Sin nombre

Marseille today In July - August of 1968, mamita and I lived with abuela Amalia for 3 weeks after arriving in Miami from Cuba. Surprisingly, considering her history with mamita and papito, she gave us temporary refuge. The new relationship did not last long. Months later, we found out that abuela was calling relatives and friends accusing mamita and I of putting poison in her breakfast juice during the time we lad lived with her. I heard it directly from abuela Amalia, too, without abuela knowing that I was there.

One day, I asked papito to tell me about su mamá, mi abuela Amalia Lussón y Lussón. As he told me, abuela Amalia's ancestors were from the South of France, Marseille, who had migrated to the island of Haiti (Santo Domingo was formed later). There the family had owned a plantation and had become wealthy using slave labor as all plantation owners did.

Because my Lussón ancestors were colonialists in Haiti, they escaped dealing with the French Revolution of 1789; however, they were caught up in the Haitian revolution instead. During the Haitian revolution (1791-1804), whites were massacred and, as a result, the period 1800-1809 saw an influx of about 27000 Haitian French - Amalia's family among them - into Santiago de Cuba, a town in the easternmost part of the island and the seat of Spanish colonial power at the time.

The French and Franco-Haitian émigrés were a great economic engine that revved up Santiago into a commercial center. Unfortunately for them, France and Spain went to war and most of the French were expulsed from Cuba (many moved to Louisiana) in 1810 but my Lussón relatives were among those that were allowed to stay in Cuba. Time passed by, the family did well and, among other things, opened up a pharmacy, a business that was highly valued because it brought in medicines to the area. Years later, both abuela Amalia and papito as a child worked in this pharmacy.

Santiago de Cuba La mamá de Amalia, bisabuela Teodora (Dora to all who knew her), was born into this economically comfortable and respected family that remembered its recent privileged times as plantation owners. But Dora shamed the family when she became the mistress of the scion of a very wealthy and aristocratic family in Santiago de Cuba. Dora bored him two bastard daughters and Amalia was one of them. Being a bastard at no time has been an easy matter (that is why "bastard" is still an insult in our times) but, in addition, Amalia's dad did not recognize his daughters. Officially then, Dora's daughters were recognized by a relative, Emilio Lussón, and so the girls had to endure being "Lussón y Lussón". (In contrast, abuelo Antonio bestowed his apellido on all his bastards; he registered 19 sons and daughters before dying in his late 40's of diabetes. But maybeit is easier when one is neither wealthy nor famous.)

Papito told me the name of Amalia's father, mi bisabuelo, but I can't remember his full name except he was an Aguilera or Aguilar. At the time papito told me, a little over a decade ago, I looked it up on the internet and to my astonishment, the family was a well known, aristocratic and very wealthy family in Spain. And then , it really sank in, how we - Amalia Lussón y Lussón's branch of the family - represented the skeletons in that family's closet.

Abuela Amalia y mi tia abuela (la hermana de Amalia) were shaped differently by the circumstances of their birth. As I heard it, abuela's dad was married and had legitimate daughters and sons. Hence, bisabuela Dora's daughters grew up sin nombre - shamed as bastards - and seeing their half sisters pampered by wealth and as members of the high society. I also heard that, as latifundistas are wont to do, my nameless bisabuelo had a large mansion on a hill that overlooked Santiago de Cuba so, every day, Amalia and her sister may have looked upon it and be reminded of their father, his wealth and social status.

Besides being a bastard, abuela Amalia was a manic depressive who had psychotic episodes. Maybe these forces - shame, rejection and illness - fueled by her pride were what shaped her into what she became.

Humble people

Today, I've been remembering people that I admire and these are people that despite their greatness are or were humble.

One of the loveliest and humble I've met is Dr. N.T. Wright, former Bishop of Durham. Through persistent, excellent scholarship he has won the recognition he deserves as one of the greatest theologians of our times.

Mainly, though, I've been remembering Barbara McClintock, Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine 1983. The only woman to be awarded the prize all on her own and a perfect example of a woman with guts, con agallas who could shrug off what the world thought of her.

