Weeds

Back in the day, I was a Bible quizzer.  One of the chapters I was responsible for that I can no longer quote verbatim was Mark chapter 4.  The parable of the sower.  All I remember now (in trusty old King James English) is Hearken, behold there went out a sower to sow.

It goes on to talk about all the different types of ground the seed fell on: some didn't even get the chance to sprout, some later died, some grew and flourished.  But one of the strongest images to me in that passage is verse 7 which describes thorns growing up and choking the plants so that they didn't produce.  That image came to life for me when I witnessed that very phenomenon in my own little garden.

When I came back from Cuba, I was overwhelmed with how ridiculously my garden had grown.  Thankfully, I had people who were available to take care of it for me when I was gone.  When I got back, I went to work weeding.  While pulling the usual weeds out of the ground, I discovered a weed that horrified me.  It was a thin, rope-like stem of a weed that literally wrapped itself around the plants and entangled itself like an herbal boa constrictor.  I couldn't help but think of the parable.  This weed was literally choking my plants.  And it would have eventually rendered it unable to produce if I hadn't cut it away and pulled it up by the roots.

I just remember the shock when I saw it.  How unbelievable it was.  How is this weed doing this?  How dare it?  I felt violated.  I was reminded of evil.

I don't know what to title this post.

First of all, I am overwhelmed with gratitude today.  The only way I can describe it is that I know that God knows where I am, and that He's reminded me that I am where He wants me to be.  

Ordinarily, in a situation like the one I've been preoccupied with for the past few days, I would be extraordinarily depressed.  But instead, I feel peace.  I'm so thankful for that peace.  Truly trusting Him and truly leaving it in His hands is a catharsis.  It's a burden lifted.  It's a knowing that feels so natural you aren't surprised when you hear the words confirming it cross your own lips.  It's like being aware of a feeling that you suddenly realize is a fact.  I do not know what the future holds.  But there was something about today that made me truly believe that God is in control.

I have questioned myself and my commitment to God many times.  Is all of that really necessary?  You're just living your life this way because it's what you've always done.  You're rigid.  You're judgmental.  You're uncompromising to a fault.  You've done all the "right" things, and where has it gotten you?

Yes, I, even I, have doubts.  But I felt like today God gave me a teeny tiny peek into the beauty and assurance that results from consistency and commitment.  From not giving in.  From standing firm.  It surprised me.

I'm usually not one who's big on "never compromise" type talk.  I'm really not.  It smacks of dogmatism and grandstanding.  Like a politician who has to convince himself of his own talking points.  Like a Pharisee before he realizes he's unwilling to cast the first stone.

However, I had a couple of experiences today that showed me something like a tiny shaft of light, a flower before it blossoms.  Because I said yes. Yes, it does matter.  Yes, it is worth it.

Unpacking

Yay!  I am officially unpacked.

Ridiculous . . . after two weeks of being back from Cuba.  Well, one of those weeks I was spending time with my folks. But still, a week back in my little enclave and I'm just now getting unpacked.

(Sigh.)  I'm slowly making headway.  Finished editing a chapter for my prof's project.  Tomorrow is Operation Write Cuba Reports.  If I'm smart, I'll write one report that could suffice for all three people/institutions for whom I have to hand in reports.  Heh, heh.  Aside from that, I need to sit down and write out a nice, long updated to-do list.  Right now, things still seem a little scattered.  Once I order my thoughts and compile a tidy little list, I'll be good.

There are other things I was trying to unpack as well.  Metaphorically.  But I've come to the conclusion that I seriously just need to not worry about things I have no control over.  For real.  I do so much better when I keep the main thing the main thing, youknaaimsayin?  I refuse to get bogged down in Shakespearean tragedies and telenovelas.  Because they negatively impact my work.  And I have a lot of it to do.

Present Life

I wanted to write more stuff about Cuba . . . I just hate that I couldn't chronicle my experiences as they were unfolding.  It feels slightly inauthentic to go back and cherry pick what I want to share.

Well, I guess I already do that even when I talk about my present life.  lol.  But at least it's much more immediate and there isn't the time lag that adds to the feeling of inauthenticity that I've sort of been feeling when trying to recreate my Cuba experiences.  I did post links to pictures, and supposedly, a picture is worth a thousand words.  I guess it's okay if I just leave it at that.  I had romantic ideas of doing sort of like profile/sketches of people I met, but now it just seems corny.  Let me write some inspiring, "real" things about these "real" people I met.  It just seems like something a naive hipster would do.

