Cuba is on my mind tonight

While I was in middle school I had to write a paper. I chose to write about my experience of leaving Cuba as a five year old girl.  As I wrote that paper I was surprised at how easily my tears flowed putting down words that had been held captive in my heart for some 6 years.  I realized then that expressive writing could be my therapy.  It felt very good to be able to put into organized sentences the mixed emotions and the fuzzy memories that a young girl protects until such a moment when they are released into the light.

Today, as a much older person, I sometimes feel that same sentimentality. It still surprises me that I can tap into the aroma of sadness  of that dark clear night when our family crammed into the back seat of a taxi bound for the airport; destination: Miami, Florida. My beloved abuelos were left standing on the street curb waving good-bye, I still can see my mother, holding my younger brother on her lap, and I sitting in between her and my dad, while she was crying into her handkerchief. We left with nothing but the clothes we wore.  At the airport, after humiliating strip searches by mean looking people, and removal of any other possessions that belonged to the state, we were not so kindly told we free to leave.  These images of that night,  I don’t believe can ever be erased. In a way, I am glad because I never want to forget the conditions under which we had to leave our native land. (Another future blog perhaps, I will go into those details).

Many people think that Cubans left in the early sixties to come to the US in order to find a better life, a better economy (since Socialism was beginning to take shape in the new Revolution imposed by Castro), and a prosperous future.  Yes, I suppose that is part of it:  but more than that really. 

You see, I was born in 1961, a time when a Cuban was seriously constrained of any freedom.  This was not the Cuba of my parents or grandparents.  My father had seen what the dim view of our future would be in Cuba and we were one of the lucky ones to be allowed to leave because he was over the age of males who were being forced to enlist into the new revolutionary army. We were deemed indispensible and in actuality, we were thrown out because we did not agree with the ideals of Socialism.  I was “expatriated”, as it is stamped clearly on my old, useless Cuban passport. 

When I turned twenty three, I willingly studied for and took my US citizens test and passed, actually surprising the man who  was verbally testing me. He was impressed that I knew so many historical details….I was even able to tell him where our National Anthem was written and what battle inspired it.  (It was last year of the War of 1812, during an attack on Ft. McHenry on the evenings of Sept. 13-14, 1814. Francis Scott Key was inspired and wrote the poem, which later became our anthem. I always liked learning history. )

Anyway, when we were banished from our country, our citizenship was removed.  Our choice at that time was stay in Cuba and help fight for the new revolution or leave but you will never and can never be a citizen again. There was no grey area in that choice and no grey area in knowing what we had to do as a family.  We had to leave because my parents knew that the human person cannot flourish, a family cannot be truly whole, and a child cannot reach its potential if it is forced to believe in an ideal that is not in accordance to their conscience. 

So, to set the record straight, my family was exiled from Cuba because we did not believe that the Socialist ideals were the best for our human dignity. My parents probably would have done better professionally in Cuba.  Both of them had attended college there and received professional degrees but they would have been forced to have joined the Communist Party as was mandated for all its citizens, no doubt my life would be much different today.  Had we stayed, I would have had to join the young “Pioneers” movement at school and I would have been rewarded for betraying any family members or friends who had thoughts that went against the Castro regime. I would not have been allowed to attend college if the school found out that we practiced our Catholic faith and attended Mass regularly.  I would have had to learn to live a dual life, which is what happened to all my cousins who were not as fortunate as I was. My parents would have had to be vigilant that the block captain (Committee for the Defense of the Revolution) where we lived did not suspect us of being “counter revolutionaries” because of having family who were already living in the states. 

So tonight, I am thankful that God opened a door for my family and we had the courage, hope and faith in God to take advantage of it. Through much sacrifice my parents did what was right for all of us and for the future of their grand children. 

Tomorrow, Dec. 10, 2011 is the 63rd anniversary of the Declaration of Human Rights….I think I shall read those articles again, articles that in 1948, many nations signed, including Cuba.  No. I don’t want to forget how much work there still is left to be done in our world, and in particular, in my exiled land of Cuba. 

 “Article 1-All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in the spirit of brotherhood.”  