The first time I saw Dr. McClintock, I was buying a snack in the basement of my building at Stony Brook. As I pulled the snack bag out of the machine, a tiny bag lady went by me and headed to the elevators. The basement was a normal route for entering the building and I just thought a mentally unstable bag lady had wandered in. I walked towards the elevator analyzing the simply dressed, elderly woman holding a number of bags in each hand. ("Should I get into the elevator with her?") I stood next to her waiting for the elevator and sipping a drink and, as I glanced at her one more time, I recognized her face. It was McClintock! My heroine! She worked at Cold Spring Harbor Labs (CSHL) and it was known she had a collaboration going with one of the professors. She was carrying those shopping bags because she was bringing specimens from her famous maize collection to show him.

McClintock, a woman scientist as there are or have been very few in the world! In her research, she was decades ahead of her colleagues and, in their incomprehension, they derided her as crazy and incompetent ("Jumping genes, indeed! Harrumph!") It was known locally that at CSHL, her colleague had made her life miserable and had even taken away her work space. Undaunted, she had refurbished an abandoned one-room building in the CSHL grounds and had done her solitary work there for decades, ostracized. And then, her colleagues had caught up with her brilliant mind: they had finally understood her work and she received long overdue recognition for it, including the Nobel Prize.

And yet, here she was still simply dressed, and despite being 81-82 years old, she was coming to her colleague instead of having him drive the 30-40 minutes to CSHL. What a woman!

For a year or two, I got used to seeing McClintock always with her shopping bags. I never said a word to her, just got to ride the elevator with her now and again. But the memory of the humble "bag lady" always warms my heart.

"Over the years I have found that it is difficult if not impossible to bring to consciousness of another person the nature of his tacit assumptions when, by some special experiences, I have been made aware of them. This became painfully evident to me in my attempts during the 1950s to convince geneticists that the action of genes had to be and was controlled. It is now equally painful to recognize the fixity of assumptions that many persons hold on the nature of controlling elements in maize and the manners of their operation. One must await the right time for conceptual change." - Barbara McClintock.

Now, Voyager

On the way to la azotea del Mariban, I had to go past a door. Mamita had told me that a witch lived there and I would stop on the stairs below the door and stare at it, my heart pounding. Then, screwing up my courage, I would ran past it - sped by fear - to burst unto the azotea relieved that once again I had made it past the witch. Later, I learned that mamita told me about the witch to keep me away from that door. Papito, a physician, and mamita, a nurse, cared for wounded rebels in the little room behind it, as part of the rebel underground.

One day, while talking of her troubled relationship with papito, mamita confided to me in a soft and sad voice that she had fallen in love with one of the rebels she had nursed and that he had fallen in love with her, too. He had encompassed all that she found attractive in a man: handsome, courteous, respectful, loving, tender and, most of all, courageous. A true man unlike papito whom she contemptuously labeled a coward.

When the time came for this man to go, he tried persuading mamita to leave with him. She struggled over this but, in the end, decided that for Neni's and my sake she would stay with papito. I was very sad for her because, a decade or more later, there was still longing for him in her face as she spoke of this man; unlike "Now, Voyager", they had not had the stars.

Mamita never revealed his name. Recently, I've been wondering if this rebel's name was Jacobo. And this is why.

I knew when mamita was cheerful because she would call Neni "Jacobo" and she would call me "Teresa". When, once or twice, I asked her why, she laughed and brushed it off. Yesterday, I looked over a list of dead rebels from Las Villas (Caibarien, Remedios and Santa Clara are in that province) and I found a Jacobo. I've been going over lists of names tracing my family's ancestry - reams and reams of names - and I think this is the first time I've seen the name.

Jacobo Cruz Espinosa was born en Caibarien in 1928, one year after mamita. Just like mamita, Jacobo moved from Caibarien to La Habana and became involved in clandestine activities including sabotage. As a result, he had to go into hiding for a long time aided by the people of Caibarien. He came out of hiding to join the rebel forces en Oriente and was part of the forces invading Camaguey. He was killed in the Pino 3 ambush and massacre in Sept. 1958. Mamita and Jacobo had much in common - they were peers based on age, social status and politics - and most likely had met. Caibarien was just a village, a very small town when they both lived there.

Letting my imagination run free, I wonder if Jacobo Cruz Espinosa was the man with whom mamita fell in love and whether if, in those moments when they were together, talking as lovers do, they agreed that their children would have been named Jacobo and Teresa.

Marauders y el tren blindado

Curious about the battle, I found out that the Battle of Santa Clara was "the only major military engagement in the whole Cuban revolution." Source

It's importance lay in that: 1) it showed Batista that he could not stay in power if a ragged band of 300 poorly armed rebels could overcome his most important line of defense outside of La Habana. 2) the weapons captured made Che's men the best armed in the island. Hence, Fidel took over La Habana without a struggle.

