My Father's Day Gift

(The following post was written and lived by Kikita. It is dedicated to her Big, Fat Verdés Family.)
**WARNING: You may need tissues.**

My grandfather, Rodolfo Verdés, died on December 11, 1999. 

I never called him "Abuelo." Instead I affecionately called him "Papi" as did all of his children and grandchildren. My grandmother, Luza, never called him by his first name. He was always "Verdés" to her. He was always "Verdés" among his brothers and sisters and their children and grandchildren. It was a sign of respect. He was the ultimate father figure. He worked hard and he loved his family deeply.

On his 50th birthday, he began his life all over again in the United States.
I don't know all the sacrifices he made for his family, but I know they exist. I know that he went wherever there was work and sometimes that meant being away from his wife and children for long periods of time.

I also know that every one knew that he loved them. Somehow, despite his absence, there was no doubt about the love he had for his children and grandchildren.

I know he was quiet, but when he DID say something it was bound to be brilliant and, often times, hilarious. He had the BEST sense of humor.

I know his favorite color was red and that it had nothing to do with his politics.
I know that he loved Cuba passionately, loved the United States for welcoming him, and he hated the (c)astro dictatorship just as passionately.

I know that there is plenty about him that I don't know and, when I get to heaven, I intend to ask him all of it.

I know that I miss him.

And I know that he had asked my Mami to take his ashes back to the province of Pinar del Río (where he had been born) and scatter them in the Valley of Viñales.
I wasn't there when he asked, so I don't know if he specified whether he wanted her to wait until Cuba was free or not or if he just wanted to be there.
To be honest, I didn't know anything about Viñales. It was just a name to me.
But not anymore.

I now understand the breathtaking beauty that is the Valle de Viñales and why he would want his ashes scattered there.

And I know that I'm the only person who can tell you where he is now.

When Luza, my abuela, asked me to go with her to Cuba there was no doubt in my mind or in anyone else's that Papi's ashes would go with us. Papi had given Mami instructions about what he wanted, but Mami will not be going to Cuba anytime soon and the ashes had already been waiting for ten years. I worked impossibly hard calling all over the country to make sure I could get the ashes to Cuba. It became obvious that I wasn't going to have all the paperwork I had been told I needed and so I was faced with a dilemma. After much discussion, it was decided that I would "smuggle in" only some of the ashes. That way I would be keeping the promise Mami had made to Papi, but that he could still wait for a Free Cuba for the rest.

I don't think I can explain to you what it was like to separate out some of his ashes to take with me. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation and I wanted to weep at the same time. It was an adventure, and it was a heartbreak. It shouldn't have had to be that way, but it was. I didn't want to get to the airport and have his ashes confiscated. Can you imagine? Waiting so long and coming so far and then having the ashes confiscated by the communists running the joke of an airport? What would they even do with them? Would they have made me turn around? Would they have just tossed them out? (I would not put it past them.)

I never told my grandmother how I got the ashes into Cuba. I told her to trust me and that I would get it done. I think she might have fainted if she had known I brought him in as Lancome face-powder. (I know that Papi would have gotten a kick out of it, though.)

 

I made sure I had the poem he requested and I had a "recent" photo of him.

My cousin, Waldo, and his girlfriend, Mille, came with me on the road trip to Pinar del Río. We wore red in honor of Papi. It was a beautiful day and it was a beautiful drive.

I was detached for most of the drive, until we were actually in Pinar del Río and  I realized: "This is where Papi grew up." That was when the first wave of emotion hit.



It hit me a second time when we stopped to take pictures of the Valley of Viñales. I had never seen anything like those mountains before. (In fact, they weren't really mountains, they were "mogotes" - but that is not important right now.) Seeing them I understood why Papi would want his ashes scattered there and I was again choking back tears.

Waldo is wonderful for comic relief and asked if I just wanted to toss the ashes off the ledge where we were standing so we could go home. I laughed and told him that all I needed was to get next to one of the mountains.
We drove and drove and I started to get antsy, especially when the clouds were starting to threaten rain.

When Waldo headed towards this crazy mural depicting evolution, I thought he was making another joke about what we were doing.
As if to say, "Well, Verdés was a dinosaur, so why not park him there?"

That was not the case.
There are many roads across the valley. There are any number of mountains and countless places to stop. We could have stopped at the third "mogote" on the left after you pass the blue shack, but how would anyone ever find it again if they wanted to?
And how would we put the rest of the ashes in the same place once Cuba was free?

So . . . the Mural de la Prehistoria was the place. I climbed up onto the mountain side and pulled out the poem. I stood under the chin of the red dinosaur and silently prayed that the wind wouldn't throw the ashes in my face when I scattered them.

I read the poem.
I scattered the ashes.
I placed a sprig of wildflowers on the rock.
I left the photo and the poem there.

And then I exhaled.
It was March 3, 2010.

