The Obnoxious Cuban and Political Correctness

During the time when I was on vacation from being Cuban, I visited Miami several times, to see friends and relatives. These short visits, usually a week long, provided me with “exposure” to Cuban exiled culture, in its “natural habitat.” But, as an "outsider" my perspective of Cuban things was slightly wider than when I was officially Cuban all the time. My critical eye was carefully tuned! On one of these trips, I was forced to analyze a very Cuban character trait, that of the “Obnoxious Cuban.” Indirectly, this process also forced me to look at my views on political correctness.

As a liberal I looked at the Obnoxious Cuban as a serious problem, and one of the things that had turned me off to Cubans. I looked at these individuals with a very superficial eye, reacting almost instinctively based on what I later realized was my unconscious adaptation of political correctness. I, a Cuban exile, a person who escaped from the country that unleashed political correctness in Latin America, had in the process of assimilating into American culture, become politically correct. I did not go around thinking or claiming to be politically correct, because during that time the most important belief I held was that I was an open minded, objective and independent thinker, a person who would never fall under the spell of any one ideology. I was in other words, flexible and open minded as long as my opponents where not conservatives.

Conservatives everyone knew were intellectually deficient, unworthy of respect, racist, fascist and not to be taken too seriously. I was so liberal, and so comfortable among liberals, that I had become close-minded to the rest of the world. I was Holier that holy, believing that the “best people” where those who held liberal leaning ideas. It is ironic that the very ideology that professes to be “open minded” takes many of its followers and makes them into drones. The appeal of helping the underdog, saving the needy, fighting oppression, unmasking injustice, and being on the side of the poor, is a maternal and primal instinct shared by men and women all over the world, and one that appeals with great force to the young. The desires to right these wrongs are universal. In centuries past this was manifested via religious zealotry, then it shifted to communism and now it’s neo liberalism, and its popular cousin “humanism”. Some of the greatest social movements in history have taken place due to the human desire to radically improve the lives of the underdog! But, often in the past, those who disagreed with the “revolutionary” ideologies of the day were always ostracized, persecuted and killed. With few historical exceptions, the “angels of change” and the "champions of the people" become the bloody murderers of innocent women and children.

There is a misconception that claims that the improvement of the human condition always follows a forward moving linear timeline. That is, that which is proposed today is always superior than that which was proposed yesterday, and that which will come tomorrow will be better than what we have today! This natural optimism does not always hold water. Think of the end of the Roman Empire and its aftermath. Think of the Russian Revolution and its aftermath. Think of the fall of Jerusalem. Think of the destruction of the Inca Empire. Think of the downfall of the Kingdom of Zimbabwe. If you think that on every of these instances the future brought progress, more freedom and an expansion of culture, you are living in another planet! In the case of Rome, Western civilization took about 1,000 years to recover. In the case of Russia, it took almost 75 years. In the case of the fall of Jerusalem, the Jews are still, to this day recovering from that catastrophe! Yes, in theory the future “repairs the mistakes of the past,” but at what cost and after how many generations? For Cuba, Castro’s “progress” has set Cuba back at least 50 years, and at the cost of three generations!

We must therefore, never assume that social theories, political movements, or calls to “change the system” are valid, or will actually improve the status quo, because they are “new ideas,” or because they are proposed by “young energetic visionaries.” But, approaching this balance is “counter intuitive” behavior, and something difficult to act on because we have a strong need to believe that “tomorrow will always be better.” The liberals’ claim that they are the ones “pushing the limits in order to have a better and progressive tomorrow,” goes along with this “natural tendency.” While conservatives, by having the very label “conservative” are made out to stand for “the status quo, the preservers of the past, the supporters of archaic groups, and the ones standing in the way of progress.”

