A 5 Year Old Cuban Girl’s Memory

I can confidently say that almost every Cuban immigrant family has its own tragic story. I have many. But most of them are transcribed and told through generations of trauma cried out to the heavens by close relatives. This might be a triggering article to some, but a learning experience to many. I’m not here to describe an open wound of a country that has been bleeding since that bruised and battered day.?January 1 of 1959. You, my friend…please do your own research.

This is a story of a little girl who had no idea of what was going to happen to her family. To her close friends. To her little siblings. To her own mom. Though, how much can you really comprehend as a five-year-old girl? Quite a lot actually. Kids are more aware and smarter than we really give them credit for. Not excluding these COVID babies who are wildly smart and energetic. My best friend has one of those. She a powerhouse of a child.

I can still remember vivid details about walking with my grandfather at the age of 3 asking him for more ice cream from that little corner stand next to La Feria in Guaimaro, Camagüey. Making sure not to cut outside the lines while practicing with my maternal grandmother. Or, the first time I was able to touch my paternal grandma’s precious piano which later became mine. Nor will I ever forget the first time I witnessed the birth of little tiny piglets that I wanted to take home and sleep with, in my bed. The smell in the pigpen wasn’t the greatest. The darkness was pierced by a dim light bulb. My grandpa allowed me to be close enough to see but far away and quiet enough not to disturb. I was dying of excitement to be part of this moment. Horrifically confused, thinking that the babies were coming out of her mouth. Yes, I was a kid. Did I cry when I realized that these pigs were later going to be raised and be eaten? You bet I did. Did I forget the whole ordeal later on in life when pork became life? Of course! Sorry, my vegan and vegetarian friends and family. I tried.

My mother is that little girl whom I was speaking of earlier. When it came to her maternal grandmother, she was the apple of her eyes. That small bundle of joy and hope came to her life and gave her a reason to survive. Her name was Conchita Horstmann, you might remember her from two articles before. One of the main protagonists in my novel. At this time in her life, she came to speak for her family and carried the responsibility of many. My mom gave her light. My mom gave her a purpose to be tough. And I truly understand why. Not to be biased. But I am. It’s very difficult not to give a lot of spoilers of Conchita’s character and persona. Who she was before and whom she became later. One thing that I can tell you is that she had a silent, but strong aura. I don’t know if she believed in the stars, but I hope that she did. Kind to many. Giving to all. Tender and soft only to a few. My mother was one of the lucky ones.

Concha learned how to drive when she was in her teens. Her father was a progressive dad for the times. He tried to establish and teach independence to his daughters. She always had been a proud daddy’s girl. I have proof of this in his writings to his daughters while in school and on his writings about their lives.

This story that I recall from my mom’s memories starts inside a car with her grandmother. Enrique Jamaicano, the family chauffeur at the wheel. Traveling to their home town of Güaimaro from another city. The sun was turning in for the day, but you could still see it breathing and blinking through the trees. I wonder what could have happened if they never stopped. There was no way to know what was happening. When they arrived. Car lights flooded the home with brightness. The sudden rush. Women were walking around the family’s Quinta with familiar jewelry and clothes. My mom hid behind Concha’s arms not knowing why her body became tense and alert. This was not a peaceful trip anymore. Castro’s goons had raided our home.

Villa Angela is located at the edge of the city of Camagüey and it was always the favorite Quinta for the entire family to rest from the busy city, celebrate birthdays, weddings, anything that you could give an excuse to enjoy it. You can say the home was a privilege and I would agree with you. I never experienced any of that, but I can picture my mom spitting that strawberry lollipop from her red lips. Her little heart was racing and racing. Concha grabbed her little chubby hands.?Let’s get everything that we can out of the house. Do not interact with anyone. Just look at me Ana María. Just follow me. Enrique!

How many people can carry a mahogany wall clock? I don’t know. How many trips did the driver, Concha, and my mom made from the inside of the house to their car? I don’t know. Perhaps these women dressed in my great grandma’s dresses and some in their military uniforms were there just resting. Let it sink in… This was no normal visit. For a ticket on that land. For a ticket on that house. Packed like sardines inside the car they left. They had escaped the belly of the beast with what little could be saved. How bizarre! Yet, normal to many. She tells me.

We are not enemies. We love our motherland. We are all immigrants. Somewhere I believe that many bodies cry. Don't let the hurt follow you around or become the chaos that others create. This. I try myself. It escapes me sometimes. But Concha’s pulse beats inside, and her blood flows within.

PS: Thank you for teaching me strength through the letters you’ve written. Words that have brought laughter, shed tears and revisited memories. The best is yet to be written.