I'm Not Interested in Being Cuban Anymore

Some years ago I visited friends in Miami, and was taken by them to see some “paisanos” from Puerto Padre. While visiting these nice people, I witnessed a most interesting exchange.

"Caridad, this looks like a letter from Paris, France, and its addressed to you." Exited, eighteen year old Caridad nervously opened the envelope suspecting that this letter was the letter her friend Tomas had mentioned she would receive from a Cuban “patriot” exiled in France. According to Tomas, few would be in a better position to critique her short story on the Cuban flag. She hoped to include the much-awaited critique with her story in a literary contest at her parents’ Cuban Club in Miami.

With her mother Alicia and aunt Sofia sitting by the kitchen table, Caridad began to nervously read the letter aloud:

“Mi querida exilada,

A friend recently mailed me a copy of your nostalgic short story about the Cuban flag. I read it and could not help but laugh. I found clear analogies between your way of thinking and those so common with the children of all immigrants in the United States, and especially young Cuban-Americans. Many of these exiles have tried so hard to be unlike their parents that they have become grotesque caricatures, like the young blond man whose manners and appearance were so non descript that no one could tell he was Cuban when he visited Cuba with the hypocrite Jesse Jackson, and his white American cheerleaders.

My dear friend, ironically I am now also an immigrant, or as your friends would like to call me, a man living in exile. I was born in the city of Havana, Cuba, which is our fatherland. This fatherland, the one that has been brutally stolen from us by that demon we unfortunately and painfully inherited from your parent’s generation, and have not been able to rid ourselves of during all these long years. That place of birth, which seems to give so many like me nothing but disgust and shame, and has spawned a generation of brothers who spy on brothers, and institutions designed to keep people in fear and from thinking for themselves.

The nostalgia, the national pride, the air, the tropical sky, the hot sun, the fields of sugarcane, the unforgettable fruits, the Malecon, the streets of old Havana, my house, and my neighborhood, I did not experience from afar, from an old documentary, or by reading a book in a comfortable living room with air conditioning, but live with all its impurities, blackouts, hungers and lies. These memories have been burned into my brain as a result of painful daily experiences which idealists like you can never imagine.

I did not attend or graduate from a liberal American University, since I was obligated to march double step in a Soviet military academy. Wearing a Soviet military uniform, eating Soviet food, reading Marx, and learning Soviet formulas. I was taught to be a good Communist. When I graduated as a military engineer and became an officer in the Cuban Army, I was sent to Nicaragua to defend Socialism and help the oppressed masses. I went to spill blood in the name of Socialism, because I was a faithful Cuban.

Regardless of my sacrifices for the fatherland, living as a “new man”, and risking my life for the dignity and solidarity of the poor, I was imprisoned for two years and suffered terrible punishments for simply comparing life under Communism with what I read life was like in other countries. For more than five years I have not seen my wife and son, and I am completely cut off from them. For making the mistake of asking impertinent questions I was deprived of everything I love. Using any description you like, I am now a victim of a communist dictatorship, and a lonely man without a country.

That flag that you nostalgically mention, is not my flag. That seal is not my seal, because a bearded criminal stole them and has used them as his symbols while committing atrocities and crimes. That Cuban flag you mention in your story, was waving on the patrol boat that recently sunk and killed dozens of innocent women and children in the open seas. That flag was painted on the sides of the MIG fighter planes that shot down unarmed rescue planes in international airspace. That flag was the flag that fluttered in the wind as hundreds of thousands rampaged through Havana looking for “criminals” whose only crime was a desire to leave the country seeking peace of mind and liberty. Under that flag, and before that seal thousands of innocents have been condemned to life in prison, have been shot and people like your parents were robbed of their futures. How can that be my flag?

I cannot share your theoretical nostalgia. I don’t share your blind love for Cuba. I don’t have a country because my country has been stolen from me. That flag and those other symbols cannot be mine while they represent a tyrant and those who support him.

Unlike you, I cannot be proud to be Cuban. Those qualities you mention live only in those who have not experienced the injustices of the true Socialist Cuba first hand. And, the timeless honor that you speak of, the work ethic, and the respect for traditions, those things now only live in the memories of old exiled impotent men, and sad women.

