The Longest Gaze

Not much has changed in Cuba over the course of the past 47+ years, and it isn’t just the cars. After the death of my grandfather several years back, I took to the task of organizing the contents of an old metal filing cabinet that had been off-limits to me since time immemorial. Resting against the rear wall of their garage, it had never held much interest in me as a child – simply a resting place for old oil cans and orphaned Allen wrenches that had become separated from their respective sets. At the age of 25 however, and with the full authority granted unto me as a result of his death, I clicked open the top drawer. Nothing too exciting, just stacks of old tax returns, the manual from a 1979 Ford Mustang and piles of business letters. It was in the very back of that greasy, dust-covered drawer that I hit pay dirt.

The cover of a black diary read “1960.” I thumbed over to Monday, September 12th. The page was empty with the exception of a notation indicating that on that particular Monday, the weather in Havana, Cuba was sunny and clear.

That morning at Rancho Boyeros Airport, a family of five had arrived to board a Pan-American flight to Miami. Soon after September of 1960, “regular” flights for Cubans leaving the island would end and the forced internment of several million prisoners on that island gulag would begin. No matter though, my grandparents, mother, uncle, and great-grandmother were ready to depart. Bags searched, dirty looks given (by those interminably offensive milicianos), they boarded the aircraft, which began to taxi across the runway a few minutes later, only to come to a very abrupt and worrisome halt. Nearly five decades later, my mother is still able to describe what happened next in vivid detail.

“We could see them marching toward the plane in single file. They looked angry.”

Three militia-men boarded the aircraft, machine guns drawn, and made their to the rear of the cabin, a few rows behind my mother.

“Everyone kept their heads down, staring at their shoes. No one wanted to be called out. In those days, they’d just do it at random.”

The only sounds discernible inside that cabin were the whimpers of worried mothers and the thundering footsteps of heavy combat boots as they thumped down the aisle. A man three rows behind mami was fingered and made to march off the aircraft before three men wearing bushy beards and carrying long-arms.

“We didn’t dare look out the window as they hauled him off. There was no need. We knew where he was going.”

Sometime later, after the eventual take-off, the plane’s captain announced the craft’s arrival in American airspace. Those inside released their anxiousness through a raucous round of applause, at which point, my grandmother Lola turned to her husband and asked him to feel the collar of her jacket.

“We’ll need to sell these if we go hungry.”

Needless to say, my grandfather was not amused. I can recall this story being told on countless occasions. No, he didn’t scream. He simply made it clear that, had those old rings and necklaces been discovered hidden on her person, the unlucky fellow who had receive the machine-gun escort only an hour-and-a-half earlier, would most likely have been them.

Fast-forward 47-years.

The final day of my recent stay in Cuba had arrived. Bags packed, coffee downed, I made my way to the car waiting outside the home that had served as our family’s abode east of Havana since 1940. This is never easy. Those car rides to the airport are generally silent. There just isn’t much to say. Another last embrace before setting off for home until God-knows-when. Another afternoon inside the gauntlet of emotional train-wrecks gathered at Jose Marti International Airport. Another two hours of angry glances from government officials stationed at the airport (those damned “gusanos”). Another goodbye.

Accompanied by two cousins and an elderly aunt, I ambled up to the check-in counter and paid the obligatory 25 CUC bribe to customs in order to depart from the national territory. The four of us found our way to the customs checkpoint, where I promptly submitted my paperwork to a rather sour-faced official. My family could go no further. The door to my left would be buzzed open in a matter of minutes once the young woman inspecting my documentation was sufficiently satisfied, but I could care less about the door. I stood staring at my family, unable to speak, overwhelmed with a mixture of sadness and anger. Suddenly I heard the sound of my passport sliding back to me beneath the plexi-glass window that separated me from the “aduana” representative, and that piercing buzzer alerted me to the fact that the door had been opened. I crossed the threshold.

I never broke my gaze. Walking backwards through the checkpoint, I stared away, drinking them in. With every four inches that door swung shut, I lost site of another relative. First it was Lourdes, then Ruben. Next it was Diana, and finally, my tia Josefina. After making its long arc, the door shut with an alarming sound that stirred me back to life. That was it. They were gone. I could no longer see them. I don’t cry, rather, I well-up. A single drop of water left the corner of my right eye, catching the attention of an airport employee nearby. A rather rotund woman draped a fleshy arm across my shoulder and planted a kiss on my cheek.

“ ‘Ta bien, papi, ‘ta bien – tu volverás, mi amor.”

When?

I arrived back in Miami less than two hours later and buzzed Val Prieto for a ride. En-route back to what Val describes as “man-camp,” we stopped at a convenience store for a few beers. I waited in the car and figured I’d call my mother, let her know all was well.

“Hi mami. Just got back. No, mami, flight was fine. I’m a little tired.”

"Mami . . . I finally get it.”

“Get what?”

“What it must have been like on September 12th. Granted, it’s a totally different situation but - I just wanted you to know that I get it.”

“ ‘Ta bien, ‘Tasio, ‘ta bien – volveremos – tu verás.”

Click.

Posted by at September 21, 2007 10:49 AM

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Comments

Posted by: LaConchita at September 21, 2007 11:19 AM

Posted by: mandingo at September 21, 2007 11:42 AM

Posted by: Val Prieto at September 21, 2007 11:58 AM

Posted by: CubaWatch at September 21, 2007 12:03 PM

Posted by: Mariana at September 21, 2007 12:45 PM

Posted by: Marta at September 21, 2007 12:45 PM

Posted by: Ziva at September 21, 2007 01:18 PM

Posted by: LongIslandCubano at September 21, 2007 01:49 PM

Posted by: ruth at September 21, 2007 03:46 PM

Posted by: pototo at September 21, 2007 05:51 PM

Posted by: CubaWatch at September 21, 2007 06:06 PM

Posted by: JoseR at September 22, 2007 01:09 PM

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