The problem that we have today is that sometime during the early part of the 20th. century men like Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin, and Mao Tze Tung rationalized these primal instincts and group behaviors into political theories and sociological methodologies that can now be used to manipulate people who never heard of Hitler, Stalin or Mao. Mass communications, standardized curriculums, a monolithic entertainment industry and political parties controlled by intellectual elites, choreograph public opinion and mass behaviors. Few recall that Hitler, Stalin and Mao, and their ideological descendants are responsible for the deaths of more than 250 million people. All done in the name of defending the rights of the underdog, the poor and the oppressed. These magnificent geniuses of evil are now rarely mentioned, but their tools of mass control are in wide use. Their theories today are no longer only found in books like Che Guevara’s manual for revolutionaries, the Humanist Manifesto, or Saul Alinsky’s Reveille for Radicals, but in hundreds of books cloaked with very innocent titles, used at universities around the world as teaching tools for people precisely at the age when they are most susceptible to accept a theory that proposes peace, humanism and a world order based on justice, dignity and love. Who in their right mind would be opposed to these things, unless they realized that these labels hide deep lies designed to obtain raw political power and mass manipulation?

We seem to be in a transitional period, where few see these things for what they are, and instead succumb like a pack of dogs to certain “hot key” words and slogans that when voiced, rouse us up as if we were being thrown bones. The ironic part about this phenomenon is that like in a cult, while brainwashed, the American liberal will swear on his/her mother that they are not brainwashed. Because, part of the brainwashing is to say and believe that they are not! Others can be brainwashed, especially conservatives, but liberals honestly believe they cannot be brainwashed because they hold a piece of the “real truth,” and they are "too smart" to be brainwashed!

It never occurs to liberals that conservatives are also interested in helping the poor, liberating the oppressed, fighting injustice, working for progressive ideas, opposing racism, and sacrificing to make a better world. This could never be accepted, because if it were, it would undermine the entire set of sociological and psychological controls that keep liberals “fighting for the right causes.” They say: "We are on the side of “Humanist” causes. We are opposed to “racism.” We are the only ones interested in protecting the “environment.” We can see the real causes of poverty." And, the list goes on, automatically convincing the ignorant that anyone who opposes them is by default “against humanity, a racist and an ignoramus intent on destroying the environment!” This simplistic view of politics was my view of politics. And, like a good liberal I ardently claimed I was not brainwashed, until I met an “Obnoxious Cuban,” the most unlikely philosopher I’ve ever met.

Often, an “Obnoxious Cuban” is also a good example of a Hispanic conservative. A man not afraid to discuss complex political ideas, while listening to Salsa, drinking a beer and puffing on a cigar. A man capable of discussing the black Panther Movement, the joys of sex and the balance of payments all in the same sentence. But, because of his experiences with communism, this is the type of man whose radar screen is well tuned and capable of identifying the type of mass political manipulations previously discussed, and prevalent in today's society. However, this type of conservative shares few social characteristics with his American cousins, disconnecting him from the mainstream of acceptable conservative circles. This disconnect guarantees that his often accurate social observations are rarely taken for serious. American conservatives after all are often uncomfortable discussing sex, while discussing the balance of payments! The moral agenda of the Anglo-Saxon American conservative, which equates sex of the hetero or homosexual type with filth, immorality, decadence and some form of social illness does not bode well with healthy Cubans famous for their well developed libidos, and specially with an "Obnoxious Cuban." So, as strange as this may sound, a conservative Cuban, is not exactly a natural ally of an American conservative!

So, as a liberal, looking for some time off from the snow and cold of the northeast, I headed to Miami, and while there I visited my friend Kiko Buendia.