Anyway, present life is pressing upon me.  I got back to what's home base for now this past Sunday night and have been trying to get back to the grind ever since.  On my plate this summer: working on a project for my professor, babysitting her son, writing reports for the grants I won to go to Cuba, writing an article about my Cuba experience (for possible publication!), and preparing for comps.

My apartment still sort of has the post-finals-whirlwind-of papers-blew-through-it look that it had before I left for Cuba, and I still haven't officially unpacked.  I've just taken out essential toiletries and have been picking clothes to wear out of my suitcase.  I need to get my life together.

I haven't been totally unproductive.  Making headway with the project.  I got all my paperwork squared away to get reimbursed for Cuba expenses from my grant (yes, baby!).  I've worked in my garden a bit, and have some beautiful veggie babies in development.  I've already sacrificed a rather large zucchini to make zucchini bread and muffins.  Mmmm.  I clipped my nails back down to nothing so I could get back to practicing the guitar.  I hadn't played it in over a month.

The only thing I'm hesitant to write about right now are personal life matters. And when I say "personal life" we all know what I'm really talking about.  There are so many little eyes reading this, known and unknown.  And I'm trying to keep things as smooth and drama free as possible.  Not posting the juicy details, so to speak, is my way of doing so.  I think the only time I will freely write about anyone who's anywhere in the vicinity of being in the running of being The One is if I get engaged or something.

All of that to say that there is a possibility in my life right now.  That's all I feel at liberty to say.  Because a possibility is honestly all it is at this point.  But here is something I will say.  And this is hilarious, but so true.  It seems like when it comes to guy matters, it's either feast or famine.  What I mean is, I will go through long periods of people being unaware of my existence or just not that into me.  But let one person become legitimately interested in me.  Oh, and also, let me go on a trip.  That also does it.  Let me be far away and let some other dude throw his hat in the ring, and suddenly folks come crawling out of the woodwork.  It's like, oh, dude, really?  Where you come from?

Anyway.  After I got back from Cuba last Monday, I spent the rest of the week with my family.  Whenever I spend more than a couple of days with my family, I'm never ready to go back to work.  I'm just bad about leaving.  I'm not a good goodbye person at all.  But now that I'm back . . . I feel like, okay, I can do this.  And I love when I get that feeling.

Love / Hate

One thing I loved about Cuba was coconut ice cream.  It was my drug and my Nutella substitute.  I wanted it all day, every day, and I wanted to bring some home with me.

One thing I hated about Cuba was the lack of toilet paper in public restrooms.  If there's one thing girls need, it's toilet paper every time.  Thankfully, I had my trusty kleenex travel pack with me at all times as well as hand sanitizer.  I was the one every one hit up when they had to go and TP was a no show.

Cuba Diary Snippets: May 20, 2013

After lunch, me, Oriana and Mike went to Casa de las Américas with Padrón.  It was absolutely fabulous.  Padrón knows everyone—literally.  There's a congreso on the Caribbean going on there—I should really try to go at least one day—I think Wednesday.  I got a chance to talk to Roberto [note: last name omitted]—it was awesome—just the fact that I used his NYT article in my history paper—and there I was, sitting in his office with him, talking to him—it was pretty amazing.  We were talking about the differences in racial identity in the US and the Caribbean—it was interesting what he had to say about the "one drop rule."  In the United States, "one drop" of black blood makes you black.  But in the Caribbean, "one drop" of white blood makes you not black.  He said what matters most in the Caribbean is appearance—the whiter you appear, the better off you are, and he said there is a lack of black pride in the Caribbean for that reason.  He quoted a passage in Cecilia Valdés where Cecilia's mother (or somebody) tells her "Pareces como una blanca!" Wow, you look white, (even though she was mulatta).  He criticized all the racial categories there are—"it makes it as if they are different than me" even though they're black.  Or would be considered black in a US context.  At first I was using the phase "gente de color" [people of color], but he corrected me and said people don't really say that anymore—he personally prefers to be called negro. Black.  He is a tall, handsome, dark-skinned man with dreadlocks.  He is quite striking—not that he's extraordinarily handsome, but he's a striking and arresting figure.  I wonder if he was skeptical of me because I'm light-skinned.  I was pretty taken with him, though—I hope he didn't think I was a weirdo.  Padrón gave me and Oriana free copies of the Casa de las Américas journals—several past editions.  He even wrote the intro to the Benedetti book that Oriana's mom made us promise that we would bring back and gave her a free copy.