Knowing these things, how can anyone be a proud Cuban? How can anyone find pride in being part of a culture that has eliminated all normal social structures, has maintained a brutal dictatorship, and has passed unanimous decrees against the most basic human freedoms, and forces children into the streets to honor a tyrant? Can anyone claim with pride to be part of a culture that elevates liars, criminals, and thieves into the status of national heroes?

Youngsters like you have no idea as to the sufferings that have occurred because of that flag. The simplest of human values have been trampled. The biggest lies have been told to native and foreigner. Slave labor has been renamed “volunteer work,” political indoctrination has been renamed “education,” the destruction of the family has been renamed “social equality,” meddling in other countries is called “international solidarity,” and a dictator is honorably called “president.” My flag, and my seal no longer exist for me because of what they have represented during all these years. They do not represent what you and many others imagine. They are symbols of blood, suffering, frustrated hopes and betrayal.

You as a Cuban exile can write beautiful things about Cuba, you can let your nostalgia run because your parents paid their quota of pain and suffering, and sacrificed so that you could live in freedom and without hunger pangs. Your happiness offends me due to your ignorance and lack of touch with the painful reality that Cuba has become. When I see it in pampered foreigners it offends me less, because their flesh and blood has not been exposed, and their interest in Cuba now is the same as it was fifty years ago: Rum, cigars, prostitutes, music, and the beach. Their views of Cuba are fabricated inside plush Hotels, brothels, over big fat steaks, and in the sands of Varadero beach.

When Cuba is free, then it will be my country, then I will honor its flag, and then you and I may be closer in our feelings.

I am not a Christian, and as a result I don’t believe in turning the other cheek. There is too much pain and suffering in Cuba to talk about turning the other cheek. Because of that real suffering, I cannot accept your childish and ignorant calls for a romantic love of flag and country, and reconciliation. This is my critique of your story!

I don’t want to be Cuban, but in some ways, just like you, I’m stuck in my own reality. I live now in France, far away from Cuba, and the Miami exiles, in a place where few know of our troubles, and most don’t care.

Sincerely,

Nestor, a man who can no longer be an idealist.”

In shock, Caridad looked at her mother and aunt and could not muster a word. Finally her aunt Sofia began to speak. “Pobre hombre.” Poor man, she said. “He must have been a Communist who believed very much in Fidel and was some how betrayed. He found out in the most painful way what we learned thirty years ago. Like him we must have thousands here in exile.” “Yes, but remember that it was men like him who zealously made our lives miserable while we were in Cuba,” added her mother Alicia, “and now they jump ship because the system has not delivered the benefits they expected. These people are like lovers who’ve been cheated.” “Yes,” added Sofia, “but it looks like he was able to see the truth after all. He saw the truth from the innards of the beast, as Marti once said, in a more terrible way than most, because he was part of the beast.”

Alicia continued, “Cari, don’t feel that your story is bad because of this man’s reaction. I think your story simply reminded him of how things were a long time ago, and how they can be in the future. He is probably hurt because at one time he worked to destroy the past, and participated in building the very ruins he now rejects.” “I don’t understand people like that,” said Caridad. Alicia continued, “It’s OK. That type of person needs time to heal and recover from the terrible experiences he’s been through. He needs to recover his family, and he needs to understand that not everybody is evil.” Trying to reassure Caridad that her story was not to blame for the reaction they had just experienced, Sofia concluded, “remember that a good writers’ first audience is his inner happiness, and not those who claim to be offended.”

Two weeks later Caridad submitted her short story on the Cuban flag to the review committee without the letter from France, knowing that since both documents were so geometrically opposed in views, it would only cause confusion, and its inclusion could have hurt her chances of winning the contest. In the end, Caridad won second place, and received a $500 recognition award for her work. First prize went to a seventy year old man named Epifanio, who wrote a treatise entitled, “The pride of Cuba: The Zun-Zun, the world’s smallest bird.”