The day after I saw the Orange Bowl for the first time, my friend Kiko took me sightseeing around Miami. Kiko insisted on stopping to see two old friends of his father from New York City who were now living in Little Havana. Enrique and Pablo were expatriates from Washington Heights in upper Manhattan. Enrique had arrived from Cuba, where he was a student at the University of Havana in the mid sixties, worked for the New York Times distribution center as a driver, and by 1972 had saved enough money to open a small Bodega where he prospered during the time Washington Heights was a thriving Cuban neighborhood. Enrique, the man who was going to be a geologist in Cuba, found himself selling bananas in New York City because one day he questioned Fidel Castro’s wisdom in drilling for gas in the peaks of the Sierra Maestra. Enrique was a mild mannered man who carefully thought out his words and made sure he understood who he was speaking with prior to letting his opinions known. He was, as I was later told by his friend Pablo, “un hombre de buena precencia, pero un poco timido.” Or, a man who made a good impression, but a bit on the timid side.

On the other hand, Pablo was a typical rowdy obnoxious extroverted Cuban from Pinar del Rio, who wore white patent leather shoes, black pants, white polyester leisure shirts, and smoked a long cigar when he wasn’t drinking a beer. Having been a political prisoner in one of Castro’s jails for seven years, his face had that indescribable air often found in men whose suffering have aged them beyond their years. When Pablo spoke it seemed that his words rhymed with a fast Cha Cha Cha, and since he did not appear to reflect very much about what he said, he simply gave the impression that he spoke directly from his brain, but never listened. Whenever he was asked a mundane question, his responses regularly began with a sexually flavored comment, or something so outrageous as to extract pure amazement from his listeners. But, in fact Pablo did pause at slight unnoticeable intervals, to gauge his surroundings and determine if those around him where still trying to figure him out, or if they had reached that state of confusion he so much enjoyed seeing. If they were still trying to figure him out, he would inject one or two rational and intelligent comments, which then extracted a sign of relief from his victims, causing them to engage him in what they thought would lead to a more dignified and socially accepted conversation. This is exactly what Pablo wanted, and he would then take the opportunity to respond with even more outrageous and obnoxious social and political comments building a crescendo of disbelief and discomfort in those around him. When he was satisfied with the state of discomfort and shock in the faces of his victims he would make an exit by telling everyone that he was very sorry, but he had to leave in order to meet an old friend.

I was a victim of Pablo the day my friend Kiko took me to meet him and Enrique at what turned out to be a typically Cuban roasted pig party in the heart of Little Havana. I could not understand why Kiko wanted me to meet Pablo, and how someone like Enrique could be a close friend of someone like Pablo. These guys personalities seemed like oil and vinegar. By the end of the day though, this obnoxious rowdy Cuban turned out to be something very different than I expected.

After a short drive, which took us past a street full of monuments honoring Cuban exiles and the Bay of Pigs Invasion, we arrived at an impressive Spanish styled house in a well-kept section of Little Havana, where our hostess, an aristocratic Cuban widow of Portuguese ancestry happily greeted us. After the customary hugs, this proud lady explained how most of the seeds for the fruit trees in her large yard had been smuggled out of Cuba in the brassieres of old exiled ladies. Indeed the yard, as seen from her living room, was impressive and full or Cuban fruit trees rarely seen outside of Florida. Echoing in the background, an old 33 rpm record of the “Trio Los Matamoros” played “Frutas del Caney” over tiny loudspeakers. As I walked through the house, I remember whispering to my friend Kiko, “what is this, a meeting of Cuban tropical fruit experts?”

When we finally got to the ample yard, we noticed men and women mostly in their late 50’s and early 60’s mingling and drinking. The mixing took the typical animated Cuban fashion, which is often misunderstood by outsiders as an angry mob trying to out shout one another. In the middle of the yard several older guys played Dominoes on a tiny table by the shade of a large Avocado tree. Being the youngest man in the party, I tried to be very observant of what was going on and what was being said. In many ways the Cubans leave the Italians far behind in their ability to communicate with exaggerated facial gestures, touching one another, and flapping hands. Pablo who due to his dress, manner of speech, and body language I believed to be a perturbed man, seemed to be holding court with a group of men who were drinking Cuba Libres, while he poured himself a tall glass of pure dark Bacardi rum. To my surprise, those around him, who apparently knew him well, treated him with patience and seemed interested in what he was saying.