One of the first acts of the rebels was capturing el tren blindado. The taking down of the armored train before attacking Santa Clara gave the rebels a large amount of weaponry including anti-aircraft guns.

It follows then that the antiaircraft gun that ended up en la azotea del Mariban was one of those captured in the armored train. (History meets real life to my amazement.)

This source has an exciting story of the battle (starts p. 244). According to it, the planes bombing us is Santa Clara were the Martin B-26 Marauders. The Cuban B-26s were provided by the U.S. - the Batistiano pilots were also U.S. trained. The video shows a bombing raid from the viewpoint of the bomber crew.



At one point in the battle, the Marauders escalated to 500 lb bombs but, luckily, the antiaircraft guns drove them away.

After learning this, I can't any longer view objectively the twisted remains del tren blindado.

La guerra en Santa Clara

As I understand it now, Santa Clara was the plum, the ultimate goal in the center of the island as el Ejercito Rebelde swept towards La Habana. Che Guevara was in charge of the offensive which started in earnest on December 15, 1958. El Che first took Caibarien and Remedios and then aimed for Santa Clara.

In Santa Clara, the Batistianos counted with 2000 men, medium and light tanks and bombers. They set up defensive centers within the town while outside town they had various cuarteles and an armored train. Rebel squads were assigned to go into town and attack the defensive centers, eliminate the nests of snipers en el Teatro Martí y Gran Hotel and create obstacles in the streets to impede the tanks. The attack started on December 28.

The Mariban may be the tall building in this photo.
I remember we lived en el edificio "Mariban". It was a building of many floors con una azotea where I went sometimes. What I remember of the battle is that all the big white metal windows were shuttered and mamita told me to stay on the ground and to move only crawling on my belly. Then there was a lot of climbing stairs up and down depending on whether the tanks or the planes were attacking. After climbing up one time, I remember I sat on a mattress laid on the floor next to a young woman with a very large belly - I think that was the time I became aware of pregnancies. Other women were also there and a man (abuelo?) laid another mattress over us in case the bombs struck our building. I sat there, weighted down by the heavy mattress, hearing the terrifying whistle of bombs falling followed by the explosions and then by relief that it had not blown us up. So much noise: the tanks rolling by and the explosions of their rounds, the loud machine gun fire (later I learned it was a rebel antiaircraft gun) and the regular gunfire. Modeling my new bathing suit en la azotea del Mariban.

One time, there was a lull in the battle. We had been on the floor at home and it must have been for a while because mamita went into the kitchen to make us (papito, Neni, me - I don't remember abuelo there) hot chocolate. As you walked into the kitchen, you faced a counter and the stove was to the right. At both ends of the counter was a window: one window faced the street, the other a shaft. Mamita walked to the counter and soon bullets started coming in through the window. To me it was like machine gun fire but, on hindsight, it must have been a snipper because, otherwise, why sustain that line of fire for so long?

Mamita was trapped against the counter pero no perdió la cabeza. (Tenia agallas mi madre!) She flattened herself against the counter pushing her upper body against the cabinets doing a limbo. I stood transfixed staring at her blanched face as the rounds flew by her belly and then started running towards her screaming terrified: she was in danger. Papito quickly intercepted me and held me back and we stood there staring at mamita: me screaming and him pale and mute. Then I saw mamita slowly, very slowly and carefully sink to the floor still flattening herself as much as possible against the counter, holding her belly in to keep it out of the bullets' path. After a time, thankfully, she made it alive below the path of the bullets and quickly crawled out to us.

After the battle ended, I remember going outside and seeing the holes from the tank rounds in the supporting columns of our building. (I heard later that because of the antiaircraft gun, we had been a target of the tanks and planes.) We walked a bit further than normal and, amazed, I saw sofas, stuff and trash cluttering the street. Walking in the opposite direction, I saw that all the buildings there had been flattened. I learned later that it was were the cuarteles had stood. In Santa Clara's country club. Neni unhappy because he had to pose.

Even after the Batistianos surrendered on January 1, our beautiful black-haired neighbor Olga almost got shot by a persistent sniper while sitting at her vanity table with her back to the window. The bullet came through the window whizzing by her face. It made a hole in the mirror, ricochet, traveled between wall and mirror, hit something so that it came back out through the mirror and embedded itself in the round powder box that rested inches from her waist.

