selfish crude types whose behavior found admirers only within the Pupo family. These machinations caused many un-necessary tensions in the family. And, my father was unable to take most of the Pupo’s seriously.

When Castro came to power, most of my mother’s brothers enthusiastically adapted to communism. They would sometimes visit our house wearing their rebel army uniforms, with their Czechoslovakian machine guns and bullet belts around their shoulders, and took great pride and care to recount how diligently they were working to wipe out “imperialism”, and “make Cuba, Cuban”, which by then we also knew it meant getting rid of foreign influences like the Quakers.

Once they casually mentioned during a lunch visit, that the divorce laws in Cuba had been liberalized thanks to Fidel. And, now women were granted uncontested divorces based on “political incompatibility”, resulting in the “liberation” of countless poor women who would otherwise had to endure “torturous” situations next to their “counter revolutionary” husbands. Hearing this, my father turned to my mother and said, “querida, I guess this is your chance”. To my mothers’ credit she responded with, “Joel, please don’t turn me in. I promise to stop being a counter revolutionary tomorrow after breakfast.” Turning to one of her brothers, she asked, “can a husband turn a wife in too?” Not amused they got up from the table and said, “Si ustedes siguen comiendo mierda, van a parar en el paredon.” (If you don’t stop with this bullshit, you’re going to end up facing a firing squad). After my uncles left the house, my father said to my mother; “your brothers just love me, and they love to see us together, don’t they?”

But, thanks to socialism, and Fidel Castro, my parent’s relationship got closer. My father’s small businesses were shot down, and his entrepreneurial activities ceased. Forced to be at home most of the time, my mother got her wish. From a political and ideological perspective, they both disliked the revolution and the concept of communism. When my father was falsely accused of plotting with the CIA, (A Quaker spy!) and arrested, their minds synchronized into survival mode. Most of the religious, social, and family differences that had caused past friction were miraculously set aside. A psychological defensive wall went up around our house, keeping away anyone who “smelled” like a threat to any of us. My parents quickly understood that in order to survive the catastrophe of communism, whose ideological battle unfolded before us on a daily basis, we needed to survive the psychological war. United we stood a chance.

The “us” against “them” reality set in, and slowly we began a system of re-interpreting “their” reality and social policies, in terms of what those things were really meant to achieve. We knew they were out to deconstruct our beliefs and turn us into mindless followers of socialism, in subliminal ways. The more the psychological attacks against us intensified, the more we intensified our simple family discussions against them, and the more we understood the need to protect and look after one another. We, and many of our “Gusano” friends quickly learned the analytical approach needed to understand the double talk, new language, and deconstructive reasoning put in place by the government and the socialist mobs. My parents, although they were not intellectual or highly educated people, found a way to inoculate my brother and I against this form of political correctness, and I am forever proud and thankful for their efforts. Whenever we heard the local militia say, “we need to be vigilant in order to save the freedoms of the oppressed peoples’ of the world,” we knew it meant, “find and harass every Gusano you can, and make sure they are in a state of fear, so they keep their dissent to themselves.” Or, “It is the obligation of every Cuban to make sure there is equality among all.” This one meant; “any remaining private property in the hands of the Gusanos is to be taken away as soon as it’s found.” And, of course the one feared the most by Gusano parents; “From now on all private schools are closed, and the fatherland will provide the best teachers and free education to all children.” You can interpret that one yourself!

A “Gusano” housewife like my mother faced gigantic challenges on a daily basis. With the responsibilities of caring for young children, keeping a house clean, preparing food, washing clothes, and catering to a husband, she had to also endure constant insults, and sexual harassment (all Gusano women were considered open game by the good revolutionaries). Standing in line for five hours in order to buy a one-pound bag of rice was common. Having to overcook rancid codfish to avoid food poisoning became an art. Sewing clothes for my brother and I from old curtains or left over rags was a common occurrence. Having to cut newspapers into thin strips in order to use them as toilet paper was a constant frustration. Learning to bathe and wash your hair with coarse industrial soap that irritated your scalp and genitals was another challenge. Looking at my brother and I with anguish and unable to help when we were sick because there were no medicines, was an art form sadly perfected by my mother. And, often drinking sugared water for lunch, in order to give my brother and I the only remaining pieces of bread, or crackers in the house, was a motherly act I’ll never forget. My mother went from having the life of a rich country girl, to a life where misery was a daily reminder of our fragility as human beings. This was the price paid for political dissention in Cuba, Che Guevara’s paradise and the “only free territory in the America’s.” And, these are our memories of the great socialist egalitarian experiment glorified by many Americans today.