“So you were there in 1968, and again in 1972”, Pablo asked a tall black Cuban named Joseito. “Si”, said Joseito. “In 1968 I went with my uncle Lazaro. We went to setup a small farm near El Cibao, and I was shocked by the backwardness and poverty I saw. I never imagined that there could be so much corruption, prostitution and rampant stealing as I saw there. Nothing in the most remote wilderness of Oriente, even comes close. When I returned in 1972 it was to help my uncle and his family leave because on top of it they hate Cubans and made his life miserable during the four years he was there.” “The only thing in common we have with these people is the Spanish language”, said another man as he ate a ham croquette he had taken from the beutifully laid out appetizers’ table.

“When we came from Cuba we thought everyone who spoke Spanish was like us. We thought we shared the same values, the same social and class expectations, and we thought we could open our doors to them with confidence. This was a bitter mistake.” Pepin, a young Americanized looking man and also an ex-New Yorker, gave his opinion. “There isn’t one Dominican that can be trusted. They’re all connivers. They first come as the sweetest most innocent people in the world to gain your confidence. Then when you think you can trust them, they’ll steal everything you have, and then they look at you in the face without any guilt or remorse.” Joseito added, “while we try to succeed based on hard work, they just look for ways to cheat, steal, and break every rule in the book.”

“The death of a Cuban is to go into business with a Dominican, or to allow one into his house.” Concluded an old Cuban man who was quietly listening in the background. He then asked Pablo, “tell them about Washington Heights!”

“They came like the plague” said Pablo. “We had been living there in peace for years. It was never a paradise, but everyone knew everybody, and there was not much crime. Most of the businesses were Cuban and we got along fine with the Puerto Ricans. The minute they started to arrive, drugs, crime, and fear began to creep in. Slowly the Cuban stores started to get hit by petty Dominican criminals. Even the Puerto Ricans, who were there before all of us, began to fear going out at night. The Dominicans would go into a Bodega and stab the owner for a meager $40 dollars! They’d wait on the street corners on Friday afternoons knowing people had gotten paid, and would rob the women. It became unsafe to keep a decent car in the street, because within hours they’d strip it. After a couple of years, when their numbers grew, and their understanding of American police tactics increased, they began to target most Cuban businesses for extortion and then offered to buy them out for insultingly low prices. Not only did they learn how to manipulate New York City laws, they also learned effective Mafia tactics. Those people who could not protect themselves against this type of black mail, had to leave in fear they’d be killed. When the sound of Merengue arrived in an apartment building, it was the end for decent people. And that’s how they established themselves in the area. Now they dominate Washington Heights, and the Cubans and Puerto Ricans are mostly gone.”

Pablo’s audience listened attentively as he continued, “in 1983 I walked into Enrique’s Bodega and I found him on the floor with a knife sticking out of his back. That was the first time I had ever entered his Bodega, but by then that kind of thing was so common that I immediately knew what had happened. I dragged him into my car and drove him straight to the hospital where they said that in another five minutes he would have been dead. Not a single Dominican who was standing in front of the Bodega offered to help, and when I came back to lock the place up, three quarters of the stuff had been looted.

While Enrique recovered we became friends, and I learned that he knew the man who had stabbed him. It was a Dominican hoodlum nicknamed “El Grillo,” the cricket, who had been coming to the Bodega for months, making small talk and bragging about his petty crimes. The day of the stabbing he came in, filled up a bag with groceries, walked up to Enrique and told him that he wanted the groceries plus all the money he had in the register. When Enrique told him that he was crazy and went to get his bat, the Dominican dropped the bag, jumped over the counter and stabbed him in the back. When Enrique re-opened the Bodega and told some Dominicans in the block what had happened, many of them said they couldn’t believe that someone as “tranquilo” and “honesto”, tranquil and honest as “El Grillo” could be the one involved in this crime. Then “El Grillo” had the courage to visit the Bodega to tell Enrique that if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, he would stab him again!”