Tonight, again I light my candles and prayed.  I prayed for peace and freedom for all those living in oppressed lands. I pray for all those who strive daily to be peace makers and defenders of freedom….these are the prayers on my mind tonight.   Lord, send me.  Amen.

My abuela Carmen always had a plan

Today my father gave me the black rosary that used to belong to my grandmother, his mother. It is funny how every year at this time, the anniversary of my abuela Carmen’s passing, her presence is felt by me in a special way.  As I held her rosary, I remembered how she caressed those beads every day and how I didn’t appreciate what she was all about until she was gone.

 She and I were close, I was her name sake. Although, many say I resembled her,  we had our differences.  First of all, physically she barely measured five feet tall.  Most of my life, since I possessed the tall genes of the family, I was looking down on top of her little round white haired head.  She was very round; she had round fingers, round cheeks, a round mouth that always lisped when she spoke in her Spaniard accent, big round eyes the color of Cuban coffee, the roundest part was her middle from which skinny  white muscular legs dropped to the ground and managed to hold her up- all together with age and grace.  Every day she woke up, praying  before her round toes touched the ground, then she washed, put on her stockings, put on one of her floral house dresses, pulled back her short straight hair, with Spanish painettas, one on each side,  and she would go into our family kitchen to begin the day.  Meanwhile, my abuelo Dionisio, would get up also, and his job, after making sure that abuela was in good shape, would be to consult with her before heading for his daily pilgrimage to the Cuban market. She might suggest a nice sword fish for our families’ dinner that night “Dionisio, mira ver si hay pescado fresco en la carniceria para esta noche”.  She never had to remind him to bring home the freshly baked bread from our Cuban bakery which was next door to the grocery store that he would walk to on the border of our neighborhood. I can still see my abuelo strolling towards that store down our long block, donning his black Spanish beret, a plaid shirt tucked into his long pants, and usually smoking a cigarette. That was my abuelo Dionisio, compliant to his wife, dutiful fulfilling the families’ need for that day: fresh bread and some daily special that would become a part of our evening meal. 

Supper was a very important part of our families ritual, no one ever ate unless the six of us were at the dinner table.  I learned early that the dinner table was the Lord’s table.  One dressed and behaved properly around our table, special moments were celebrated there, it was a holy place and when we gathered, it was a holy gathering.  Our meals were very Spanish/Cuban, usually always included one of abuela’s Spanish soups with chorizo or pollo or pescado.  It wasn’t until she became too old to cook that she willingly gave up this cherished role, being the one to provide for our home cooked meals.  She took care of it all, I could not even help her clean the dishes, that was included in her vocation!  I was not about to argue that with her!

Abuela Carmen was known for her strong Spanish character….but to me, she would show her soft side by doing things she knew I didn’t like to do. For example, although my mother always wanted me to make my bed before going off to school, I was very lazy and would not do so.  However, on many of those days, my bed would be made when I would arrive later. Abuela never mentioned it, and neither did I, but we both knew.  This was how she showed me her affection! 

Advent time is the season I think of her most, she passed away on Dec. 3^rd,  a few weeks before my second daughter was born, now 23 years ago.  In the end, she was in a nursing facility and I have sad memories of her crying out in pain for her mom.  She had not seen her mom in many decades….having left her behind in Spain when she immigrated to Cuba in the early decades of the 1900’s.  Holding her round fingers as she laid in her hospital bed, I noticed all the needle marks where she was being poked for blood work, I prayed that God would bring her peace.  She died quietly one night. No one was around her….but somehow I have a feeling that my abuelo was on the other side waiting to consult with her on what they would do that day.  Maybe she would say “vamos a ver si hay algo fresco?”  She always had a plan.

Tonight on my advent wreath, as I lit a second candle, I felt abuela's presence again, who taught me that what is important in life is not what we have, but what we are for each other.  Even in the end, abuela Carmen called out for her mom’s love, after many years of not having her.  She yearned for a maternal love that only  mothers and grandmothers can express.  Today  I also yearned for my abuela’s presence and I realized  it is the Solemn Feast of the Immaculate Conception.  My abuela was very close with our Lord's mom, Mary.  I wonder if perhaps that was to whom she was crying out to for comfort and rest?  How fitting that today  was the day my dad chose to pass on to me her rosary. I took it in my hands and remembered her love of prayer, her love of Jesus and his holy mother and her passionate faith in God. Tonight she would have reminded me to pray to our blessed Virgin Mary for comfort and guidance.  After all, abuela always had a plan!