Thinking about Caridad’s story reminded me that I went through a phase were I also did not want to be Cuban, for reasons similar to those expressed by the Cuban man from France. When I was in college, and during the time I was estranged from my father, and my mother was dating David, while I was in the fashion industry, I was smack in the center of an “I don’t want to be Cuban” phase.

For many years I was not a Cuban, and as a result there are multitudes of people who may to this day not know that I am Cuban. Not being Cuban for me was actually easy, since I didn’t have many Cuban friends, my English is generic enough not to give me away, and I saw my family irregularly. When I don’t tell, I can be confused with being Greek, Italian, French, Welch, Canadian, Belgian, and even sometimes English. I am a generic white guy.

My feeling of not wanting to be Cuban crept in slowly over many years, and then it spilled over as a result of a series of disappointments. It included personal, family, and political reasons, as well as a desire to cleanse away the past and start a new chapter in a new environment. By the time I sat down to analyze the situation, most of the psychological pieces needed to face this question had comfortably landed in place, and I did not experience any traumatic challenges. It didn’t take me long to completely divorce myself from the habit of labeling myself “Cuban”, and once done, the experience opened up a new world I had not previously been privy to. The world of how Cubans are viewed by non-Cubans, the opinions expressed about us behind our backs, and a sense as to why some groups tend to have favorable or disfavorable opinions of us. Actually, not being Cuban allowed me to see Cubans in ways most Cubans never see themselves.

I arrived in the United States at age eleven as a “super Cuban” kid. In many respects, Cubans of all backgrounds seem to be embedded with a very strong sense of nationalism which often expresses itself in a chauvinist way, and adds to that already long list of elitist traits we so carefully nourish. Although, Cuba is in ruins, and we exiles are a minority in a foreign culture, most Cubans do not walk around feeling inferior to any European or American, and we love the challenge of competing with others as a way of reaffirming our independence and self-respect. If at the time of my arrival someone had told me that years later I would undergo an “I don’t want to be Cuban” experience, I would have thought they were trying to pull my leg.

The problem that some youngsters like me faced as a result of arriving very young in the United States, and growing up away from a Cuban community, is the dilemma of a dual culture. The interpretation of an old Cuba from the view of our parents, a Socialist Cuba whose policies were clearly leading it to ruin, the high social, political, educational, and economic standards that came along with the “honor of being Cuban”, the contrast with American culture, and our highly individualistic approach to life are things a bit more complicated to arrange than the more mundane challenges faced by American kids regarding whether they should grow up to be baseball players, or accountants. These things are negotiated almost unconsciously by most young exiles that grow up in Miami, or Union City. In those places the overwhelming Cuban culture that surrounds them insures their Cuban identification. These kids are rarely visited by the question of choosing an identity. The idea of choosing not to be Cuban must be preposterous, funny, and perhaps also insulting. Intellectually I found no challenge to this question. So, by the end of my college years the process of not being Cuban was just waiting to happen.

Early in the transition, when I needed a philosophical basis and an excuse for not being Cuban, I did what comes naturally to me. I studied the history of nationalism and the evolution of the modern state! My intellectual analysis of nationalism led me to conclude that politically based national identities in the New World are a modern construct, almost baseless in racial, religious, ancestral and linguistic terms. In Europe for hundreds if not thousands of years, what we now call “the fatherland” or “our country” did not exist. Loyalty and a sense of belonging was vested in a particular group who spoke your language, looked like you, had the same religious beliefs as you, and respected your family values. Those who were outside of this closely-knit circle were considered outsiders, and foreigners. For “Hispanics” it was not until the establishment of the modern political state in Spain in 1492, that Europeans and Spaniards began to expand this concept to include a multi ethnic populace. For the benefit of the centralized aristocracy, and later beurocrats, Basques, Galicians, Catalans, Andalucians, Canarians, and Castilians, were pieced together, almost always by force, into the “Spaniards”. Similar conglomerations took place in France, England, Italy, Germany, and later throughout the “modern world”. And, there are still places in the world that do not accept this interpretation of “nationality”.