When we finally got back to the house, I told Luza about our day and where we finally scattered the ashes.
She gave me a hug and a quiet, "Gracias, Amy."
After 10 years, it was finally done.

It is father's day.

Papi is in the Valle de Viñales and he has a spectacular view.

That is the only gift I could give him.

Feliz Día de los Padres, Papi. Te extraño bastante.

Why I Was Scared

The following post was written by Kikita.

Fear. It permeates all things "Cuba Now." Some subjects we just don't talk about. Why? Fear. Even the fearless ones worry about saying some things (even if they don't admit it).

Mami always says to herself, "I. Am. Fearless."

I will tell you right now, I. Am. NOT. Fearless.

As the weeks turned to days, hours, and eventually minutes before I was leaving for Cuba everyone was asking me if I was excited.

The truth is, I was NOT excited. 

 

I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was keenly aware that I had only traveled out of the United States one other time, almost exactly 10 years before this trip. I was 16 and went with my Drama class. I was in charge of nothing. All I had to do was show up on time and do what I was told:  hand your passport to that man, come over here, 'nothing to declare' is the line you want, get on the bus, here is your room key and number, dinner is at 6 so be downstairs at 5:30, etc.

I have traveled alone. I have traveled with my Abuela. This was different. If something went wrong, I had someone else to think about.

I had Mami and the rest of MBFCF to answer to if something happened to Abuela (and Tio Abuelo, Fernando).

 

What if the Cubans didn't let me in? What if they arrested me? I know, it sounds crazy. I can practically hear the sneers of "She thinks she is so important that she would be arrested, HA!" 

Yes. It crossed my mind for a couple of different reasons:

It is not like I keep my opinion of the "heroes of the revolution" to myself.

(I could talk myself down from that one. Maybe if I was one of the writers from Babalú Blog or Uncommon Sense I could realistically think that the Cuban military might know who I am. )

Why else was I afraid? I was bringing in contraband.

The Cuban Government has a ridiculous amount of hoops one has to jump through in order to take ashes to Cuba. I had to send the Death Certificate, Cremation Certification, and Papi's LAST USED PASSPORT to the Cuban Embassy in Washington, D.C. and then wait for them to approve the transport. In case you may have forgotten, Papi died TEN YEARS AGO. And hadn't been out of the country for at least 15 years before that. Meaning, his last used passport was from 1970-something. I asked my aunt to look for it. She found it, well, she found the picture that she had cut out before tossing the rest. Who keeps that stuff for that long anyway?

So, I was transporting ashes illegally -if you're dying for more info on that, you can feel free to email me- and if they found out I was terrified of what might happen. The hopes of my whole family where with me. There was no way I could come home and say, "Sorry, I couldn't do it. They confiscated him at the airport."

There's more. About a week before I left, I found out that Mami's cousin Regina Coyula was a dissident blogger. I had been entrusted with the special task of getting her 4GB of discreet portable space. Here's how I did it:

But, having that in my bag? Terrifying. What if they found it? Would I get a slap on the wrist? Sent back to the U.S.? I think one of the greatest kinds of fear is the fear of the unknown.

Unknown? But I knew exactly what was waiting for me when the plane landed. I had read "Take Me With You" by Carlos Frías and his detailed descriptions of arriving at José Martí International Airport on pages 16-19 of his book. I just wish I had re-read it before I left. As I read it now, I want to cry. It is comforting to read that someone else went through the same things I did. Especially that first moment when I walked into the terminal with my Abuela and my Tio Abuelo it went almost exaclty like this:

    "It is then that I see the lines and the guards. Between me and Cuban soil are immigration agents in uniform.

    The rest of the airport is walled off, and two agents stand in each of about ten cubicles. A soldier in a dress uniform waves me toward one of the posts, and I can feel my roll-abour slip in my hands from the perspiration.

    I come to a counter, which separates me from a man and a woman, who look to me in their late twenties, dressed in military attire... Try to smile, I tell myself.

He is not smiling.

Nor is she."

Now, I had less reason to worry because my cousin Waldo had come specifically from Cuba to help me with this part of the trip. He went first and took my Abuela through the door. I was left with my Tio Abuelo, Fernando, who was 99 years old and demanded on doing everything himself. This means that I didn't know if he had all of his documents until the man asked for them.

 

When me made it through door number one, there was a woman (who looked like a pissed off version of Judi Dench in a Nazi costume and medical shoes) that asked to see my passport.

She looked at it, then at me, back at it, back at me and finally said, "When you've finished going through the machines, we have to do an interview with you," and she kept my passport. My heart stopped. I started to help Fernando through the metal detectors and honestly have no idea what happened to him next.

Because my backpack was full of food that we were going to be cooking over the week, I had to go to a special table where they dug through "la compañera's" backpack. Next was another woman asking questions about my health. 

I hadn't seen the Nazi woman again. 

I had no idea where Waldo, Abuela, or Fernando were. 