Tonight I lit a candle....

My abuela Carmen used to tell me about the shining stars in the night sky of her mountain village of Potes, the place where she was born in 1903.

“never again will I see brighter stars than the ones I used to see in my sky as a child in Espana” she would say to me in her room during those evenings when she was preparing to say her evening prayers. The tone she used in her voice would make me realize that the image she was reliving was deeply missed and a cherished one that she wanted to pass on to me.

I tried hard to imagine what that might have been like; that image she was describing suspended so concretely in her minds eye. Her childhood’s starry nights could not have been any brighter or any closer to the heavens as hers. She wanted to make sure I understood that.

My grandmother and I grew up in a contrasting time and place. What was consistent between us was our dedication to educate and raise morally good children, try hard to live a good life and our desire to worship and love God.

I was born well into the 20th century in a tropical and then progressive and cosmopolitan city, just 23 degrees north of the equator. At the time of my birth, Havana had seen centuries of colonialism by the Spanish, then Cuba became independent, followed by a rapid progress into the 20th century; its citizens had enjoyed a most progressive place up until the time I came to be. It had been a country where steam engines debuted in the island at about the same time they did in the U.S., in the mid 20th century, color TV debuted first in the island before it did in the states, fashion trends catered to the Parisian industry, doctors flocked to further their specialties in modern labs, bright university professors lectured in impressively old neo-classical buildings and the construction industry had begun to re-surge with an innovative style of buildings that became known as the International style.

My abuela Carmen had immigrated to this island in her teens, following her entrepreneurial older brother, Tio Pepe. This is how I ended up being born of her son’s wife, in Cuba and not in Spain.

All this good progress brought artificial light to our surroundings, available at all times, to even the most remote areas. It is no wonder abuela Carmen was never to see “such clear and bright stars” in the same way again. I rarely look or think of the night sky and become inspired the way she obviously did.

My abuela’s family stone home still sits next to a running stream, today there is electricity, but there was none when she lived there. She depended on the moon and stars for light and for direction at night. For her the night sky beckoned the seasons, the passage of time, and was a constant source of awe and wonder.

Why do I write about this? Because tonight I lit my advent candle and reflected on its’ meaning.  It came to me that such a lonely flame on my dining table has lost its significance with my day to day life. Sure, it’s pretty, but it has competition! It is not the only source of light in my home. We don’t depend on a flame like my grandmother might have in her home. For her, a flame cooked her families’ meals, warmed their beds, sanitized their clothes, and provided them security during the darkened moments of the year. They had to work to keep the flame going.

I think my abuela may have had a clearer notion of what lighting a candle really stands for. She was more in touch with the mystery and struggle of life than I am.

As I helped my son light the match in order to light our candle, for an instant, I found myself sitting on her bed after dinner time like old times, abuela already settled into squeaky aluminum rocking chair, black rosary beads in her hand. She was reminding me again of the closeness and brightness of those stars in the night sky. She took me back to her childhood once again, in my mind, I pictured her old rustic Spanish tiled house tucked away high in the mountains enveloped by a very starry bright night. I became thankful of all the blessings that God had bestowed on my abuela and through her, onto us. Tonight I prayed that I would be as in touch with God, with the stars, and the reverence and the mystery of life as she was. She wanted to pass this onto me. Tonight I want to pass this onto my child. This is what this candle stands for tonight.

To Be-Long



To Be.
True to my Self
At peace with my Heart
I Bless my struggle

A nod.
 To my limits
Embrace past failures
I Absorb and Become

I am.
True to my Past
Absorb the Now
I am healed, I be-long

We are such creatures of habit, for some of us, change threatens our sense of who we are.  As we grow, we must reflect, and we should have a point of reference to reflect from. My point of reference allows me the freedom to be who I am called to be.  My point of reference is Someone; He is my creator.  He has instilled in me a sense of longing to be loved by Him, he has placed in my heart a knowing that I am being called by Him. I realize that I long to love that Someone. His love heals and transforms who I am. Although I may not be worthy of such love, I yearn for such love. When I freely respond to that longing I know that I belong with Him.
I wrote this poem as I reflected on this sense of longing.

