men·dac·i·ty
In your eyes I see the sins I long to commit (with you).
In your touch I feel the life I never knew I had and never dreamed I could.
In your lips I find the answer to all my questions.
And that answer is 'you'…
-Lali
A few months ago I interviewed the president of the Cuban-American National Council, Mr. Guarione Diaz, for an Immigration Issues magazine. The article was a big hit and meeting Mr. Diaz, and now being able to count him as a friend, has been a big treat. I know the situation in Cuba semi-first hand because I have been to Cuba, I have talked to the people, I have experienced their plight… But, speaking to Mr. Diaz and having more light shed on the Cuba situation, Castro himself, and the American involvement in Cuba, opened my eyes even more to the precarious situation of the Cuban people and to the atrocities and innumerable human rights violations that take place in Cuba every day. (This is not to say that human rights violations only occur in Cuba, far from it, my own country, Colombia, has a long and tangled history of human rights violations committed by the guerrilla and other armed organizations. The key difference is that the people of my country are free to leave Colombia whenever they like if they have the means.) This lack of freedom suffered by Cubans immediately brings to mind the words of the late Patrick Henry: “Give me liberty or Give me Death!” It is true that we are creatures of habit and that if we live a certain way for enough time we will eventually get used to our circumstances. But is it right, in the 21st century, to be accustomed to not having freedom?
I will NOT go into a personalized essay of my views on Castro (devil incarnate) or his Regime (2nd worse after Hitler’s); what I will do is tell a story:
Yesterday I sat and talked to a woman who arrived from Cuba exactly one year ago. We had a wonderful conversation as she told be about this magical island and all the beauty it encompassed. Then suddenly something she said sent me into a state of shock beyond anything I could have ever imagined. This beautiful, thirty-something woman looked me in the eye and said that if she knew then, what she knows now, she would have never left Cuba. I nearly fell off my chair! “Why?” I asked in shock. “Because in Cuba I had a better life than I do here.” Her words hit me on the face like a sledgehammer. “How is this possible?” I asked. “Well, when I was in Cuba, my father who is here in the U.S.A. would send me money every month. So, I had more money than anyone else I knew. I owned my own house, which I was able to furnish with nice things. I had my friends and my family and a life and I had my father’s dollars. It was good. Nobody ever told me that when I came here I would have to pay rent, and phone, and electricity and water and cable and cell phone and a car and petrol for the car and insurance and tolls… Here I don’t have my father’s dollars anymore, I don’t have friends or family (her father lives in the Bronx) and all I really have are bills and more bills. If I go back to Cuba for vacation, I might stay.” I was DUMB-FOUND. Then she confused me. She proceeded to tell me about the terrible situation in Cuba. An average Cuban makes 135 Pesos per month. That is FIVE DOLLARS. A gallon of milk is 10 pesos. A pound of cheese is 15 pesos. Sneakers are 150 pesos. So, essentially, if your child needs shoes, you will not have money for the rest of the month to eat and survive, unless you steal or are helped by someone else who is just as poor as you are. She told me that stealing is an art in Cuba. If you don't steal, in many cases, you don't survive. She told me that Cubans aren't allowed into any of the hotels or nice restaurants even if they go with their Americanized relatives who are visiting from Miami. She told me how her husband is in jail indefinitely because he was stopped on the street at night and was not carrying his proper identification papers. She started crying when she told me about his capture and how she didn't know where he was for one week. She told me of the agony of thinking he’d been killed and that despite the injustice she was relieved to know he was alive, even if he was in jail. I also learned that Cubans are not allowed into certain touristy areas of the Island, this includes being on the streets or beaches in places like Varadero. We spoke for hours. I was fascintated by her strength of character, her unabashed account of her life, her honesty, and the gritty details of her existance in Cuba. Overall, it was one negative atrocious story after another… Yet, at the same time, she was telling me that if she could do it over, she wouldn’t have come to Miami. Imagine that!! I must conclude that the gist of it was MONEY. If she had the same money (proportionally) in the United States that she had in Cuba, her life would be better. In Cuba she was rich (thanks to her father’s AMERICAN DOLLARS and Western Union.) In the US she is poor and works as a maid at The Four Seasons. Isn’t that the story in any country? Isn’t it better to be rich than to be poor any place on this planet of ours? I would unequivocally answer my obvious rhetorical question with an emphatic: YES. In the U.S., in Cuba, or in Kathmandu CASH IS KING.
(Not Cassius Clay.) 
I feel, like you, AFRAID.
I have, like you, SUFFERED.
