Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Communism face to face



So I'm reading this book. It's caused a revolution in my brain, the thoughts won't stop blubbling like boiling water, entre la espada y la pared I must relearn myself. I always considered myself to be rather leftist, all up for community, communion and communism, sharing, socialist priorities for the government's responsibilities (free *and good* health care and education for everybody, state-sponsored arts and scientific research, etc. etc. etc.) Now I know that I might just very well be that which I despise and never want to be: a hypocrite. Because this is the simple fact: if I had to eat rice with spam and a fried egg for lunch EVERY DAY and have a ration card that didn't include the smallest piece of chocolate so that EVERY BODY could eat and EVERY CHILD could have milk... would I do it? Well, theoretically, of course I would! Pero en practica... en practica.... how long would I last without going into despair, without giving up for a bag of gummies or apple pie or cheesecake? I thought that the other night, mientras devoraba my very-gourmet-sandwich made with pan-de-panadería, albahaca instead of lettuce, prosciutto instead of ham, Havarti cheese instead of a plastic-wrapped-slice of american cheese, and very good imported olive oil. The sandwich was taking me to heaven, and then... then the guilt... and i blame the damn book! Then the wondering, then the questioning myself ... would I? would I give it up? If I was, like the author of this book was, living in Cuba for a semester teaching dance and was as amazed and won-over by the revolution as she was (and I bet I would, cause just reading about it has had such an effect on me!) ... would I decide to embody the principles of the revolution and STAY? would I choose to leave the luxuries out of my life and live out the theories that I so whole-heartedly agree with? And just as it happened to the author, all that then made me realize, like a slap that makes you look down to the floor in shame, that, although a radical liberal, I am no revolutionary, and no martyr ... just a petite burgeoisie girl, a middle-class young woman who was brought up eating ice-cream, riding in cars, and was always expected to go to college. And the point of all that is that if I came from a poor family with really low resources, choosing to stay wouldn't be a sacrifice, I would be TRULY thankful that I can go to the university, and go to the doctor if I feel sick ... and have a meal everyday! But that is not the situation, I am used to some luxuries (and boy! some things make you realize that the glass is indeed half full and not half empty, and that we just fucking complain a lot!: "i want a new car, this piece of shit's going to break down AGAIN any moment" "i need a new laptop computer to work on my thesis" "i wanna travel for spring break"... shut up nadia! don't be such a self-indulgent wuss!) ... and would I give them up? would I give them up? The book is not a propaganda pamphlet (although it talks about the revolution in such admiring passionate words sometimes that I am actually surprised it got published in the U.S.), it also denounces the revolution's underappreciation of art, the horrors comitted against homosexuals, the control the government has over everybody's lifes, the strict censorship, the bloody persecution of all that "antirrevolucionario"... and the poor conditions in which many farming families still live. But it does not denounce with a pointed finger being shaken all over the place, it explains the situation from within. I don't agree with much of the bullshit I just listed, but I do, somehow, understand. It's admirable that they have survived this long, that Castro's still in power, that their social security, health and education systems are still running so effectively, after decades of economic embargo and deceptive non-declared war! Of course they are not able to provide ration cards that include chocolate and whipped cream for everybody, of course they can't produce shoes so that everybody could get a new pair a year ... maybe if the U.S. bought their sugar, of if the embargo allowed them to trade with or buy medicines from other countries, then maybe the situation wouldn't be so desesperate and less people would try their luck in a balsa across the ocean, and the government wouldn't have to worry so much about "antirrevolucionarios". Because the fact is that the situation is precarious, an eternal crisis, and the revolutionaries that coupd'etated Batista must live wary of their shadows afraid it'll stab them in the back. And yet, it goes on, it survives, it thrives, it flicks its finger at the world and proudly proves us all wrong. All of us, bunch of burgeois cowards, that hide behind the perfect excuse: socialism is perfect in theory, but it cannot be put into practice. - Bullshit! - I had to tell myself and hit myself in the head. -Bullshit! - I stand up and yell at you now - Look at them! they're doing it, against all odds, and against the whole might of the capitalistic empire of the U.S. (fuck what the hell, really, what the hell is this embargo still on for? and why in the world isn't anybody, what am I not doing something???). Blessed be all and each one of the Cubans that chose, that have the courage that I STILL haven't found even when talking of a theoretical situation, the courage to chose everyday to show humanity, to write history, to make of socialism a liveable, real option for the rest of us ... poor suckers hooked on opportunities that leave us waiting, materialism that keeps us wanting, and capitalism that encourage us to keep accumulating crap.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Un paseo por SoBe