Photo by Zac Cayon 11-22-11

A Cuban Thanksgiving Memory

My earliest memory with Thanksgiving was getting together at my Tia Berta’s and Tio Alfredo’s house in Indianapolis with all my United States born cousins.  My Melendez cousins: Ronnie, Debbie, Karen, Kathy, Stevie, Bobby, Roger, Twyla, Nicky, Alicia, were mostly all blonde haired, blue eyed, and very much radiated the confidence of kids who knew what tribe they identify with.  I, newly arrived to this county, was a novelty to them and I was trying to identify myself with them, but I was different in many ways. I was born in a country that was repressed, I had learned early on to live in fear and mistrust of neighbor, I  didn’t know English, and I had not become yet too comfortable with the North American tradition of eating Turkey and stuffing and cranberry jelly.  My earliest memories of Thanksgiving are not about the food we shared though, it was the fun we had in getting together in my Tio’s basement around a very long make shift table and listening to our family stories being told by the adults. It was in those celebrations that I learned to figure out where I came from and who I was.

Having entered this country in December of 1966 after being “expatriated” by Cuba, my family were able to rely on my Tio's who had already settled here years prior.  We came with only the clothes we were wearing.  We were not allowed to take any personal belongings with us, it all belonged to Cuba.  My five year old mind was looking forward to seeing snow. I was not disappointed because as we got off our small plane at the Indianapolis airstrip, not only did I see snow, I smelled snow.  Ok, I know that sounds odd, but I so remember the crisp, cold, minty, smell of snowy air.  It hit my olfactory senses and registered in my mind, that to this day, that smell brings me back to that hour I landed in a new northern landscape that would become my home for the next 6 years of my life.  For me that distinct sweet aroma is how I would describe what freedom smells like; yes, freedom has a fragrance!

Looking back, I see how privileged I was to be taken in generously by our family and all my cousins. We were needy, but never hungry, never alone, never without a gathering to celebrate an occasion. My parents worked more than one job each; having had a profession in Cuba they had to turn to factory jobs here.  We were too proud to take handouts from the government, even though we probably qualified, and I remember my parents always sharing what we had with others who had just immigrated too, and not just from Cuba.  The first house my parents purchased was small but we had the largest parties!  Cubans are like that, we celebrate any small occasion. In fact, we will make up occasions just to get ready to celebrate an official occasion. For example, in December, we spend the entire month getting ready for Christmas Eve.   The day we shop for our food is an occasion to celebrate, the day we marinate the pork is a party, the day we decorate our tree is a bash, and there are usually friends or family in town, so reunion revelry is usually in the works. Then we celebrate Christmas Day, mom usually bakes a ham,  and then we have the next few weeks of get togethers and visiting friends houses until we get to Epiphany in January, which in the Cuban tradition, is when we celebrate "Three Kings Day".  So for us, the entire month of December into January was one big festival with my family and friends sharing time and meals together. How blessed was I as a kid? 

This same experience is repeated at Thanksgiving.  Just taking the turkey out of the freezer can be an occasion. We have a “marinate the turkey” night usually the night before Thanksgiving; my family traditionally bakes bread also (thanks to the electric Bread maker, no need to knead anymore) and we always love waking up on Thanksgiving morning to the smell of freshly baked bread.  After breakfast, we wrap up the bread loaves, place them in a basket, insert a few wine bottles we plan to share at our family dinner and take it with us to Mass that morning.  There is no better way to celebrate than being a part of a wider more diverse community, all who gather together to have their bread and wine blessed, so that we can share those blessings in our homes later.  I now realize that that is what makes Thanksgiving more than just about the food we will eat, it is about the gathering experiences and those traditions that bind us.  At Mass, we gather around our Lord’s Table and share a Eucharistic Meal, later that day we gather around our own family table and share again with those who are one with us. 
"Eucharist", a Greek word that means Thanksgiving; this is what it means to be Catholic and a Cuban living in this country- to be a thankful people, to be a celebratory people and though many and dispersed throughout the world, we are all One in the Lord!  Thanks to my parent's traditions and Catholic faith, our Cuban culture melded with the North American culture beautifully. I have not lost my Cuban culture, but it has been transformed. I know who I am today, because of my traditions; the traditions of my family and of my faith have shaped me.  Now 40 some years later, I can look back and see that what I was taught  in those gatherings through the years was to be generous, to be humble, to be accepting and welcomng, to be proud of our stories and to always take advantage of those invaluable moments when as a family we can give thanks for one another!