Now I understood why two men as diverse in character as Pablo and Enrique were friends. Pablo continued, “Their meaning of tranquil and honest is not the same as ours. So, “El Grillo” helped us to decide what to do. I got my Walter PPK 9 millimeter pistol and lend it to Enrique. We made a big sign in yellow and red that read, “El Grillo is a Homosexual and a Thief”, and we placed it in front of the Bodega for everyone to see, and we waited for “El Grillo” to come to the trap. Sure enough, three days later he barged in with a knife in his hand and a 32-caliber revolver in his belt, and he said: “Say goodbye to the world, Cuban.” What “El Grillo” did not know was that I was sitting behind the counter with my PPK pistol in hand. I quickly stood up and pointed the pistol at him, then he made a gesture like he was going to throw the knife, and I shot him in his wrist and he dropped the knife and started screaming, “No me mates, no me mates”, don’t kill me, don’t kill me. As he was screaming, I noticed that he was moving his other hand to grab the revolver, so I shot him in the arm. He stood there perplexed that I had actually shot him, and had not allowed him to shoot me. I then told Enrique to call the police and at that point “El Grillo” went wild screaming obscenities and he started to run out the door. I simply followed him out, and noticing that there where about a dozen other Dominicans in the street, I took aim at his right leg and I shot him, and watched him drop. I walked over to where he was and stood there besides him so that there would be no doubt to anyone that we Cubans are able to fight back, and we were fed up with this sort of thing. A few minutes later the Police arrived followed by an ambulance. “El Grillo” was taken away unconscious, and we went to the police station where we filed a report, got an attorney, and were interrogated by several fat guys with suits for several hours. Since I had a license for the pistol and it occurred inside the Bodega during a robbery, we were let go.

A Puerto Rican sergeant who walked us out of the precinct said to us: “I’m glad you did what you did. He’s a criminal, an illegal alien, and a numbers runner. Those are the type of people that give us all a bad name.” We knew the Puerto Ricans were suffering with this sort of thing just as we were, and that sergeant expressed that frustration to us that day in very clear words. In all the years we lived next to the Puerto Ricans, there had never been anything like this between us. Whatever problems existed between the Cubans and the Puerto Ricans, they were always petty and of no consequence.

Six months after Enrique was stabbed, we learned that “El Grillo” had been let out on parole, and had gotten involved with a shooting in the Bronx and someone else had shot him dead. Someone else put an end to his life of crime; someone else did our society the favor that the New York City police and courts could not do. From the day I shot “El Grillo” onwards, no one ever bothered Enrique. This unfortunate event in a strange way made us close friends. But, few Dominicans frequented the store, which hurt business. In essence they boycotted the business. When they realized they couldn’t rob him, they decided to drive him out of business. The fact that there were few Cubans left in the area by the mid 1980’s simply meant that we had to watch out for one another. In 1986 I retired and moved here with my family. In 1987 Enrique sold the Bodega to a Korean family who opened a produce shop and somehow tolerates that kind of environment. We can tell you that the further away you can be from those people, the better you will be.”

Listening closely by, a well-dressed man named Gerardo, who I later learned was a political science professor at a Florida university, with an appalled look on his face, eagerly commented. “Pablo, there are good people and bad people in every group. Look many Americans hate us Cubans too. What you described for the Dominicans, I think some people say against us too.” The other people in the group listened attentively. Clearly, this group of well-educated men and women felt uncomfortable with Pablo’s harsh description of the Dominicans and the exchange of ideas it was beginning to extract. “The Dominican Republic is very close to Cuba, if we after all do not feel comfortable with Dominicans, who can we feel comfortable with?” “Gerardo is right,” said the mistress of the house, the Portuguese-Cuban lady. “We have to judge people by their social class, their education, and their abilities as good human beings. Don’t you find any good qualities in the Dominicans?”