The boys were told to be careful picking cartridges ,etc because there could be live munitions. But, as I saw them animatedly showing off their finds one day, I don't think they listened. Mi hermano Neni has blogged recently about his memories of this war.

Birth en un tibol

Mamita specialized in nursing premature babies and she was very good at it. For several years, she was in charge of a premie floor at a large hospital en La Habana and she consistently achieved a lower mortality rate that even that of the U.S.. She was fierce about keeping the babies alive and her excellent track record led to her appointment as head of nursing of Fidel's flagship children's hospital. (She quit the position after a few years due to disagreements with Fidel and became a housewife.)

When I asked about her interest in premie babies, Mamita told me the story several times of her perilous birth: she was born in a tibol, a premature baby herself, and almost discarded with the feces.

As mamita told me, abuela was seven months pregnant and living en la finca Aguacate with abuelo. One day she needed to go to the toilet and abuela decided to use el tibol instead of going out to the outhouse. Afterwards, the story goes, bisabuela Angela picked up the tibol to empty it and, to her surprise, found there a baby, a tiny premature baby that abuela had delivered unaware.

Bisabuela Angela then took over the premie's care and mamita had spent her first few months nestled for warmth between Angela's old breasts. I asked once why abuela had not taken care of her own baby and the answer was that bisabuela's breasts were more suited to keep the baby warm: mamita would join her hands to indicate this tiny baby that would fit in the palms of the hands and thus would fit in an old woman's cleavage.

I kept this story in mind and believed it until I got older and learned more about babies and placentas. I learned that it is not possible for a woman to deliver a baby unawares unless she is unconscious, in a coma or dead. Abuela could not have thought she had just had a bowel movement because there is the issue of the umbilical cord and the placenta. So abuela must have known that she had delivered a child.

If mamita was left in the tibol, was it because abuela rejected a premature (hence sickly) baby or because it was a girl? (Abuela had a marked preference for boys.) Did Isabel and Angela think that she was dead at first? Why was mamita told that she was such a nothing that she was almost chucked out with the feces? Who told her this tale? Abuela in a brilliant display of cruelty?

Mamita y su hermano Orlando. Remembering the fractious relationship between abuela and mamita, I've even wondered recently whether the premature birth was an attempt at aborting the fetus. Abuela liked to live in town socializing with well to do folks, the cream of society according to mamita's cousin Graciela and maybe she felt that a second baby would further hamper that lifestyle.

As far as I can put it together, both bisabuelas (Angela and Nemesia, but primarily Angela) took care of mamita when she was a baby. Later, as mamita told me, she lived most of the time with her abuela Angela and abuelo Abelardo, both of whom mamita loved deeply. The reason given to me why Angela mothered her and not Isabel was that mamita needed to live in town: she suffered from chronic ear infections that necessitated ready access to physicians unavailable en la finca. For some periods of time, off and on, mamita did live with abuela Isabel en la finca but she would talk mostly of those times with anger etched in her face. But when she talked of Angela, her face softened - "mama Angela" - as mamita called her - had been her shelter and her shield.

Mujeres con agallas

Sometimes I have ran into people - men and women - who speak with bravado. I have also known people who are truly courageous as revealed by their acts. Abuela and mamita were in the latter group: they were mujeres con agallas.

One story about abuela's mettle has to do with Fidel. Abuela and most of our family opposed Batista and were part of the clandestine network that formed around Fidel. Because she had her rooming house near the University of La Habana and all those who lived with her and abuelo were students, she knew Fidel, a law student.

Fidel in his period as a university student.
There came a day when the Batista security forces set out to arrest Fidel who had to go into hiding immediately. In his escape from La Habana, abuela's home became his shelter for one night. He needed to move quickly from one hiding place to another to keep ahead of Batista's men so, after one night at abuela's, he moved on to another haven. But soon after he had left, the Batistianos arrived and searched abuela's apartment. She had pigeon coops in the roof and they also searched there. They searched everything but Fidel was gone. Frustrated and very angry, the head of the Batistianos took abuela with him and 1-2 other men back to her bedroom which was the last bedroom, the large one at the rear of the apartment.

