1.
My mother and I sat in the waiting room of yet another dermatologist. We had high hopes that this one would help get my acne under control. The last one had given up and suggested that I cut off my hair. He said it was too thick and oily and made the situation worse. I had never seen my mother more offended. The waist-long mop on my head was somehow a sacred offering to her favorite saint.
There was another mom in the wood-paneled room. Her son was also about 17, but his acne seemed to be restricted to his neck. I wondered if he wished he didn’t live in Miami and could get away with wearing turtlenecks all the time. I also wondered if he had older brothers that teased him. Mine liked to point to my face and pretend that it was the night sky. “Look, The North Star is on her nose today!” “Oh yes and look! I can see The Big Dipper!”
Suddenly and completely out of nowhere, my mother turned to me and demanded that I go to prom. Which in Miami’s Cuban Spanish boiled down to: “Tienes que ir al prom!”
Neck acne and his mother looked up from their magazines. Their eyes moving from left to right at the miniature tennis match that followed.
“Me, what? I’m not going to prom.”
“Sí, tienes que ir.”
“I’m not going to prom.”
“Sí. Vas a ir.”
“No. I’m not. Why do you care about prom all of a sudden?”
“¿Y por qué tú no quieres ir al prom?”
“Because I don’t want to go!”
My mother was starting to sweat. She looked desperate.
“Si no vas al prom, no vas a ir al tal Senior Cruise.”
“What!?”
If I didn’t go to prom I wouldn’t be allowed to go on the senior trip? The thing I was looking forward to the most in my life? Why was she doing this to me!?
This was all coming out of left field. All of these months she had been perfectly fine with me NOT attending any event that could end in sex. And I had no intention of going. Not only did I not have a date but even if by some grace of God I had, the poor soul would have to come to my house to pick me up and that would mean he’d be in close proximity to my family and therefore it wasn’t worth it.
Neck acne and his mother waited anxiously for the next serve. Suddenly, a look of loving tenderness washed over my mother’s face and she started to cry. Neck acne, his mom and I were baffled. Through sobbing tears she said “Es que, mija, tú eres la reina.” She wiped some of the tears away and said it again: You are the queen.
I didn’t have a royal quality in my body. I was a clumsy, oily tomboy from the start, but my mother had been referring to me as her “queen” ever since I was a little girl.
“I know I’m your queen. But what does that have to do with prom?”
But she hadn’t heard me. She was too busy shaking her head, crying and smiling at the other mom in the room searching for some motherly understanding.
Moments later, she was still wiping her tears as we stood before the dermatologist. He asked if everything was ok and she replied “Es que mi hija es la reina del prom.” (We only went to Spanish-speaking doctors.)
My daughter is the prom queen?
He nodded approvingly as he inspected my acne but his eyebrows seemed to say, in no language in particular: “I guess stranger things have happened.”
The thought of this being true caused me so much stress and anxiety that I’m surprised I didn’t break out into new constellations right before his eyes.
2.
Just before I was born, Santa Barbara, the popular Christian saint and martyr, appeared before my mother in a dream with a prophecy about my future.
For a Cuban mother, a saint like Santa Barbara appearing in your dream with something to say about your unborn child is no joke. In Cuba, saints have extra special powers. When African slaves were forbidden to practice their religion, they disguised their Santeria gods within the Catholic saints to appear to be practicing Christianity. Generations later, these idols kept their holy as well otherworldly voodoo powers to become a league of super saints.
Growing up in Miami I saw first hand the special importance given to super saints like Santa Barbara. Huge parties were held in her honor on her birthday. Altars were built. Eight-foot statues of her, San Lazaro and San Martín de Porres stood guard in Cuban front yards (ours) across the city. Fresh flowers, candles, money, espresso and banana cream pies were placed before them more frequently than could be afforded. Believe me, nothing says “Welcome” quite like a life-size statue of a saint.
In real life Santa Barbara had done something to upset her father, the king, so he had locked her up in the tower where she no doubt spent her days wondering why she wasn’t allowed to go on the Senior Cruise. On our lawn, she had escaped the tower but stood next to it for all of eternity.
In my mother’s dream, Santa Barbara sat on a throne wearing a gold crown. My mother approached her in awe and noticed that in her hands, the saint was holding another crown. She took another step towards her and asked “¿Por qué tienes dos coronas?”
My mother’s reenactment of Santa Barbara’s response was always overly dramatic with a nice long pause after the first word.
“Esta… es de tu hija. Ella siempre llevará una corona.”