“But, the problem”, interrupted Luis a Chinese-Cuban, “is that most of these people, and unfortunately many other Hispanics that come to this country, are simply “Chusmeria”, the underclass, the most poorly educated and crude types produced by their countries. They are dysfunctional in their countries, and change very little here. If they appear to be hoodlums to us, it’s because they are hoodlums. They are the ones responsible for the high crime in our neighborhoods; they are the ones who give us all a bad image. You cannot blame the Americans for saying they are hoodlums! We should not be ashamed to call a duck a duck, even if it’s a Hispanic duck.”

“I don’t understand how this country lets these people in? It’s like importing crime and social instability on purpose! And, to make it worse, they send all the money the earn or steal here, back to their countries.” Commented a woman who appeared to be Joseito’s wife.

Offended at the observation, Gerardo accused Luis of being a Fascist and of making dangerous generalizations. “How can a Chinese guy say such things?” he asked the group. Pablo in his infinite ability to scrape “picardia” or malicious ideas from a rock, and maneuver among the most surreal of waters took a shot of Bacardi, and declared in defence of Luis, “You, senor Gerardo, the most liberal mind in our midst, will you feel happy and satisfied if your daughter brought home one of these Dominicans for dinner and announced that they were having an intimate relationship?” Gerardo’s jaw muscles stiffened, and he did not answer the question, but instead said to the crowd, “such hypothetical stories are not worthy of an answer.” With a grin in his face, and smelling blood, Pablo now directed his next statement to the mistress of the house, “And you, my dear senora, you who lives in this beautiful Spanish mansion, with the well manicured garden and marble floors, and fountains, will you be a happy woman if this block became full of Dominicans drinking beer in the street corners, your walls filled with graffiti, your nights became unbearable with blasting Merengue music, and your real estate values dropped?” Like with Gerardo, there was no direct answer, but an accusation that Pablo was an “animal and a crude man without manners”. But, since Pablo’s personality was such that he actually gained satisfaction from such exchanges, he simply did what came naturally. Savoring the victory, he clapped his hands, and invited everyone to dance as he walked over to the record player. “Come on stop being so serious, and move your asses to this Mambo.” As Pablo danced, the others had no choice but to watch in amazement while their faces slowly turned from puzzlement to half smiles. In two or three minutes, the magic of Mambo and Pablo’s comical dance erased the tension from the air.

My friend Kiko came over to me and said, “Did you see that? He manages to get his hosts upset, he insults people but in the end it just rolls right off him, and he gets away with it. He is one of the most remarkable people I’ve ever met. In his madness, and within the thousands of words of rudeness that come out of his mouth, he manages to say things that most people are thinking about, but no one dares to admit. He forces people, at least for a brief period to realize that life is not always nice, congenial and friendly. His outrageousness gives him poetic license to insult while everyone realizes that what he is saying is based on the truth, or at least half the truth. For me Pablo is right up there with Socrates and Plato, a muse that is not afraid to say uncomfortable and shocking things. He is like a social laxative that challenges both his allies and his enemies, something that we Cubans are lucky to have in greater numbers than some other groups and is becoming impossible to find among the Americans, especially the so called educated ones who have forgotten how to say the truth without dying of fear.”

I then carefully thought about my own memories of Washington Heights during the 1980’s, the acquaintances and stories I remembered, and sure enough, I found echoes of the truth in Pablo’s words. But, what value does this man have in the social pecking order? From what cave did he crawl out of? What value could there possibly be in a person like this? Was it the specifics of what he said? His choice of words? Is it some hidden agenda? Is it his lack sensitivity? His poor judgment, his rashness? Was it the way he looked, his dress and mannerisms? What does Kiko really mean? Then I began to realize why my friend Kiko had arranged for me to meet Pablo.