Later we went to see the cannon shooting that happens once every night at 9 pm.  Before that we had dinner.  I feel a melancholy descending upon me. Maybe before dinner tomorrow night I'll go to the Hotel Cohiba for fast internet.  I need to write people.

(More pictures here, here, here, here, and here.)

Cuba Diary Snippets: May 15, 2013

I didn't go to the institute with the other students today.  I went to the Fundación Fernando Ortiz as Rodrigo suggested and bought some books from his colleague Yolanda that he suggested.  When I arrived, I met a grandmotherly lady from Jamaica originally, but whose family has been in Cuba for 80 years.  Her name is Josephine [note: I'm leaving out her whole name].  We chatted, she gave me a program of upcoming events at Casa de las Americas and before I left, she gave me her phone number.  She said "my house is your house" and at that moment, I wanted to cry.

 . . . . . . . . . 

Before I left the residence, Carlos, the administrator of the residence along with a few of the workers were discussing politics in a way I never anticipated discussing politics with Cubans. Carlos [said], "This is all Obama needs to do, we don't care about Guantanamo or any of that.  Just ask Castro, 'What do you want?' And then send over 100 ships full of products and supplies that people need, and then the embargo will be over."  He talked about the fact that the politicians eat every day, they have plenty of money and everything they need while they're debating politics, but who really suffers is el pueblo [the people].  He said that people who are involved in tourism are tricking the foreigners who come.  He said all they want us to see are the children in uniforms smiling, oh, everything is happy, etc., but they don't want you to see the suffering or a child on the street who doesn't get enough to eat every day.  Then he asked if I was going to become a senator after a this political discussion, and we all laughed.

 . . . . . . . . . .

On my way back, an older Cuban man remarked at how pretty I was and how beautiful my teeth were—prettier than a model in a toothpaste ad.  He took it upon himself to accompany me across the street and kiss my hand and say that we could have a very beneficial relationship ("no sexo ni nada de eso," [not sex or anything like that] he clarified).  I was trying to avoid saying I was American, but I guess I give off an American aura.  I've heard a lot from people that they thought I was Cuban or Dominican . . . I guess I like the fact that I "could" be a lot of things.  Anyway, I had to gracefully get away from my old Cuban admirer ("Si yo fuera más joven . . . " [If I were younger] he lamented before I walked away).

 . . . . . . . . . 

Walking a little further on was a guy asking if we needed a taxi.  "Taxi, señorita?" I shook my head no.  We kept walking.  "Cuban boyfriend?" he offered.  I laughed heartily.  If I didn't need a taxi, maybe a Cuban boyfriend would be what I was looking for.

 . . . . . . . . .

This afternoon, I legitimately cried after lunch.  One of the servers in the cafeteria told us that he tried to reach the US en balsa [note: a balsa is basically an inner tube people would use to try to get to Florida from Cuba] twice, but each time, he was caught and got brought back and mistreated by the Cuban authorities.  If felt horrible just thinking about so many peoples' realities.  "No seas así," [don't be that way] he said.  His name is Elio.

A Tale of Two Currencies

In Cuba, there are two currencies.  One is the Cuban peso, otherwise known as moneda nacional, abbreviated as MN, and the other is the Cuban convertible peso, otherwise known as the peso convertible or, simply CUC (pronounced "ceh-ooh-ceh" or "kook."  I liked to call it the second way). CUC are comparable to the dollar, worth just a teeny bit more.  If I changed over $50 USD, I'd get about $47 CUC.

MN is what most Cubans use on a daily basis and is what people get paid in by the state.  CUC is what foreigners use when making most purchases in Cuba.  (Books, taxi rides and fresh fruit from the guy at the fruit stand are notable exceptions to that statement.) However, here's where it gets tricky . . .