Dreams help me understand myself

The great Taoist master Chuang Tzu once dreamt that he was a butterfly fluttering here and there. In the dream he had no awareness of his individuality as a person. He was only a butterfly. Suddenly, he awoke and found himself laying there, a person once again. But then he thought to himself, "Was I before a man who dreamt about being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly who dreams about being a man?"

Rarely do dreams mean literally what they convey. Recently I have been having dreams…and it has me pondering what they mean.

In these last years, I have had to adjust myself to my adult daughters' independence from me. It is hard for parents to realize that we have to let our children leave the nest and make their own decisions. I remember all 3 of our little girls as being very compliant and very easy to love.... always trying to make us happy and they each had a good conscience.  Then, (insert Theme to Jaws music here)….they became a teenagers. For those few years in high school, I became the “worst mother” because I wouldn’t allow them to do everything some of her friend’s parents would allow.  For one whole year, one of our daughters and I communicated via letters and notes, because we could not communicate face to face without one of us breaking down into tears.  She felt I didn’t understand her, and I felt like she didn’t understand me. Thank God for her father, who was the one she would run to and cry on his shoulder during this time.  When they went to college, my daughters began to like me again.  I began to like them too.  They turned to me for advice.  I respected their choices, because they were able to explain to me why they had chosen certain things for themselves. I learned to hold my tongue, and understand that each one needed time to figure out who she was without my judgments. It’s hard to be a mom and not judge. All their growing up years that was my “job”; to decide for her what was right, this involved constantly making judgments.  I didn’t realize that that was what I was still doing as they grew up and needed more independence. I was doing it in less overt ways. (Moms can be sneaky like that!) Let me say, that thankfully those years are way past us now.  For a while last year, my oldest daughter and I would meet regularly for a walk around Al Lopez park, and it was during one of those walks that I realized how far she and I had come.  We enjoy doing things together again; I  now can confide in her, she  has confided in me.   Each one of my daughters is not like me at all, and I am happy about that, because it is in how each one is different that  I have found our friendship.  I am interested in their goals, in their relationships, in their humor, in their viewpoints….and I am happy that they gave me the time I needed to be able to love them  for who they are still becoming.
I need to let each of my daughters come into being; to be reborn; and my dreams have  possibly been nudging me,  that in letting them arrive at their place in life without my constant interference, I am able to appreciate their uniqueness and thier preciousness.

Zac's story of how he came into our world, as told by his toy worm.

I found this story that I wrote for his first birthday in this journal (see pic above) that I kept for the first year of Zac's life.
 Zac still has this toy worm...sits on his
clothes dresser now with other fluffy favorite animals that he loves.

WORMY GOES TO THE HOSPITAL

Zachary’s story of how he came into our world, as told by his toy worm.

By: Your mommy, Carmen Cayon

Revised 2006, from the original written 2002.

I once was a regular kind of worm….colorful, small and soft enough for little hands to hold me.  I waited for those little hands on top of a tall, new, white dresser; waiting for March.  I knew that soon Zac would play with me!

            As we got close to March, Mommy put me in a bag, the one with all the essentials that a new baby would need. I nestled on the very top!

            That day arrived quickly. I was taken into a recovery room in the hospital.  I waited for your crib to be brought to us in that room.  I could hear the sounds of the wheels of the crib, as they scooted you into our lives on that Friday night, on March 9^th.

We were in for a long night….you didn’t breathe too well.  Mommy and Daddy were up all night, the nurse said it was “normal”, so we didn’t worry.  You were up all night.  I watched you as you looked at your mommy’s face; she couldn’t stop looking at you either.  We just couldn’t believe how beautiful you were!

In the morning, Mommy put you and me back into the crib, as they wheeled you to be circumcised.  Later, they took us again to remove a small growth from your left hand.  I didn’t realize that when we were being taken from our room where Mommy was resting, that we wouldn’t see her again for such a long time.

