Fidel Castro, the longtime Cuban strongman, who, for almost six decades, defied eleven American presidents, died early late last Thursday night in Havana, at the age of ninety. He leaves behind a wife, several children, including an estranged daughter who lives in exile in the United States, and a legacy of oppression, human-rights violations, torture and death. There is no doubt that Cuba, and the world, is a better place without him. While nothing in Cuba will change anytime soon as a result, perhaps the passing of the "father of the revolution" will be the first step, albeit a psychological one, for change to finally come to the island nation. And as Cuba gets ready to say a solemn goodbye to their former leader, the Cuban population in Miami is celebrating in the streets, banging pots and pans and dancing to salsa music, in jubilation of the tyrant's demise.
I have grown up with Cuba in my soul. Since I was a young boy, I have known about the birthplace of my father, and was facinated by the stories of a paradise lost. I knew it was a forbidden place, under the control of a Communist dictator who wouldn't let his people leave or allow the ones who did, to return. I knew it was once a romantic, elegant place, rich in history and culture, and in Dad's words, just beautiful." We ate Cuban food, at home or at the few Cuban restaurants that were actually in Los Angeles when I was young. But that being said, I never heard much more, or experienced anything more than that. I knew Dad had a sister left on the island, and a nephew, who at one time had been jailed for "being against Castro," I knew that he sent money every once in a while, but don't know how he did it. There was a strange looking phone number in his telephone book that belonged to her though I never saw him actually call it. There were Cuban friends, too, childhood friends of my father's who, whenever they were together, spoke passionately about one thing and one thing only. They spoke about horseracing.
That's right. Horses and jockeys. And sometimes a little baseball. Why? Because Dad was a jockey's agent, Lazaro Barrera and Pancho Martin trained horses, and Dr. Gaspar Jardon bet on them whenever he could. I never once heard them discuss politics, Castro, the revolution, or the embargo. Obviously they must have had an opinion about it, and surely discussed it amongst themselves at sometime somewhere. But they never did so in front of me, or my mother, or my mother's family. Looking back, it seems strange now. But if I search to find a reason why I was never exposed to any real anti-Castro rhetoric, I guess the only answer I can come up with is that my father didn't escape or flee the dictatorship. Nor did his friends. All of them immigrated to the United States years before Castro ever became a rebel and a revolutionary.
Dad in Havana, in 1941
In my father's case it was more than a decade before the revolution that he came to New York and subsecuently became an American citizen. Born in 1913, he made the States his home in 1947, after spending four years in Mexico City. Although he was proud of his Cuban heritage, he was even more proud to be an American. To him, America was the greatest country in the world, and once said it was "the only country." He returned to Cuba frequently before Castro came to power, and his last visit home came shortly thereafter, in March of 1960. His friends, too, were already in the U.S. for sevaral years at that point, too. Though my father had a home close to the beach that he lost, along with all his posessions inside, he came out of the situation relatively unscathed. As he pointed out, he never went back, and since the house had been financed and was not completely paid for, it wasn't a devaststing loss. A Cuban bank account was also lost but may not have had much money in it.
Dad has been gone for over twenty-five years. Neither he, nor Lazaro, or Pancho or Dr. Jardon lived to see the thaw in relations or the death of Fidel Castro. But since I am a witness to it, I can't help but wonder what would they think? I can't help but wonder how my father would feel about it. I think I knew him well enough to know the answer. And would would that be?
I think he would be ambivelent.
Dad did tell me one time that Miami was a hotbed of political talk, of cigars, strong coffee and dominoes, and since none of those things really appealed to him , he didn't enjoy socializing there too much. He had a home and family there, but that is where he spent his time when he was there. At home, with his family. No coffee shops, no social clubs. He did belong to an association of former residents of his hometown neighborhood, Marianao, and paid annual dues to the organization, but that was the extent of his participation. When I once asked him why he didn't take it any further, his reply was "Not my thing. Talking about politics and about the past. It's not my thing and it won't change anything." To an extent, he was right. All the talking in the world didn't bring the demise of Fidel Castro. It was old age. In the end, the old dictator was a decrepid example of his former self, frail, weak, probably in pain, but probably still trying to hang on to life. He's gone and his brother remains in control, and Cuba is the same today as it was last week. Oppressed. So what are we actually celebrating in Miami? I think my father would have found the dancing in the streets and the banging of pots with spoons in poor taste. Afterall, someone IS dead. It isn't very classy a display, and I am sure that he would have thought it a little over the top. I tend to agree. Thanks Dad.