I was a young child and I'm not certain they told me of all that happened to abuela after the Batistianos locked themselves in with her in the bedroom. But they did tell me that the head man held a gun against abuela's belly as he questioned her threatening to kill her, that he beat her and that he pistol whipped her breaking her front teeth. But she did not buckle and she did not give Fidel away.

So I grew up knowing that abuela was flawed - harsh and cruel at times - but I also grew up admiring and respecting her. She, like mamita, was a woman with agallas!

De libros y un espiritu

Papito was an avid reader and had a library at home. The room was lined in all 4 walls with bookshelves and he had all sorts of books: medical texts, modern and classical literature, a 12-15? volume enciclopedia (it had an entry for tio-abuelo Francisco, hermano de abuelo Antonio) and much more. I don't think he had a copy of the Bible there, though. Both papito and particularly mamita had a bottomless contempt for it and the Church.

At night, if he got home before 8 o'clock (he worked very long days), papito would sometimes sit in the living room by the doors that opened unto the balcony of our second floor apartment to catch cool sea breezes and study medical texts. He would sit on a rocking chair with a book resting on the board made specially for him and wielding a fountain pen to make notes. Sometimes he would retire to his and mamita's bedroom to read while listening to classical music, the only music he liked. As time passed, he became more and more interested in theosophy and read avidly books by Blavatsky, Bailey, Khrishnamurti and others.

Once a week, papito would hold a salon to which usually 12-15 people and even 20+ would come. This displeased the CDR (Comité de Defensa de la Revolución - the local surveillance network) and they politely ordered papito to split the people into 2 groups. Thus, he ended up hosting 2 popular weekly salons.


At first, the primary purpose of the gatherings was to discuss philosophy but, with time, it became theosophy and subjects today termed "New Age". I would hang around sometimes but the topic of white magic, seven rays, El Tibetano, ascended masters, etc. was profoundly boring to me and I would drift back to my bedroom to read.

Occasionally, something interesting happened. One evening, mamita announced that she was seeing un espiritu. This was startling: I had seen mamita exhibit this ability at times (papito only once or twice) but most often she would not declare it openly and publicly. The conversation stopped and, as mamita stared into a particular spot, she described in detail the image of an elderly man: his features, build, height and manner of dress. One detail she reported was the peculiar manner in which the man handled his pocket watch and it was that detail that forced a woman guest to break her silence crying out, pale and fearful, that it was the portrait of her father.

I walked out back to my room as mamita and the woman sorted out why her father had come. Mamita did not know this woman who was attending her first salon that night. The woman had seemed normal, pleasant and her distress had also seemed genuine. By this time, I had frequently witnessed seances and trances but this particular event involving my own mother made me consider for the first time whether espiritus were real. Mamita and papito certainly thought so.

Papito

When I write about papito, one question that comes up immediately is whether I should speak of him in the past or present tense. Is he still alive or has he died? As he would be 86 years old, most likely, he has died.

His name was Fernando and he was born on April 14, 1927 (we share the same day and he shares the same year with mamita) in either Holguin or Bayamo in the province of Oriente. His parents were Antonio and Amalia. Amalia's mother, bisabuela Dora, raised papito just as bisabuela Angela raised mamita. Abuela Amalia rejected papito in the same way that abuela Isabel rejected mamita. Maybe that is why mamita and papito felt attracted to each other when they met at the University of La Habana.


The elderly woman is bisabuela Angela. She stands in back of mamita en la playa de Caibarién.
At that time, he was a slim, good looking medical student specializing in Pathology and she was a slim, beautiful nursing student specializing in the care of premature babies. Papito was a very outgoing, charming ladies' man while mamita, at that time, was very shy. So painfully shy was she that papito nicknamed her "Orillita" (diminutive of "border" or "margin") because of how she would walk bend over, hugging her books to her chest and brushing up against the wall as she went along the University's hallways.

As I heard it, Amalia was a pharmacist and she met Antonio who was a medical sales representative. Antonio was a ladies' man, a philanderer and he understood right away that Amalias was only interested in wealthy men and that the only way to bed her was to wed her. So he succeeded in making her belief that he was wealthy then he proposed and she accepted. After the honeymoon, she found out the truth and immediately divorced him but she was already pregnant.

Papito, as an infant, was a failure-to-thrive baby which is a nebulous label for a healthy baby that starts dying because of lack of maternal care and warmth. (Love is indeed life.) One of the many life-threatening events that happened to him as a baby is that someone (Amalia most likely - I can't recall) gave him injections that became infected and, as a result, his buttocks became necrotic and he almost died. Papito grew up with hollows where most people have roundness. Thankfully, one way or another, he survived.