For a New World country like Cuba that came into existence as a republic in 1902, with a population of “Spaniards”, “Africans”, “Chinese”, and “other Europeans”, the question of identity is complex, and the roots of the “Cuban nationality” is less robust than most are willing to admit. The informal view held by Cubans that everyone who lived in Cuba was “Cuban” by virtue of their presence in the island is very nice, but spurious when put under scrutiny. “Cuban” like “American” is more a state of mind, than anything else.

Here are some of the questions I asked myself while seeking an understanding of my feelings. Does a person become part of a label, like a product in a supermarket, by the simple accident of being born in a particular location? Do several thousand years of heredity become null and void by a change in diet, clothing, and ambiance? Do Africans become Europeans when they move to Europe? Do Caucasians become Asian when they move to China? Did the Europeans who moved to South Africa become Africans due to the change in geography? Did the Jews become Iraqi Muslims just because they lived there for a long time? To me, the only difference that Cubans have that can be claimed as a unique identity factor is that the races mixed in Cuba in a way and in proportions different than in other places. But, at the end of the day when a person looks in the mirror and asks himself or herself “where did I come from?” The answer is not “my ancestors came from Cuba”. Given that more than 95% of the original native people’s of Cuba disappeared from existence within one hundred years of colonization, claims to being a “100% pure Cuban”, are clearly not accurate.

When group behaviors, physical characteristics, family habits, predisposition to disease, natural intelligence, and other “fuzzy” issues associated with human interactions are taken into account, heredity is probably the dominant factor, and not artificial political labels like “American” or “Cuban”. For me this view means that it is not inaccurate for someone to claim their ancestors’ heritage as their own at certain times, especially if they are educated to their family history. A more realistic description of Cuban identity, and for that part one that should be used by most New World countries, is to admit that we are all a hodgepodge of ethnicities with multiple national origins. Cubans are a hyphenated people, and have been such all along. The truth in our identities is closer to “African-Chinese”, or ‘Irish-Andalucian”, than “100% pure Cuban”. But, as we all know, politics does not like these hyphenated identities.

In the old days most cultures passed identity and values from generation to generation by an oral tradition within each family. Today in most Western countries we have surrendered the link to our pasts to the public education system, and politicians, who create millions of men and women who cannot figure out who they are, and worse off, who believe that they are only that which they can perceive from their immediate neighborhoods. History has been stripped of all family connections and has been impersonalized to the point of having little to offer the young. Young adults who have no sense of place or history are easily molded into perplexed marionettes that easily follow the whims of others with hidden agendas. This is a fact well understood by communists all over the world, whose first rule of order when taking over a society is to deny the past and erase most symbols of ancient heritage.

To me choosing not to be Cuban did not challenge my sense of who I was. Nor did it confuse me, nor was it done at the instigation of some powerful figure, because I never looked externally for a justification of who I was, and my sense of history was well planted in a family who’s roots are documented and ancient. Therefore, when I began to label myself “Catalan” it happened almost automatically as I ceased to label myself “Cuban”. The notion that I was a Cuban-Catalan, or a Galician-Canarian-Catalan was always in my consciousness, although direct links to these ancestral places had ceased generations ago.

Unfortunately, the catalyst that triggered my change from “Cuban”, to “Catalan” was a strong sense of disappointment with Cubans similar to the experiences described by the Cuban man from France, in Caridad’s story. My falling out with my father was highly influential, and my disappointment with my mother’s family in the U.S. and in Cuba also played a major role. Sometime during my college years I asked myself: “Where is that anchor of pride I’m supposed to have for being Cuban?” Is this more a mirage rather than a reality. Am I admiring something really worthy of admiration? Cuba has been nothing but a cesspool of problems, suffering, lost opportunities, oppression, lies, and corruption. The grandeur of the past seemed but a brief interlude in a typical pattern of Latin American mismanagement, and a playground for foreigners. The Cubans in Cuba seem to support Castro and deserve the misery they have, and most of the exiles here don’t live in reality. I felt that the elitism, the pride, the claims of “differentness” we have are all without basis. Taking inventory of these things I lost that sentimental connection with labeling myself Cuban.