Before things improved for us as a result of my fathers’ black market activities and his work repairing refrigerators, our insecure existence as “Gusanos” was harsh and painful. Men faced these pressures as men often do. With either courage or cowardice. Women faced them as they often do. With compassion, or resignation. Everyone tried his or her best but for us depression was never an option, because depression was an admission of defeat.

Having said that depression was not an option does not mean that there were no knots in our stomachs, pressure in our chests, a feeling of sadness, and the wish to occasionally commit suicide. What it meant was that we knew that Fidel Castro and his followers took great pleasure in our suffering, and viewed the “defeat” of every “Gusano” as a victory for socialism. This type of situation went against what we stood for. The idea of allowing such a thing simply became unacceptable to us. So, we learned to smile and became very good at telling jokes. Our pain and our hearts were never easily revealed. As a young boy between the ages of 8 and 11, I understood these things.

For my mother these experiences and the process of going from riches to rags in a short period of time left her disoriented for the rest of her life. For the crime of marrying outside her religion, her family punished her. For the crime of having different political opinions, her country took everything she cared for and exiled her. In exile she acted as if we were rich, while our pockets were poor. Then, when we reached middle class, she finished adjusting to poverty, and acted as if every dollar was our last one. For a while, she didn’t quite get a grip of the here and now, and managed to go through a role reversal with my father, where her pent up anger made her into an assertive demanding and somewhat unreasonable person, while my father switched into the super macho man he never was in Cuba. Without any of the family and social restrains of home, this adjustment to “El Norte” ended in the best thing that could have happened to them. Divorce.

My parents worked hard during the time we waited to leave Cuba. They conducted themselves with dignity in the face of humiliation, showed our communist tormentors that we were survivors not losers, and always kept a close warm relationship with those members of our family that deserved friendship and respect. My memories of our family during this time are full of togetherness and toughness in the face of adversity. Never did my parents succumb to escapism, hedonism, or any addictive behavior in order to survive the heavy pressures put upon them.

The highlight of my parent’s marriage while they were in Cuba, was not that they lived as love birds sending each other love letters and chocolates. But, that as young people with very different backgrounds, and different expectations, they managed to stay together during a time of extreme hardship, providing my brother and I with a clear sense of right and wrong, and survived the psychological war directed at them from both close relatives and the state. In Cuba, my parents showed that a man and a woman, together, even with great imperfections, could rise to the top and meet any challenge thrown their way. If this is not a miracle, I don’t know what is.

When we were about to get on the plane from Varadero Beach for the short flight into exile in Miami, my mother looked at my brother and I, held us in her arms, and said, “we’ve made it. A new life awaits us now.”

My father standing closely, and noticing that my brother and I were getting teary eyed, said to me, “Don’t cry out of sadness. Save your tears for when we arrive in “El Norte”. There we will all cry from Happiness.”

We got on the plane and the silence was weary. All of us were in a state of suspended animation, not believing that we were indeed leaving Cuba. People quietly sat on their chairs, and just waited to see what would happen next. Fear was still thick in the air, and the belief of many was that even at this last minute, the long black hand of Fidel and socialism would creep in and pull someone out of the plane based on some erroneous technicality. The plane took off and the awkward silence continued. Twenty minutes passed without anyone moving, and then finally the pilot’s voice coming from the loudspeaker said that we had just crossed into United States airspace. All at once people began to talk, and we heard some people uncontrollably crying. A man from the back of the plane started shouting, “Estamos libre cono. Estamos libres!” (Shit, we are free…we are free!). Then the stewardesses, who spoke no Spanish, and whose very act of not speaking Spanish confirmed to us that we were indeed heading to the US, came by offering everyone a can of Coca Cola. My father looking at his can of Coke said, “I haven’t tasted this since 1960.” Not realizing that the Coke was free, my father reached in his pocket and got all the money he had, the three Cuban cents the airport authorities had neglected to take from him on departure, and prepared to give it to the stewardess, who with a thankful gesture refused to take the three cents. Every time I remember this event I get a knot in my throat.

When the plane landed, my mother in a symbolic act of emancipation from fear, and in irony turned over to another woman sitting across the isle, and said, “nos escapamos del Paraiso”, (We’ve escaped from Paradise). The other woman said, “Ahi nina, gracias a Dios” (Oh my dear, thank God!). We arrived in the US, a land totally unknown to us, a family of four, without speaking English and with three worthless Cuban cents as our total net worth. (So much for the stories of rich Cuban exiles arriving with suitcases full of dollars). As we prepared to leave the plane, a little girl asked her mother, “when will we go back to Cuba?”


(c) Copyright by Joel Font
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