What are you crazy?

A few weeks ago, my aunt asked me what I do in Cuba. Specifically she asked me if I go shopping. I thought, What are you crazy?  

Capitalism, socialism, communism, we can analyze how theoretically different they are from each other but in practicum the governments that construct themselves adhering to any one political-philosophy function in a similar fashion. To legitimize their power they claim it was given to them by the people; to support themselves and their mandates they collect taxes; to govern they pass laws; to maintain order they create a military and police force. The differences don’t lie in the government but in the reality formed from history, circumstance, and present action. 

The markets are lavish in the US. You go to the market to buy sugar and there is white sugar, brown sugar, powdered sugar, fake sugar, calorie free sugar, calorie free “natural” sugar, foreign sugar, best sugar, and worst sugar. In this country you buy a bag of sugar, when you only need a cup, to return to the market for another because you were unhappy with your first choice.

Economists like to separate money from the hand, from the person who makes the transaction, from human thought and motive that initiates the purchase (because that’s the reserved for marketing and Google, of course). But it is impossible to separate the market from the people because without the people there is no market. Monetary transactions are not simply an exchange of amounts and numbers, they are a tell of a society, an attitude, a way of life. 

To borrow a Marxist concept--the people construct the markets and at the same time the markets are constructing them. The markets influence the culture and the daily lives of the people, all the while, the people decide what they want and what they need to be sold in those markets. Governments get in the way of this symbiotic development. Not just the government of the country in which the markets physically reside but all of the governments. El bloque does not only affect Cuba but the entire world. 

The markets are empty in Cuba. You go to the market to buy sugar and there is no sugar. In the country where sugar was, for centuries, and still is synonymous with money, you can go to the next market and the next market and the next market to eventually give-up and call a neighbor for a cup of sugar.

There is no shopping culture in Cuba because there is nothing to shop and no money to buy even if there were. In 1959, the people chose la Revolución over the purchasing power of capitalism to buy them a nice new pair of Nikes. Now what do the people do? Stop wanting Nikes? No. Instead, those who want them bad enough, make a dinky little raft, find some friends, and throw themselves into el mar from el malcón in hopes of reaching Miami. Those who aren’t willing to travel those dangerous 90 miles wait until a family member who is, or was at some point in ancestral time, willing to do so to send them a pair. 

Yes, Americans will never be happy with the cup of sugar that they choose and yes, it is very sad. Then once a year, we have a day when we pretend that we are, in fact, happy with our choice of sugar. That day is Thanksgiving; the very day that our government-sponsored elementary education taught us that the colonists befriended the indians and that Columbus was a good man. Either way, I’d rather have the opportunity to buy a million types of sugar then not be able to buy sugar when I want it most. 

The Cuban Laugh

I do not like this country but I admire its resilience. The Cuban people do not warm my heart but they have my respect. Cubans laugh at their problems. Not the way a Mexican would; after a long disastrous day con algunos tragos de tequila. Cubans laugh because there is nothing else that can be done. They laugh because they are strong, like someone who chooses to laugh at the pain of an injury rather than shed a tear. 

Cuba is an isolated country. For it’s geographical position, the island has been historically referred to as the Key of the Gulf. In reality, it’s treated like a hunk of rusted metal that ships avoid as they pass by. Cubans blame their isolation on the US. They call el bloqueo el genocidio más largo del mundo but it take an entire world to isolate, to turn a blind eye to suffering. 

Tourists love to take pictures of los almendrones, old cars whose outer shells are from a different time. What tourists don’t see, is the profession it takes to maintain these cars. The parts that have to be reused, revived, reconstructed to keep the machine running por 10 pesos cubanos cada vuelta. They keep these cars alive because they know they won’t be getting any other ones soon--if ever. 

A mid-western man asked us American students how we can put-up with this internet connection for an entire semester. In our brief conversation at the hotel, el Presidente--one of the few places in Habana where there is internet access--not once did he ask how Cubans live with the miserable connection. Let alone how they afford the $2-3 USD hourly fee. 