Anoche Cris me llevó a pasear por South Beach, Miami (o SurPuta, como se dice á la-calle style). Empezamos por supuesto y obviamente en Lincoln Road, y obviamente y por supuesto enfilamos hacia el Cubanísimo, como dicta el hambre. Caballerosamente Cris abrió la puerta dejandome pasar "Bienvenida a Cuba!". El olor a comida con son y sazón, la cómoda y tranquila familiaridad de la gente sentada en el par de mesas charlando, Buena Vista Social Club sounds de fondo, te transportan: de la puerta pa'lla Miami, de la puerta pa'ca Cuba, mi helmano! Nos sentamos al bar, Cris paraded me, like an alpha male showing off, in front of the middle-aged cuban men. Saludó a la "nena" que atiende with the confidence y flirteo de siempre ... empanadas de carne, mi amor. The poor women must be drooling for him on the food! I can tell by the way she looks at me. La comida del Cubanísimo es de lo que uno más extraña cuando deja Miami Beach! Satisfechos caminamos hasta un bar que Cris definió como el palacio de Murli xq tocaban música electrónica a lo minimal guatemaltecno. Nos encontramos a su manager y su qué mujerón!-amiga, como la definió Cris, con todo el encanto y desplante de decírselo a la cara en vez de un más-tradicional-mucho-gusto... pero lo que es más Cris aún es que el gesto le ganó dos picos! Luego cruzamos la Washington, entre la 10 yla 11, hasta la Ocean Drive, desde donde el viento de mar me alborotó las ganas y la nostalgia. Llevame al mar, llevame al mar, le rogaba. The wind only blows truly free over the ocean, and I wanted to make love in the sand, by the waves. No traté de explicarle lo enamorada que estoy del mar, la falta que me hace, la paz que me da su precencia, la angustia que me causa su ausencia. Cris, quieres ser mi mar? Yo quería oir el mar rugiendo, las olas, y Cris me complació. Pero el viento rugía más que las olas, y se llevaba las palabras. Cris, el viento se está metiendo entre nosotros. Quieres venir conmigo por una colada? Y el camino nos llevó a Jazzid, donde la banda en vivo tocaba latin jazz salsa con percusion y vientos. La noche se nos terminó en la escalera detrás de Jazzid. Laying there, enjoying the perfect weather, still talking about the past, the present situations, the possibilities. ... Then we hung up the phone... Quieres ser mi mar? El viento se está metiendo entre nosotros.


Ayer
Juan Luis Guerra

Ayer te estuve buscando y no te pude ver, no, no, no
TE AME DE OIDO POR PRIMERA VEZ
Me detuve en el silencio exiliado de tus besos
Ayer mi sombra no se encendió de tu querer, no, no, no...
No hubo concierto del cariño aquel
Y no pude atar mi cuerpo a la geografía de tu piel
Ayer mis lágrimas se pasearon tras de ti
Como corriente que fluye del mar
Me enredé bajo la luna reflejando su cintura
Ayer me acompañaba un café romántico
Cerré la noche y me entregué a soñar
Y rodé sobre tus piernas cuesta abajo hasta la tregua
Vísteme de infinito el corazón
Húndete lentamente, amor
Seré tuya en un momento mágico
Mánchame de besos con tus labios
Jubílame el temor de amarte
Y de paso lléname el vacío que hay de ti
Cura de mis labios tu risa
Me abres hasta el cielo y llovizna, tú ves.
Quiero oxigenar mi alma para respirar nostalgias de ti
Te fui buscando ayer y no te pude ver!

Friday, January 20, 2006

so now i can share / Danza, mujer

today i told my dad: "la vida a lo gringo es como cafe descafeinado con splenda ... la vida a lo latino es cafe tinto con azucar morena "

today eric, who knows me well, said: "you are too latina for your own good"

today miguel, an old lover, decided that the worse insult for me, el q mas me ofenderia, seria: "bailas como gringa"

so today i know yet another reason why i'm moving to Miami. It's as close to Latin-America as it gets in this country.

Here's a poem about women, latin-american music and the latin-american way of life I wrote last year:

Danza, mujer, el ritmo
tropical de los tambores
con ese tumbao caribeño de las caderas,
con esa cadencia decadente y elegante.
Es la cultura de la cintura,
la historia de son y sal,
del viento tras las palmeras
persistente y furioso como el mar.

Danza, mujer, el ritmo
latino de la guitarra,
con ese arte alegre y antiguo,
con ese aire de fiesta eterna,
Es el calor que se lleva en las venas,
la desesperada calma que se arrastra en los pies,
la resignada esperanza del desamparo,
espontáneo y medido como la música.

Danza, mujer, el ritmo
mestizo de las maracas
con esa pasión de cuerpos contiguos,

con ese amor a lo mutuo y compartido.
Es el culto bailable a la fertilidad,

la conexión a la tierra y la gravedad,

la herencia de tres continentes,

milagrosa e inestable como la paz.