The idea was to see beyond the immediate experience and the insulting discussion about the Dominicans, which could have very well been about Russians, Argentinians or Jamaicans. In a rare moment of relaxed observation, I managed to break through my liberal mind, my invisible political correctness, and I overcame the feeling of wanting to squeeze Pablo’s neck, and the desire to tell him what a bigot and incredibly obnoxious person I thought he was. His value had nothing to do with the critical comments he had made about the Dominicans. His value laid in his rarity, in his symbolism as a member of a type of person who was disappearing, and who was being replaced by hypocrites, liars and wimps. For Pablo's style of talking dealt with the truth, the truth without any fancy talk, without academic prophilactics, it was simple and to the point.

Analyzing Pablo came down to two things: His ideas and his lack of fear in expressing them! Right or wrong when you stood in front of Pablo, sooner or later you realized you were standing in front of a real person, not a modern interpretation of what a real person should be. And, real people are imperfect, not well groomed, they often say insulting things, can be impulsive, and do not care to say what the polls say they ought to be saying! Kiko was right; this was a philosopher hiding as an “Obnoxious Cuban.”

The value of this man had little to do with the specific issues he brought to the table, and a lot with the importance of having such a colorful and unpredictable man as him challenging people to think beyond the superficial and the politically acceptable, while tolerating his oppinions. The idea that you could go to someone like Pablo and ask about a problem or social issue, knowing that his answer was going to be unrehearsed and truthful is in today’s world very rare. A man who never adopted political correctness, and has lived in a social milieu that has allowed him to survive is even rarer.

Without doubt, Pablo was the most important person at the party, except few saw him as such. “How refreshing to meet this man,” I thought to myself without realizing the impact of this realization, and the fact that this event symbolized a crack in my liberal body armor. “The man is not a hypocrite,” I repeated to myself. I thought back to my late teens when I worked at Gramercy Park as a doorman, where most of the tenants despised Hispanics and all minorities, while promoting themselves as members of the Democratic Party’s elite and the defenders of minority rights. I thought about my work at City Planning and the countless lying politicians I had contact with, I thought about the fashion industry executives and their exclusionary ethnocentric professional practices, and I could not help but hear an echo in my head: “Hypocrites, hypocrites…” With people like Pablo, I thought, “you know where you stand. You don’t build false expectations, and if he tells you something he means it! An honest bigot is worth more than a lying spineless politically correct nice guy,” I concluded that day.

A few years later when I revisited this event in my head, I realized that all the “hypocrites” I had made an accounting of, were New York Democrats, and they were also the biggest proponents of political correctness. By then, my transformation to Republicanism was well underway. Something unconceivable to me a few years before was happening, I was becoming a conservative. But, not because I was recruited by conservatives, or convinced to change by a particular event, but because I could no longer stomach the liberals and their false claims to represent me as a "Hispanic."

After that trip to Florida I never again saw Enrique or Pablo, but several years ago Kiko told me Pablo had died in an auto accident while visiting exiled relatives who had settled in Lima, Peru. Pablo left a will with instructions asking that when Cuba is free again, his bones should be moved to the “Cementerio Colon” in Havana. On his Cuban headstone he wants the inscription: “To all those who thought I was crazy, I’m sorry to disappoint you. My only fault was to tell you what you did not want to hear. Viva Cuba Libre!”

Prior to realizing the role of a man like Pablo, I also did not understand how it is that we Cubans manage to produce more Pablo’s than most other groups. We do not have a monopoly on them, but we produce large quantaties of them. Certainly we are number one in this area among all the Hispanic groups in the USA! I still cringe when I see them, except now I realize they are a very valuable part of what makes us tick, and they provide us with one of those difficult to explain quirks that sometimes gives us an intellectual edge over our neighbors. It isn’t that their ideas are highly intellectual and deep, for they are often in the gutter, but they force us to question ourselves. They irritate us out of certain comfort levels we should be removed from in order to expand our perspectives and horizons. These people who some times come across as crude and obnoxious are made of the same stuff many of our relatives are made of. They are survivors who stood up to a tyrannical dictatorship and at the risk of death exclaimed: “The emperor is naked”.