As the story goes, when he was 3 years old, he was having lunch with Amalia and Dora when he accidentally knocked over a glass of milk. Amalia flew into a rage and started beating papito. By the time Dora got Amalia away from him, he was unconscious and almost lifeless. That day, Dora took papito away from Amalia and he lived with her until she died some years later. But, at least for a while, he was loved and sheltered.

Papito dearly loved Dora as the abuela that raised him tenderly. But, all his life, he continued to love Amalia with a love that was entwined with sadness and pain because, usually, we don't stop loving our mothers even when they are sadists.

Shell shocked

Growing up with someone(s) whose mind, through great suffering or genetics, has become misshapen and distorted is like living in a war zone or living through a never-ending earthquake. You never know when the next crack will appear underfoot or the wall will come crashing on you. When the bomb will explode next to you or the bullet whiz by your head. A child - let's say a girl - may think that she is the cause of the war or the earthquakes and that, if she is really good all the badness may stop. But then, this implies that she is bad, very bad for she is living through hell.

You grow up shell-shocked and dissociated or, as it is popularly called, "moody". Dissociation is confusing, like living in the House of Mirrors at the fair. You may be happy and, without nothing changing in your environment, a few minutes later, you may be plunged into darkest despair. You may find yourself in a room or store and not remember how you got there or why. You may find clothing in your closet that you don't recall buying. People know you but you don't know who they are. You may endure, most days, tremendous psychical pain that makes you wish longingly for death as a relief, a rest.

It is genetic, a hereditary trait and, in its own odd way, it is also a gift, a means of staying alive under pressure/stress that the self finds unbearable. It is unbearable so there is a fracture of the self and, if the pressure continues, another and another. Those that don't dissociate may end up with permanent personality distortions or commit suicide (experts think that a small albeit significant percent of childhood accidents are actually suicides).

Unlike other psychiatric illnesses, dissociation can be treated and the person healed. It does take an awful lot of self-examination, of stamina, of determination but it can be done (I made these sculpeys during this time). It is not easy to confront that which shattered you; it means going through the agony again. Most importantly, it takes forgiving and not hating those that have harmed you because hate is a great lead weight that keeps you stuck in that Hell.

Mamita went through this too but I don't know if she found her way out. One night when she called me (we talked 2-3 times a week), I told her that the therapist had told me that I had PTSD and was dissociated. (Post Traumatic Stress Sydrome is the new label for Shelled-Shocked, a term used widely during World War I).

In a soft confiding voice, she told me that she was also dissociated, that she had become unstable during the last few years of abuela's life (abuela had become unable to take care of herself). She told me that she had wanted to keep it hidden and had gone for therapy somewhere around or North of Pompano Beach ( I can'r recall clearly); that she had been receiving therapy several times a week and medication. The purpose was to keep her functional so that she could continue her life apparently alright and continue taking care of abuela. That night, mamita told me that her diagnosis was DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). I can't recall if she realized that DID was the current label for Multiple Personality Disorder. And things for me finally clicked in place as to the way she had behaved since I was a child.

Mamita told me that night about finding herself recently in the parking lot of a shopping mall - no idea of how she got there or why - and of how frightening it was. We talked about all the disorientation and confusion that came along with dissociation and all the fast scrambling one had to do to cover up and try to explain one's behavior. We talked like friends - sometimes we could do that - and, the conversation ended, we hanged up.

A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was mamita but now her voice was harsh, very angry but familiar to me. The first thing I heard after answering was "What did SHE tell you??" I realized that a part of her that was my friend had confessed the DID. This other part, a dominant and angry part of her, was seething because the secret of the existence of a system of parts had been revealed. It was after this revelation that mamita's dominant-hostile part told me that she would no longer talk to me. And so it was for years until, right before her death, her part that was my friend phoned to say Good-bye.

Light and shadows

Growing up, I liked mi abuela. She was a well dressed, elegant woman who always smelled of Guerlain's Eau de Cologne and Shalimar. Even when she was young - I heard from mamita and others such as her cousin Graciela recently - that other women admired how she always managed to be neat and stylish and even wear heels in an environment where most other women would be plain and in flats.

