Bleeding Cuba
Illustrations by Yinne Smith
I raced down the hallway, my pigtails flailing, and my Pumas muffling against the linoleum tiled floor. I reached my Tía’s bathroom, slammed the door shut, and cupped my ears with my tiny hands. I closed my eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts of ice cream and playgrounds. Abrupt and vicious screams of my Abuelos echoed throughout the halls. Censure was my native tongue and tongue-lashing was a mutual expression.
My clammy palms weren’t big enough to protect me -- I could still vividly hear their hissing words in Spanish, sounding more like mean gibberish. I immediately recognized the unmistakable husky-tone of my father’s voice, who was defending me, an innocent six-year-old, against a monsoon of cries from my Abuelos. I felt the pulse of my grandparents’ rage and the undeniable disappointment in their son. My ear firmly pressed up against the door frame, I could not understand their frustration. How did my curiosity, a simple question about my Cuban roots, spark such strong feelings?
Nine years later, walking along the dimly-lit streets of Pelham, Bronx, I made my way towards a familiar post-war brick building: grandma and grandpa’s house. Trudging in careful strides, I moved past the battered Deli shops, abandoned bus stops, and the smoke-filled sidewalks that swathed young, Hispanic souls. I was here. Here in my father’s childhood town. Here, where whispers were common language, and I, an obvious stranger to it.
I took a deep breath and stepped foot into the main lobby. My Tía, with her crookedly jagged teeth and overpainted lipstick, welcomed me with an emphatic “Hello!”, as I proceeded into the living room. Giving me a full, bounteous plate of rice and beans, she developed a beaming grin. She remarked, “Hallelujah, Trump won!” She cackled with glee, moving her shoulders up and down, opening her mouth chock-full of plantains. She chomped, and chomped, and chomped -- mashed beans softly slipping out of the junction of her mouth. Slipping, slipping, slipping, just as the recently perished hopes of undocumented immigrants. I remained silent -- rage stirring up within me – but I felt my words begging to crawl out of my mouth. There was pure and diverging silence.
My Tía tilted her face in perplexity – she seemed dissatisfied with my reserve and conspicuous distance. She spitefully asked, “You seem pretty silent tonight. What’s the deal?” The words began to crawl. I retorted, “Tía, Trump calls people like us rapists and drug dealers. Doesn’t that insult you in any way?”
She responded, “Who cares about that crap? All I care about is that he’s making jobs.” She carefully sprawled out her stubby arms and legs, grew a condescending sneer, and reclined back into her chair saying, “People like us? I’m White and so are you.”
My heart sank. Sank through a thousand sucking drains. I could feel the trunk of my ethnic roots unearth from the ground, untwining from the bedrock of my soul. Newly-found notches were carved from my roots -- newly found notches left a permanent mark: WHITE.
I hastily replied, “Tía, Tía, you’re not White.”
She rashly responded, “Yes, I am White. And you are too.”
“Tía, no!” I almost broke my neck from shaking my head.
I said, “Tía, we’re Cuban. That means that we are people of color.”
“People of color? We’re not Black!”
Oh, the lines she had crossed.
She began to shed a tear, staring deep into my pupils, hoping to transmit some telepathic message to make me think otherwise.
She continued: “Mija, the term ‘person of color’ is not something to be proud of. But most importantly, the term does not apply to us! And I swear to fucking God if you ever call me a ‘person of color’ again, you’ll never come back to this house!” My fist tightened. Her tears multiplied. Mucus seemed to fall perpetually down her greasy upper lip, her pores filled with oil and pain.
She finally exclaimed, “Never call yourself ‘a person of color,’ you hear me? Never say that again! You are so much smarter than that!” Saliva flew from the chapped corners of her mouth and I could feel the wet puncturing of every word. Every word gnawed at my skin, determined to turn my Hispanic blood into solid white flesh.
Hostility seethed within me. My spirit could feel the piercing of her patronization.
I quickly rose from my seat.
“I am and always will be a person of color, whether you like it or not. You don’t have to agree with me, but I know who I am, with or without your acceptance.”
Racing down the dimly-lit hall, I reached my Tía’s bathroom. I slammed the door shut, and cupped my ears with my grown hands. I closed my eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts of ice cream and playgrounds. My ear firmly pressed up against the door frame, I could hear my dad’s husky-tone.
Weeping, I peered through my reflection through the blurry bathroom mirror. It was four feet tall and powdered with dust and layered grime. I imagined what it was like for my Tía to look through that mirror every night. She saw pale skin. She saw blonde locks. She saw whiteness. I looked through the mirror. I saw brown skin. I saw brown locks. I saw Latina pride.