Perhaps we make more Pablo's than anybody else, because the exile experience stimulates this phenomena! This will to stand firm for an ideology, and the ability to use humor and linguistic acrobatics to prove your point, in an almost circus like fashion, are things alien to American society, and out of character with those of us who have adopted a liberal education and affluent lifestyle. Many of us easily forget that these are Cuban character traits as typical as our love of cigars, rum, and music. It seems that we Cubans argue and disagree with others, and among ourselves just for the love of doing it. We argue because we like the challenge of an argument! Some of us accept the idea that there is nothing wrong with saying absolutely irritating things. Some of us do it like Pablo, others in a less abrasive manner. An old Cuban said to me once, “If you can survive the psychological battleground of socialist Cuba, what’s the big deal with disagreeing, arguing, and insulting a few people in America?” This unique character trait of course does not endear us with most of our neighbors, and has given us a reputation as “difficult” people. A Cuban that is not arguing, is an unhappy Cuban!

When I last visited my friend Kiko, who has since moved to Los Angeles, after he married a very beautiful Mexican woman, he was very upset at local politics and Bill Clinton. In his typically long winded way of letting out steam, he said “Every time I meet a polished, politically correct American, or Hispanic whose conversation is so calculated and antiseptic as to never insult or challenge anyone, a person who never lets out an inch of his or her own beliefs or feelings, I can’t help but remember Pablo. Every time I hear the words ‘weight challenged’, I hear Pablo say “fat.” When I hear ‘alleged perpetrator’, I hear Pablo say “criminal.” When I hear ‘ethnic sensitivity training,” I hear Pablo say, “learn double talk so when you share a room with a person of another race that gets you upset, you don’t say what you would normally say if they were of your own race. And, you avoid saying what you really think. This way you can avoid a lawsuit.”

Kiko showed me an article from the New York Times he had just read and had highlighted a few lines. "Look at this," he said, "this is what they say, and I’ll follow up with what they really mean: “Your statement does not seem to conform with the facts as presented by others”, which really means, “you’re a liar and a manipulator”. And, this one is even better, “My friend on the right, whom I admire a great deal does not represent the interests of black and Hispanic peoples because he does not have a track record of support for minority issues. And, as a result his plan will benefit only the rich”. This means, “You’re a conservative white man and a Republican, and if it’s shown that people like you can actually do good for minorities, it will shatter the carefully manipulated liberal Democratic monopoly on such issues, and black and Hispanics may begin to ask uncomfortable questions of us Democrats.”

Listening to Kiko’s translations, I could not help but remember how as a child in 1960’s Cuba, teachers constantly told me that Cuba was a “socialist paradise” and the “only free territory in the Americas”. This was taught to us in order so that we could obtain a “socialist consciousness.” What sort of consciousness are the people behind the politically correct movement trying to accomplish?

With this perspective in mind, I said to Kiko, “It is truly refreshing to meet a person who dislikes you, looks at you in the face and tells you, “I don’t give a dam about you, I don’t like your face, and if you don’t get out of my path I’m going to punch you in the nose.” Kiko thought for a minute and said, “No, you’re not going to find honest people like that anymore among the Americans. Even the Cubans who’ve being here for a while are not like that anymore. Pablo’s generation is slowly disappearing. The young are now politically correct.” I then asked, “You don’t think any of these people will believe Pablo and Enrique’s story about what happened in Washington Heights?” “No way”, said Kiko. "The stabbings, extortion and robberies that took place are now described as 'an inevitable process of assimilation into the urban environment.' This way no one gets offended!"

This event during this trip to Miami, although insignificant at the time, signaled the beginning of my slow return to identifying myself as a Cuban. It took however another three years to complete this journey, and it was due to unplanned events like these that I began to also question my blind devotion to liberalism.

I thank all the “Obnoxious Cubans,” for the fine work they do. Not so much for the content of what they say, but for the process they keep alive. Freedom of speech, at least that still survives in America.

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
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