I learned to admire abuela also. I heard about how hard working she was and about her great business acumen. Married to abuelo, a field worker, abuela worked as a seamstress and then, by a stroke of luck, became a landowner: she won a lottery ticket and bought la finca "Aguacate". Abuelo put a lot of sweat into making la finca "Aguacate" productive. People admired him for being a very hard working man and also for putting up patiently with abuela's domineering ways and her periodic abandonment of abuelo and the children en la finca for weeks at a time to visit relatives in town. I think abuelo simply loved her all his life.

The story goes that, with time, they saved money and invested wisely. By the time I was 4 (1959), she owned the 3 story apartment building en la Calle I, in El Vedado, a prized location (abuela owned another building in the area but I don't know where it was). Abuela lived in the top apt. with abuelo and, since it was very large, she - always the business woman - rented out several rooms to 4-5 med students. She cleaned and cooked for everyone while continuing to work as a seamstress.

I remember meeting abuela when I was 4 and we had returned to live in La Habana. I liked how she called me "Cacho" because, as she laughingly said when I asked "Why?", I was a "cachito de su corazón". I loved her softness and nice smell when I hugged and kissed her soft, sagging cheek. Abuela loved being kissed and hugged unlike mamita.

Mamita would say that she only wanted to be kissed by papito, a man; that anything else was revolting and "lesbiano" even if it was me kissing her cheek. I don't know with certitude what shaped mamita so but, as a child, I knew about lesbians for we had a lesbian couple as neighbors and mamita abhorred them. So, I taught myself not to hug or kiss her and, instead, I kissed and hugged abuela.

Years later, in my late teens or early 20's, mamita changed and wanted hugs and kisses. I did it to make her happy but, by then, I had been shaped into feeling that it was somehow "lesbian" as it related to her. Happily, I think mamita got lots of warm kisses and hugs because she became "abuela". I wouldn't be surprised if sus nietos even heard her call them "Cachito de mi corazón!".

That Day at the Park

That day at the park, I remember that Neni and I had to stop playing and come sit on a bench. There we are, in shorts and wearing our "patanes". That was how Neni, when he was learning to talk, called "zapatos" and it remained a word we used jokingly in the family for many years.



There is a man in profile in this photo that may be tio Orlando. (Notice the little girl next to me. I'm so glad mamita preferred shorts! Who can play in frilly dresses and patent leather shoes?!)



So it may be that tio Orlando had come to visit from the U.S. and wanted to take photos of us. Tio Orland had worked in La Habana for Joe Ellys the Merryl Lynch CEO but, in 1956, he moved to New York to work for the multimillionaires Harold and Shirley Leviton. Working in NY would have put a camera within his reach (at the time, I don't think cameras were abundant at all) either by receiving it from the Levitons or because buying a camera in NY would have been cheaper than one imported and bought in Cuba.

(The Leviton's were very generous to tio Orlando and tia Esperanza, who also worked for them starting in 1957. One generous act, for example, was that when Shirley found out that tia was not able to conceive, she paid for tia Esperanza to be treated by very expensive specialists; the result was primo Gregory. Due to her health, tia - 81 years old - finally retired in February-March of this year. She stayed, for as long as she could, to take care of Shirley who has Alzheimer's .)

This is primo Gregory with tia Esperanza, his wife Cindy and his children Lindsey and Lukas.
(Back to that day at the park.) Watched by abuelo, I had been playing but don't remember at what. It could have been anything: 2 year old babies think it's fun to look at a blade of grass (thinking about it ... I still think it is interesting!). But I do remember that I was confused as to why I was being called to sit on the bench. Neni had been playing an exciting game of cowboys and indians with 4-5 other boys brandishing pearl-handled revolvers that made noise. He was unhappy that he had to stop while his friends continued playing nearby.

I remember that because of the distraction caused by the photographer, I was able to get a hold of the pearl-handled revolver. I didn't know what a revolver was for but I found out that it made a handy hammer so I proceeded to start banging it with gusto on the concrete. In retrospect, I'm glad someone came and took it away from me because I'm sure I would have broken Neni's pearl-handled revolver. But then, what are little sisters for?

As you wish

"As you wish"
Westley in Princess Bride

This is me at 4 months old. Two months later we moved to Santa Clara.

When we had moved to Santa Clara (I was a year or younger), abuelo would spend time with us in Santa Clara and he would spend that time being my nanny. During those years, Neni (my brother) and I had also a young nanny, Olivia, but I only remember mi abuelo.