I went to the Western Union today to send money out of the country. The lady at the desk told me there is no way to send money out of the country (legally of course); she added, the world assumes there isn’t enough money to send so money can only be received. 

I laughed because there was nothing else I could do. We both laughed. 

Emotional Pessimism

The world needs more emotional pessimists. 

It always surprises me when someone tells me they sleep well at night. I only stopped to ask myself why the other day when a Cuban taxi driver told me he never has nightmares, never has worries, and never has problems falling asleep at night. 

Since I was a kid I remember having issues falling asleep. A racing mind with the tasks I have to do tomorrow, a fixation on the light flashing outside my window or the noise of the cars passing by, a nightmare that abruptly wakes me and leaves me drenched in sweat; nights when I don’t sleep at all, because I can’t close my eyes without seeing the problems that the light of day will bring. 

I’m an emotional person. When I cry, I cry; When I’m angry, I’m angry; When I’m happy--I’m really happy. My emotions consume me. I live in moments the positive emotions bring and burn them until they are gone. The negative emotions bring storms that twirl around in my head and demand an immediate response. I treat them as a problem that needs to be fixed and nothing else matters until they are resolved. This approach has got me into trouble time and time again. Fights that didn’t need to be started, words that didn’t need to be said. I’m learning sometimes it is best to weather the storm until it dies out before sending in the National Guard. 

I’ve had people tell me throughout my life that my deep feelings are a sign of immaturity. I think I can always find better ways of handling my emotions just as anyone else can find ways of developing themself as a person, but my attitude towards life couldn’t be farther from needing to be changed. We all have different outlooks on life and our own ways of approaching life’s obstacles. Some people are more logical, some people are more emotional. Some people are more optimistic, some people are more pessimistic. 

A more logical person calculates: what’s best for me; what’s the easiest way of doing this; what make more sense to do in this situation. Decisions are calculated by lists, by weighing the positive and negative outcomes (which may or may not include the feelings of others). Very structured and less messy. 

A more emotional person asks themselves: what feels right; what will make me happier; what is the right thing to do. 

Decisions are likewise calculated but emotions being the scale and positive ones holding the most weight. Not an exact science and very personal. 

This dichotomy briefly explains how these logically or emotionally dominate people make decisions, however, it doesn’t explain their perspective on life. Depending on if we view life more optimistically or more pessimistically will dictate the things we make decisions on in the first place. An optimist isn’t going to look for the problems in or surrounding his or her life to address (whether in a logical or emotional manner); a true pessimist, on the other hand, already sees every possible problem surrounding them and every possible problem that COULD surround them before most see any potential issues at all. 

What I am is an emotional pessimist. I worry about everything there is to possibly worry about. If I were more logical my life would be much easier. All the negative possible outcomes of life decisions could be viewed with some sense of rationality but, instead, they surge a rush of preoccupied emotions that mud the mind. I’ve tried to rewire my brain to at least be more optimistic. There always seems to be a lot of bullshit on the web filled with mantras saying how positivity can change your life--that viewing things optimistically will bring you true happiness. Now I don’t think that idea is wrong; however, there seems to be the condition that negative thoughts must be avoided at all costs. What I’ve noticed from people who preach and try to practice this outlook on life is that they would rather blow a bubble of ignorance around their glowingly optimistic faces then face any hard realities of the world. 

...I just can’t do it. 

I like to look for everything that could be wrong or could go wrong. I like to study what’s wrong with the world because how else could I make it better if I didn’t? For me it’s not enough to “imagine all the people [finish quote].” Because that’s not real and it will never be real. I’m a dreamer but my dreams are of making the dirt more fertile not of building a castle in the clouds. 

The world needs more people who can’t sleep at night. People to worry about the shit no one else even bothered to think about. To worry, because if we were logical, our drive to do something about the problems of our life and the lives of others wouldn’t burn hot enough to keep us going and to inspire action. The world needs more people who understand that the lotus will only grow out of the mud. The world needs more emotional pessimists. 

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.