For more than seven years Cuba was a secondary and distant topic in my mind, and it felt perfectly fine. When I encountered Cubans I did not identify myself as such, and I never told any other Hispanics that I was Cuban either, to avoid their questions regarding Fidel and Communism. I did not go out of my way to listen to Cuban music, read Cuban literature, or to keep up with any of the events that were taking place in Cuba. The only thing I could not give up was Cuban food. When I went without Cuban food for a sustained period of time I found myself daydreaming about it. “Ropa Vieja”, “Tostones”, “Yuca con Mojo”, and “Moros y Cristianos” were just too powerfully ingrained in my being to give up. And, Cuban coffee and flan are god’s gifts to mankind, those I could not give up either!

During my vacation from being Cuban, one of the things I noticed was the small-mindedness of those groups that dislike us. I noticed that although I did not have a good grasp of the nationalism phenomena, and my interpretation of identity was probably flawed, the problems and bad habits of these other groups made Cubans actually look good. I realized that in the balance of things, those who dislike us, criticize us, defame us, and are jealous of us, are often more obnoxious, irritating, loud, petty, double faced and chauvinistic than we are. I realized that the exiled experience is so complex we Cubans do not fully understand it ourselves, never mind others who try to analyze us based on a thirty second snapshot, or old Ricky Ricardo stereotypes.

Cubans are not a halfway people; we are either liked, or hated. We live on the edge, and although many of us complain about it, we like the edge. I began to see Cubans not as born again angels, but as a group that I had been mad at for a variety of personal and family reasons, and was no better or worse than any other group. Slowly, my exposure to unlikable, irritating and obnoxious Cubans seemed to diminish and I began to meet admirable, well balanced, and honorable Cubans. As my anger at Cubans diminished, I slowly began to rediscover those things that used to make me proud of being Cuban. Those intangibles that make us different and have helped us prosper in the face of adversity. My interest in Cuban things slowly crept in over a period of about three years to a point where I found myself again identifying myself as “Cuban” to new acquaintances. All in all, my period away from being a Cuban lasted about ten years. Seven years as a Catalan, and three years in a transition back to being Cuban. These ten years were from the time I left college, up to the birth of my daughter. The decade of the 1980’s.

While I was in this voyage, I met a few other Cubans who were also on vacation from being Cuban, for reasons similar to mine and those expressed by the Cuban man from France. I also realized that if we experience this challenge ourselves, it is understandable why some non-Cubans so easily misunderstand us. This discovery has led me to believe that this phenomenon may be just another side effect of living in exile and adjusting to a new culture, one that may not be too uncommon to other cultures, but because of its sensitivity, is not openly discussed. Of all my experiences as an adult, this one is one of the most difficult to convey to others, and perhaps the most misunderstood. Issues of patriotism, group honor, identity, self respect, loyalty, and love of country all come into play. But, having the courage to criticize my birthplace, to point out some negative character traits in the Cuban personality, to distribute blame for negative historic events to both the right and the left, and to chose to disassociate myself from my national identity as a result of anger and pain, did not leave me with a sense of shame. Do I wish I had not had this experience? I think so. The enlightened contemplation and self-analysis achieved afterwards, and shared with you now, was probably un-necessary. But, my family conflicts, personality and isolation from other Cubans led me in this direction. Who knows?

A few Cuban friends harshly criticized me for having admitted that I went through this process. To them only persons of weak character, ignorant of their families and disrespectful of history can “fall into this type of un-patriotic shame”. Perhaps there is some truth in this criticism, but the world does not operate in a neat perfect manner. On the other side of the coin, in Cuba, Fidel Castro has used nationalism to enslave the minds of a nation for more than forty five years, and that same nationalism has been used in the exile community to often manipulate public opinion and garner support for groups who did not deserve it. No one has a monopoly on the right type of patriotic behavior. Let he who is innocent, cast the first stone!

Those who support socialism and Fidel Castro surely feel patriotic and more nationalistic than we here in exile. But, that type of pride I can do without, and that type of Cuban I do not care to be. At the conclusion of my voyage, I realized that it’s OK. to be selective with expressions of patriotism and nationalism. When I hear the Bugle sound, I’ll be the judge in determining if it’s my patriotic music, and not because others tell me it is.