As mamita told it, we would spend a great part of the day at the park. I would wear only shorts (mamita believed in children having a lot of sun) and my white orthopedic boots (an attempt to correct flat feet). I was also chubby: I think that, because mamita had gone through scarcity and even a famine as a child, Ofelia, la cocinera, made for Neni and me a child's equivalent of abuelo's daily feast.

One thing I cherished about abuelo is that I could rely on him; he was my friend.

I loved the swings and he would obediently take me when I wished. One day, as he pushed me, he started teaching me how to move my legs to swing myself. Oh, how triumphant and exhilarated I felt as I arched toward the sky on my own!

Abuelo also quelled my anxiety over death. I became obsessed with death ("What is death??" - I must have overheard a conversation) and abuelo - moved by my pleas - started taking me to the morgue where papito worked. We checked the freezers unsuccessfully several days until, one day, when he opened the bottom freezer, there was a body. I asked him to slide the body out and peered at a white-haired man, peacefully resting, dressed in a suit with a panama hat resting on his chest. Anxiety drained out of me: death was peaceful like sleep. Hand in hand, my question answered, abuelo led me out of the morgue.

Another day, as we rested on a park bench outside the church, we silently watched people walking in to attend Mass. Abuelo had quite a reputation as a prankster (I found out much later) and he turned to me and asked me if I would sneak into the church, slide under the pews all the way to the altar and spring up as the priest stood nearby; then run fast out of the church. I think now that he not only wanted a disruption of Mass but also to cause mayhem: if startled by me, the priest would have dropped the host ... I shudder thinking of it.

Wanting to please abuelo, I sneaked into the solemn church and slid all the way to the front pew. I could see the priest's shoes and I slid forward a bit more and glanced up his body. As I looked up at the priest, fear gripped me. Much faster than in the way in, I slid back out. Still frightened, I ran to abuelo who waited for me on the bench. He said nothing about my failure and I loved him even more for that.

All that is hidden will be revealed

"There is nothing hidden that will not be revealed. There is nothing kept secret that will not come to light." - Mk 4:22

The story is that abuelo started courting abuela when she was a budding 14 year old and he was 24. They kept it hidden from her father, Abelardo (abuelo's uncle) because he would have objected strongly to an early marriage. As abuela told it, they had chastely waited for her to turn 17 and then, with great-grandfather Abelardo's blessing, she had married her 27 year old sweetheart. Two years later their first son, tio Orlando had been born.

There it was in the marriage certificate I held in my hand today as I chatted with tia Esperanza about them: married November 20, 1922. I also had abuela's birth certificate - born January 8, 1902 - and abuelo's - born November 26, 1891. But, wait! She was 20 years old not 17 and he was just 6 days shy of turning 31. What the ...? Senility? Not possible. Abuela had told me this same story several times while in her 60's and her mind was sharp as a tack. "Oh, well - I thought - there is a mystery here lost in time."

But then, a niggling thought prompted me to ask: "When was tio Orlando born?". Tia Esperanza, his wife of 52 years, rattled off the date immediately: "March 31, 1921". I laughed with glee - "We've got them!". A lie had been dispelled and the secret revealed.

Abuelo and abuela had waited for her to turn 17 before consummating their passion. Hence, abuela spoke of "marrying" at 17. Records suggest that both lived in La Carolina, a tiny village east of Remedios, and in that small village world, "arrimarse" (slang for cohabiting) is common. Why did they wait for baby Orlando to be almost 2 before marrying? I suppose it did not matter to the people around them, including her father, and the months passed as they continued working and living until an opportune moment presented itself to go to Remedios' City Hall to get married.

Abuela had given me a glossy picture but the raw, real stuff of which life is made was revealed and with it a vital piece in a puzzle which has made many other pieces fall into place. A clearer picture emerged of the world abuela and abuelo lived in, the world that shaped them and through them, their descendents. It is a picture of the illiterate or poorly educated campesino who lives always precariously, dreading drought and flood, pestilence and famine. A world where death is always visible as is sex and where there is little privacy and girls are disposable. The picture revealed is also of them being endearingly human and fallible.

Humorously, I also find that I have this in common with abuela: I lived with my husband for 2 years before we married and I, too, count our marriage as starting when we moved together, not when the papers were signed. "De tal palo tal astilla!".