We were on a new journey!  The corridor was long, the lights were bright, you did not seem happy when they unwrapped you and put you under a new type of light.  Many eyes peered at you and many hands probed you.  I was tucked under your blanket for a while so I couldn’t see what other things they did to you. But I could hear you, and I knew that you wanted to back to our room with Mommy.  How I wished I had long legs, or perhaps wings, that I could scoop you up and take us both back to our warm room on the third floor.  But I just have stubby feet and I don’t have wings.  I only had my colors to keep you happy and my soft body for you to rest your little hand on.  Which you did!

Many very important people came to talk about you, they seemed important because they all had tags and funny looking hats and long cords hanging off them.  They spoke in important voices and looked at you with such important glances.  I wanted to tell them how special you were.  You were not just any baby, you were Zachary Andrew Cayon!  I wanted to tell them how long we had waited for you, how I had guarded your dresser, right next to the shiny toy car and the white rocking horse!   I wished they knew how many people had planned for your arrival and how your three sisters, Cristie, Caren, and Catie were probably anxiously waiting to hold you….I wanted desperately for them to take us back to our family.

After many, many hours, they finally left you alone.  They put me right next to you, so when you turned your face you could see me and all my bright colors. Did you like the colors Zac?  I tried to make them as bright as I could…to cheer you up!  We were both sleeping when Mommy and Daddy were finally allowed to see us.  The medication they gave you made you sleepy.  I saw Mommy get close to our special crib and lean over, she studied your face and as she whispered your name, you opened your eyes and turned them in her direction. Did you see her tears, Zac? She tried to stop them, but they were falling too fast.  I could tell that Daddy really wanted to hold you, but all he could do was caress your back.  He didn’t know how to touch you, afraid that you might be in some kind of pain.  You were attached to so many tubes and you had a respirator that made a very scary noise.  We could tell that you were crying because of the expression on your face…but there was no sound coming out of your throat!

The next day we were taken to a different kind of room. They called it the “operating” room.  On the way there, Mommy and Daddy were waiting for us in the corridor; the same long, bright corridor that we had passed the day before.  They wanted to touch you, but the doctors were in a hurry.   Mommy and Daddy quickly walked next to us and stroked your back gently. At the end of the corridor were a big pair of double doors with a sign that read, “Doctors only”, Mommy and Daddy blessed you and saw us disappear into the next corridor.     We were now on our way to the room where the important looking people were all assembled.  It was so noisy in there.  People were all prepared for your arrival.  Your name was on everything. There were shiny objects, things that moved back and forth, surfaces that were polished to a shine that I had never seen!  But there were no bright colors, I was the only one!  I was there like a beacon for you, reminding you that soon we’ll be back in the warm room that we had come from.  Did you see me then, Zac?

Finally, after 5 hours, they finished their work on you!  I was so happy that it was over.  No one seemed to notice me Zac…only you did!  I was happy that for once I was not just a regular worm, I was an extraordinary wormy, because I comforted you during those first few days, when Mommy and Daddy weren’t able to!

We spent many days in a place called “NICU”.  Sometimes you would hug me; sometimes the nurses would put me on your back. Mommy thought this was so cute!  One time the nurses couldn’t believe how you would find me and use me to cuddle, so they took a picture of us like this, to show your Mommy and Daddy.  I was so happy that you found me during those lonely times in the NICU, when no one else was allowed in to see us.

When we finally went home, I could not believe what happened!  Mommy did not put me back on the dresser. She did not want me there any more, no sir!  Now I was able to sleep right next to you in your little bassinet.  I traveled with you in your diaper bag, when we went for doctor’s visits.  I even got a new wormy friend, one that takes over for me when I get dirty and need to be washed.

Five years has now passed and some would say you are too old for me.  But I don’t think so; I don’t believe that you can ever outgrow the love of a colorful friend who will look out for you.  I may not be able to fly, or sing, or even dance, but I will always be near you, Zac.  The time may come when one day, you will put me away on a shelf, if that happens, that’s ok.  I know that I have given you my best and I hope my bright colors will remind you of all the bright colors the world has yet to offer you!

Happy 5^th birthday Zac…..I love you!