The Other Americans

The girl in my Spanish class belongs to the group that I like to refer to as “The Other Americans.” The majority go to U. Penn or Harvard and they share an apartment en Línea y F. The girl in my class is sweet but after a few conversations I realize we both make that distinction of membership. I suggested we grad something to eat after class one day because I thought it would be nice to make some new friends. As usual, as we walk out the door she switches to speaking in English. Now she’s a little more accustomed to addressing me and the people in my program in Spanish, but she still pushes the English whenever possible. 

She’s been talking about this hot waiter at her favorite café since I remember--so we went there. Someone waits at the entrance of the café to open the door for customers; the AC shocks your hot skin as you enter. I look around to find foreigners at every occupied table and I feel as though I’ve left Havana. 

We get to small talking and she asks “So does your program have a rule or something about speaking in Spanish?” 

“Well, no, not really, but it is promoted.” 

“Oh....yah. I think our program is more focused on cultural immersion than Spanish speaking.”

I let her keep her comment. 

I’d like to think I’m a little better or at least less defensive about my Americaness. Yes, I am a yuma, I am a yankee and I’m not going to pretend I’m not--unless of course I’m trying to get a Cuban price for a máquina to La Habana. 

I can still be a privileged American and not think I’m better than the Cuban selling maní en la calle. Maybe the other Americans feel the same, but they sure as hell think they are better than me. 

Reminder to Self

Look around. The line you are in is for those who can afford food outside la libreta. The man using his has dark leathered skin and is thin from malnourishment. You do not have to rent out your home to afford produce and an un-tattered roof.
You are healthy, you are strong, you are beautiful. The black belt in your class is godly gorgeous and gives you all his instruction. Your Spanish is improving. Your hair is growing long. Your waist is fitter than before. The Cuban family you’ve inherited loves you and without hesitation calls you nieta and hermana. Your family at home is proud of you and can’t wait to hear of your new adventures.
Be kind to others, love yourself, and Be happy.

Mariacarla Walks

As a kid, I was very insecure. I didn’t have friends, I was fat, and I was a nerd--nuff said. During recess, I would walk around the track by myself because that was easier than trying to make friends. Towards the end of elementary school, I lost some weight and learned not to raise my hand everytime I knew something, soon enough; I made a few friends who would walk the track with me. One of them asked “Why do you walk like that??” “Like what?” I responded. She replied “With your arms straight like that. You’re supposed to move your hands when you walk. That’s the normal thing to do.” So I started moving my hands while I walked. I had to think about it for what seemed like years but I made it happen. Now I walk with a sway in my arms because that’s the normal thing to do, I walk with decent posture because they say that’s the healthy thing to do, and I walk fast because well I have things to do, places to be, and people to see. Walking is just something I do. 

Mariacarla walks as if she were floating and dancing at the same time. Slowly. Crowds on the sidewalk do not move to passerbys. They pay no consideration, but Mari walks as if they are not there. Steps before, they move enough to let her through and stare on her way out. She never zigs or zags through people. Before she meets the curb she knows if she should stop or keep gliding past the fast moving traffic of Havana. 

Here cubanos appreciate beautiful women by hissing, staring, honking, or “complimenting” as you walk by. Every block, a woman could expect to receive some new kind of blunt attention. To a newcomer, this catcalling can be unsettling and make the skin crawl. 

For me, it just makes it more awkward to walk. When I have to pass by a crowd of men do I speed up? Do I slow down? Do I look straight ahead? Or wherever the fuck I feel like? 

Mari never has this problem. If she likes what she sees, she’ll pass by with a shimmer in her eye. If she doesn’t like what she sees, she’ll keep on her way as normal. Maricarla’s walk is her own. She owns it every step of the way. 

There’s no insecurity, there’s no rush, there’s no hesitation. Confidence that can only come from feeling as if the earth under your feet were only made for you to step on. I want to walk like a cubana. 

Week One

My first few days here I kept imagining that I was in Mexico. The buildings, the sounds all very similar but still distinct making them foreign to me. I thought why didn’t I just go to Mexico? What was the point in condemning myself to a country with next to no Wifi, no spicy food, and an almost incomprehensible accent? Still deja-vu finds me everywhere. 

The thing is, if I had gone to Mexico I wouldn’t have felt foreign--out of place. I would of felt at home. 

With the US embassy opening-up and word that Cubans are excited to finally have Americans visit again my expectations for feeling welcomed were high. I thought my accent, my Californian style, and my outward expression of confusion would signal enough that I am American--then, that I would be greeted with smiles and small talk. 

Apparently, my Spanish isn’t as horrible as I thought. I’m regularly asked by new acquaintances if I was born elsewhere in Latin America (I’ve even had a Cuban ask me for directions).

Even when I’m accompanied by the 6ft. tall rubio in my program--who is greeted with smiles and small talk--I am hardly acknowledged. The professor looking at both of us asks if I am in the same program. 

Despite seemingly fitting in, I know I am unwelcome. Study abroad advertises to prospective students that once they are noticed they will befriend natives with ease. That the new part of the world they are in will help them navigate through the experience. 

I’m used to Americans being the bad guys in my classes. Our hegemony over a region, Our gross consumption of goods, Our bigoted sense of importance, Our inability to care about anyone but ourselves--unless of course--it’s beneficial to us in some way, etc. But I am also used to being included in the discussion; not being the subject.  

Sections of books read aloud talk about how the Yankees brought their style, English terms, and technology influencing Cuban art and society. The tone is one of resentment and hints at a cultural takeover. I noticed Spaniards are not resented in the intercambio community and I’m almost certain as to why. 

A history professor who seemed friendly at first stated that the last Americans in his class left half-way through the semester, possibility a fault of his own or that they just couldn’t understand. He continued lecture making jokes about the American perspective of history (many of which I thought were funny). In reality, the laughter aimed to mask what was really thought. At the end of class when it was time to exchange flash drives to download textbooks, it was clear that neither the professor nor his regular students were interested in sharing. 

I also feel unwelcome in another way. My professor for Marxist-Leninist Theory’s first name is Marxlenin. The first class, which was predominantly filled with American students, she rhetorically asked if we were all communists--assuming so. Instantly, I felt like a red in the Cold War.

I am not here to share my ideas but to listen to others; however, it is strange to feel so limited. Another professor, before lightly critiquing the university felt shy to express herself because the door was open. Professors at UCSD and even my high school teachers never gave a shit about such things. A professor at UCSD once shut down the entire UCSD network because he didn’t agree with administration.

Lastly, I was warned by a new friend to not make an expression that stood for “Cuba libre” because it could be dangerous depending who may be attentive. 

We learn by contrast. We can’t learn about the world from one place just as a bird can’t learn to fly in its nest. The comparisons we make, so long as we are open to viewing both sides, can help us grow and I’m sure it will.