Another younger woman with a pleasant face found me and had my passport. The "interview" was much easier than I expected. It was all about what I did in the U.S. and my address and she was relieved that I spoke Spanish.

She sent me to collect my bags and return with them so she could inspect them. My heart stopped again, until it looked like Waldo knew her and he was smoothing things over with her. The "inspection" was her just glancing at my bags and then handing me my passport back.

After what seemed like an eternity and a few more scares at the scales, I could see the doors that led to the outside. There was a wall of people that became a tunnel as we pushed the wheelchairs and carts of baggage out to where all kinds of family members were waiting with open arms to hug me and welcome me.

Only then, when the green I was seeing was from palm trees instead of uniforms, did I exhale. Only then did my fear start to fade away. But for the first two hours (yes, the whole process took two hours) of my arrival in Cuba, I was scared...and I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

 

Kikita and the Ashes Go To Cuba

(I, Kikita, wrote this post.)

If you're Cuban (or any other type of Latino) I'm sure you know about New Year's Eve Traditions.

This year I decided that, since I was now 26, I would do things MY way. First, I did all of the classic traditions on Miami time. When it was midnight in Miami (9pm here) I was listening to a Cuban song, eating my grapes, toasting the New Year (which is always "El año que viene, estamos en Cuba" - "Next year, in Cuba"), running money out to the mailbox, dumping the water and leaving my suitcase outside. 

At midnight California time I was out salsa dancing.

The whole night felt magical.
Two weeks later, I get a call from my grandmother.

"Kikita, quieres acompañarme a Cuba?"

(Kiki, would you like to accompany me to Cuba?)

That is where it started.

For as long as I can remember, I have been dying to know in person the "patria" that I hold in my heart, but I am also desperate to see that land free.

Abuela's invitation had stirred up some very deep things for me.

The last time I had talked to Tio Timbiriche he asked me when I was coming to Cuba. Without giving it much thought, I told him "before I turn 27." (I was 25 at the time and there was no real chance of me getting there anytime soon.)

I will be 27 in June.

How I finally made my decision was I realized that a quintessential part of being Cuban is that we put family first. I couldn't very well tell my Abuela (who will be 96 on February 23rd) that she and her siblings would never be under the same roof again because my politics were against it. Politics before family?

Maybe in some cases, but not this one.

Her OLDER brother (Tio-Abuelo Fernando) will be 99 in May and he is going. They have 3 younger siblings in Cuba whose ages are: 93, 90, & 87.

If the nonagenarians are up for it, how can I not be? =D

My big, fat Cuban family has been very supportive of my trip, for which I am incredibly thankful.

I bought tickets for Abuela and me to go to Miami where we'll stay for a few days before we leave for Cuba.

 

Just as I was getting used to the idea of traveling to Cuba with Abuela and Tio-abuelo Fernando, I realized there would be one other person traveling with us . . . Papi.
Do you know the amount of paperwork involved with transporting ashes to Cuba? Neither did I.

There is no doubt that this trip is going to be incredibly emotional, but I'm saving that. Right now, I have been just taking care of business. I've had to stay detached in order to get everything done. So, please forgive my seeming irreverence when I describe what happened next . . .

I was trying to be sensitive to Mami and my tias when it came to discussing specifics so I was doing as much as I could without them.

Finally, I told my Dad, "I don't want to bug, Mami, but I'd feel better if I had Papi's ashes at my house. I'd hate to be doing all this work and then not know where he is . . . I would look for them myself, but I have no idea where to start or what they look like. I never saw them and it's been 10 years."

Dad is so helpful. I really am grateful for him. He said he knew exactly where to look and as soon as we had gotten my car smogged and bought me a color printer, he'd find them for me.

I was installing the software for the printer while Dad was looking in the hall closet where holiday decorations, cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper and lots of extra silverware are usually kept. I heard him make a sound that rang of "I think I found it!" He carefully and solemnly brought the white box to the table, opened it, and pulled out . . . a ceramic pumpkin???

A Halloween decoration instead of ashes. How ironic and absolutely hilarious.

He continued his search and came out with another white box.

 

We were both much less serious about the whole thing. I did the honors this time and found a tin and inside the tin . . . "Ok, 1 dead Papi. Perfect. Thank you. Can you put my printer in my car?"

 

Tomorrow, Saturday, February 13th is Papi's 99th birthday.

It will also be the 49th year of my family's exile from Cuba.

Somehow, I have been honored with the task of taking the exiles home.

  

We leave for Miami on February 24th, the day after Abuela's 96th birthday. We leave for Cuba on March 1st. We get back to Miami on March 8th and we'll be back in California on March 10th.

Yes, I will take pictures. Yes, I will tell you all about it.

Yes, I am a little nervous. Yes, I am extremely excited. 

And, yes, I can't quite believe it either.

Felicidades, Papi, and Happy Valentine's Day.