By not being Cuban for a while, I also saw the issue of identity in the United States in its schizophrenic grandiosity, mixed with racial overtones and often manipulated by political parties. American nationalism calls for the “Melting Pot” to be vigorously stirred, but holds in place social and economic barriers that are clearly ethnic based. The young are pulled into a popular culture that destroys or erodes traditional values and replaces them with a non-descript “global” identity anchored in the needs of an ever-changing market oriented economy. With few surviving structures to help the young transcend this barrage of ideological confusion, they decay into innocents waiting to be molded into the trend of the moment. Breast implants for fifteen year olds, Viagra for sixteen year olds and, Chinese-Americans that want to be African-Americans. We all now watch these things and think its cute, without wondering why this happens. Interestingly, we now have an entire sub-culture that thinks this is good and promotes it in the name of diversity!

America is a vigorous and creative country, with a fountain of good will and generosity that has not been equaled in history. America is also a manipulator of the first degree because of its wealth and power. It has evolved a system of manipulating its own population, and the rest of the world in a magnanimous, happy, and almost invisible way. But, at the end of the day, manipulation is control, no matter what the name. Internally this strategy puts every group in America in its own “place”, and every country is categorized based on a similar and shallow method, although such a concept is “legally” non-existent. Within all the freedoms, all the rights, and all the protections allotted to its citizens, the fact remains that everyone who observes and thinks for a while realizes that there is a strata, and coincidentally certain groups seem to fall at certain levels of this strata. Most political and cultural leaders of course deny this well-balanced system because admitting to it would debunk one of the pillars of American self-identity.

Since there is no magic solution for these problems, and the proposals espoused from the liberal left are pregnant with socialist hidden agendas, designed to dismantle the good aspects of the society, little change takes place. The belief that anyone can come to America and rise from cleaning toilets to owning a Fortune 500 company is critical to social stability. One of America’s main magnets in attracting the top minds of the world to its shores is this belief and its promotion overseas. As Cubans, we have made an uneasy adjustment to this invisible structure. We have succeeded economically as a group, reaching high levels of responsibility and influence in business circles. We have also reached high levels of influence in the American political system to the point that we hold disproportionately more power than many other immigrant groups with much higher populations. Our intellectual, literary, and creative contributions in the United States also surpass that of most other Hispanic groups with higher populations, and we continue to have the image and aura of an elite group, although we have a population where 80% of its members are foreign born who view their stay in America as transitory, and who use Spanish at a higher rate than most other Hispanics. This anomaly, as can be expected, causes friction with other Hispanic groups, and blacks.

The issue of identity is at the root of every person’s view of the world, and how they go about contributing to, or taking from others. Avoiding these complex questions is a formula for letting others define us. America is a superpower, but in the case of its ability to deal with identity, ethnic issues, and helping its youth acquire a strong sense of self worth, and self respect, it is truly impoverished. I suspect that this failure is partly responsible for the high level of criminality and drug addiction we have in the US. This lesson I learned as I dealt with my own personal questions of identity. The days of the old “Melting Pot,” if there ever were any, are gone. The world has changed.

The Cuban exile, for a variety of historic reasons refused to play the game of comfortably falling into a place reserved for them in the invisible social strata of the United States. The Cubans while holding on to their very Hispanic culture, refused to be the “kind of Hispanic” the Americans where expecting to see. The Cubans somehow have refused to allow others to define them, and have taken the responsibility of shaping a Cuban-American culture based on their terms. How perplexing this must be for some Americans used to living in a comfortable “Melting Pot” where Hispanics are supposed to fit "the image."

If you want to get a wide perspective of your ethnic group, or nationality, take a vacation, call yourself an Eskimo and listen with your ears, and look with your eyes. You will learn some things only an Eskimo can find out about your group. Some of it may be good, some not too good. If someone insults or attacks you for doing such a “treacherous” thing, tell them to fuck off. You don’t need others to tell you who you are, so that you can conform to some artificial political label. You are however, what your heart tells you, and you belong with those who respect and love you, who ever they are. Now that I'm at peace with "the Cubans" I think I like them better than before. And, I also understand the intricacies of this label called "Cuban" better than before!

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
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