Most quality items (toiletries, electronics, clothing, etc.) are paid for in CUC, Cuban citizen or not.  But only certain Cubans have access to CUC.  Usually those who work in the tourism sector or those who have relatives in the States who send remittances.  What's more, 1 CUC = 25 MN.  So, if your state salary is 300 MN a month (the average), what does that equal out to in dollars?  Just to give you an idea of what people's daily reality is like.  Most people somehow manage to get by.  Barely.

Lots of Americans looked at me like I was crazy when I said I was going to Cuba.  "But isn't it communist?" Uh, yeah.  But Cuba being communist had nothing to do with my safety or my ability to learn or travel freely while I was there.  People seemed to have this image that Cuba's a third-world war zone with armed guards stationed everywhere and people being snatched off the streets.  Um, no.  And if anything, Cuba is socialist more than hard core communist. There's definitely a private sector that's opening up, and tourism has a lot to do with it.  I would say that people are more equal in Cuba.  Not to say that injustice, prejudice and inequality don't exist, but socialism has, in many ways, leveled the playing field, if you will.  There's not the ever growing chasm between the very top and the very bottom that exists in the US.  But at what cost? The strange communist/capitalist hybrid that is Cuba is no more evident than in the two-currency system.

(Click here and here for more photos!)

¡He vueltooooo! (Spanish for "I'm baaaack!") or Fitting In

So, how do you describe a month-long experience in one post?

You can't.

I got back from Cuba last night and have been weathering reverse culture shock pretty adeptly ever since.  Today, I partook of something every red-blooded American does to mark the beginning of reentry into American life: a Starbucks frappuccino.  The Caramel Ribbon Crunch is on point.

I think what I will do for the next few days is dedicate each post to either a Cuban person I met and the context and story behind our relationship or a concept/idea connected to Cuba that I want to explore.  That way, it's allowing people to get a taste of my experience without bearing the burden of recounting every single detail in chronological order.  I also kept an extremely consistent diary while I was there.  Maybe I'll post a diary entry or two.

In addition to keeping a diary, I indulged in my floral obsession and pressed a variety of enchanting flowers in the back pages of the diary.  I'm not a flower pressing expert by any means, but it was just my way of bringing a piece of Cuba back with me.  Seriously, every time I passed beautiful flowers, they were just there for the taking in my mind.  I gravitated towards them and took it upon myself to pluck them.  They wanted to come back to America with me.

Anyway, I'll just share a little tidbit that I absolutely loved about being in Cuba: If I didn't open my mouth, seriously, people quite often mistook me for Cuban.  It was a fabulous feeling.  For the first time, I traveled to a foreign country where I could have passed as a native.  In Spain, I was automatically pegged as a foreigner.  In France, a little less so, but still, I gave off an air of not belonging.  In Cuba, for the first time, I could fit right in.

"But you look just like a Cuban!" was the response time and time again when I satisfied people's curiosity about where I was from.  A girl on the street swore that I was a girl in her management class until I assured her that I couldn't be—Soy de los Estados Unidos, I finally revealed.  I'm from the United States.  "Ohhhh!  But you look exactly like a Cuban!  I'm telling you, exactly like this girl in my class!"  In addition to Cuban, I was also thought of as other possibilities, including Jamaican and Dominican . . . American was the last thing people associated me with, even looking my American passport dead in the face, apparently.  During my last few moments on Cuban soil, checking in at the Jose Marti airport to fly into Miami, the agent at the desk asked me if I spoke Spanish, and then, my passport in hand, asked me where I was from.  Umm . . . the United States.  Yes, but what is your "procedencia"?  (In other words, Where are you really from?)  I knew what she wanted to know.  How can you be just American when you speak Spanish, and you have some blackness in you? "Well . . . in the United States, I'm considered, um, afroamericana."  Then the lightbulb came on.  Another agent next to her, a black woman, overhearing our conversation, nodded emphatically.  (Like she knew.)  "Oh, because, I thought maybe you were Dominican," the original lady offered.  Really?  Girl, you got my American passport staring you right in your mouth. lol.  Priceless.  Maybe, deep down inside, my true identity is some sort of Caribbean extraction.  Who really knows?

For those of you who aren't my FB friends, but are faithful readers, click here for my first installment of photos.