I am, like you, LOST.
I fear, like you, FAILURE.
I want, like you, PASSION.
I need, like you, LOVE.
After a shadow of doubt has been cast, there is no certainty.
There is no trust.
Everything is tainted.
Nothing is clear.
The shadow has been cast…
I’ve realized that I have not written anything about my mamita in a very long time and I actually recieved an e-mail inquiring about her health. (Which was very sweet, as VERY FEW people take the time to inquire about her.) Oh, this complex wonderful mother of mine is doing MUCH BETTER! I am ecstatic to report this news to you. Now, when I talk to her, I am talking to MY MOM, not a zombie from the ‘other side’. Having the nurse living with her has been just what she needed. She has become very close friends with the nurse (who is young and sweet and I might add, VERY easy to like as she is always wanting to please everyone in the family!) They talk, watch tv, sometimes they go out, and the nurse comforts her and accompanies her and makes her feel special. She is not only feeling better, she looks a lot better and her attitude is a harsh juxtaposition of what it was only a few months ago. Even my grandmother is in awe. Funny story: My grandmother SWEARS that we owe this miracle to the late Pope John Paul II. She is convinced it was HIM that managed this change in my mother. So, she has given every member of the family a picture frame with a photo of John Paul II so we can pray directly to HIM and every month she pays to have mass said in his memory and to speed-up his cannonization as a saint. My Nena is simply toooooo much. It is true that faith can move mountains. In any case, I am more realistic. Her liver is NOT cured. It is the only organ that CAN NOT regenerate. But, for now, it is magnificooo to see her so well. I missed you mamita linda, I missed you. I’m glad you’re back.
I watched an air plane circulate Houston airport today burning off all its fuel in the attempt to make a safe emergency landing. Upon take-off, it's two left tires exploded and the chaos ensued. The run-way was filled with members of the fire department, the police and emergency services. At first I was somewhat oblivious to the story as I was putting some stickers into my World Cup Sticker Album, but then the story began registering with my brain and I realized that I might be witnessing a tragedy, live. I set the Album aside and for atleast half an hour stared intently at my television as that plane circled and circled the cloudy sky. I was concerned primarily with the logisitcs of the landing and what would happen immediately after it hit since it was missing the left tires and it seemed to be quite windy. My thoughts on the logisitcs and physics of the landing quickly faded when I looked into a window of the plane and saw what I think was a person. (I must clarify, it may not have been, but at the moment I thought it was.) And immediately I realized: there are 50 people inside that plane. 50 human beings who all think they might be dying in a few minutes. I was terrorized by this concept. Terrorized at how horribly wrong a simple flight from Houston to Milwaukee can go. Terrorized by this feeling of impotence that there is absolutely nothing on this planet that I could do to ensure them a safe landing. But mainly I was terrorized by the thought that NO ONE HAS TOMORROW GUARANTEED. We only have now. This moment. This breath. And each one of us must decide how he or she lives this "now". I, in my new found 'freedom', am attempting to live my life with absolutely no regrets. And, TRYING to live it with no fears. Or atleast trying to ignore/over come my fears. My past. My pain. Not letting any of that interfere with my life. I am the pilot of my life, not fear, not my past, not my pain, and certainly not regret. I'm trying to say what I think, and do what I want, and LIVE. I'm really trying. I am terrified at the idea of being 80 years old and asking myself the most dreaded of questions: "What if…?" "What if" means: "I had the opportunity and I let it slip through my fingers." And I don't want to live a life of "What ifs", I don't want to live a life where stones are left un-turned, offers are left on the table, and paths are left un-travelled. I want to make mistakes. I want to fall down, and get back up. I want to know that I seized life, took it by the horns, and ran with it.
…And I watched that plane get closer and closer to its emergency landing, and now all I could think about was those poor people and what they must be thinking. "Why didn't I spend more time with my kids?" "Why didn't I tell my husband I loved him?" "What was I so angry about?" "What if I hadn't done this/said that?" "I should have worked less." "Why didn't I fight for her?" "Why didn't I take more chances?" "I should have laughed more."
All regrets. That's all I could imagine going through their minds. Regrets. And it had an impact on me. It shook me. I don't want regrets. I don't want to be afraid. I want to feel and laugh and sing and dance and be happy. And if the plane's going down or the ship is sinking, I want to be thinking: "I'm at peace with myself and with my life, because I did it my way."
BTW, the plane landed (miraculously) safely. Slow, steady, and smooth. And a smile of relief crept on my face knowing that I had just witnessed a miracle.