Santa Barbara saying that her daughter would always wear a crown was as good as Jesus knocking on our door with a TV crew and holding a giant Publisher’s Clearing House check.
This is how my childhood began… or as I like to call it, The Reign of Terror.
3.
My mother took Santa Barbara’s prophecy quite literally and by the time I was 9, I had already been crowned the Queen of Uruguay, Dominican Republic, Argentina, Colombia and Nicaragua.
You never forget your first coronation. I was only 3 years old, but traumatic events have a way of etching themselves into your mind and never letting go. My friend Anita had just gotten a new tricycle for her birthday and her mom had just placed me on it for a ride around the driveway. Just when I was getting the hang of it, I was yanked off, forced into a Renaissance gown and dragged to my first celebration as a real queen.
Somewhere in the underbelly of Miami, Florida in the late 1970′s, obscure banquet halls were elaborately decorated and prepared for not-so-royal coronations. Audiences were shuffled into folding chairs, balloons were given out, hot dogs were sold and a host in a bad suit appeared on a makeshift stage where an empty throne awaited its queen. The “throne” was a large outdoor wicker chair decorated in ribbons and flowers that varied in colors depending on which country was being “celebrated” that day.
At my first coronation the colors were red, white and blue, which could be for many countries, but that day it was for Chile. After a lot of pompful circumstance, my name was announced and the host in his green suit walked off stage to where I was standing with my mother. Holding my hand, we walked over to the throne and he placed me on it. The moment the crown hit my head everyone broke out into applause and I was so startled I started to cry.
We weren’t Chilean. I couldn’t point Chile out on a map. But these were inconsequential details. In fact, to be selected queen there were no requirements that I could see. It wasn’t a beauty or talent contest. I imagined it all boiled down to whose mother yelled the loudest, because I “won” numerous of these.
I’m surprised these countries never took up arms and went to war against my mother. The reality was that back then, other Latin American countries were under-represented in the city. Miami was still Cuba-Town and the other minorities were too scattered and unorganized to plan a revolt. Ironically, though it would have been the only title that would have made any sense, there must have been an embargo that prevented me from ever being crowned the Queen of Cuba.
She referred to Castro as the devil but my mother was running her own dictatorship and I was her little Napoleon, taking crowns away from other little girls who, sadly, would have loved it while I sat there like a log, itchy in miles of lace and disappointed with my lot in life.
Standing beside me throughout the whole ordeal was the royal court, i.e. my brothers and cousins. The girls wore similar dresses, though not as nice as mine and the boys wore velvety shorts, vests and berets with tall feathers sticking out. Even as a child I knew the only thing worse than being me was being one of these poor suckers.
Each victory was followed by a long and elaborate photo session that took place along Miami’s Downtown waterfront park on the spot that would later become Bayside Mall. This was probably because the park’s big hill was the closest thing to a British countryside that my mother could find in Miami. One of my favorite photographs is of my cousin Jaime kneeling before me, sweating in his red velvet beret as I, the Queen of Paraguay, pretended to knight him with an imaginary sword.
And it was the gift that kept on giving because part of your “prize” was to represent that country in one of Miami’s endless parades. There was The Orange Bowl, Christmas, Three Kings and my all-time favorite, Calle Ocho. Again, I’d be pulled from the tree or yanked from the bike, forced into a poofy dress, head crowned and placed upon dangerously tall parade floats. An actual journalist would interview me for the local paper. How does it feel to be Queen of Mexico? Well I hate to answer a question with a question, but how do you feel about taxation without representation? Not such a good idea is it?
We’d drive around the city the next morning collecting all of the “Neighbors” articles we could find. A picture of me in an official newspaper was all she needed to fuel my mother’s preparations for my next coronations. Thankfully, my kingdom came to an end once I hit puberty. But unfortunately, Santa Barbara’s prophecy wasn’t done with me just yet.
4.
As we left the dermatologist’s office, my mother said she just knew I was the prom queen. The same way that she just knew other things. Like exactly when a baby in our family was going to be born and whether it was going to be a boy or a girl, or when someone unexpected was coming to visit. I always rolled my eyes when she said she just knew something. But this time was different.
I had tried to bury the memory but now it came rushing back. A few months ago, a group of blond cheerleaders in their uniforms had walked into our homeroom class. They handed out a sheet of paper to everyone with two columns listing in alphabetical order the candidates for Prom King and Queen. There were about 20 names on each column and you had to circle your vote. My name was 4th on the list.
I heard my stomach fall off its shelf and felt every eyeball in the class burning a hole in my head. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my whole life.
After class, I walked thru the halls and wondered how this had happened. It dawned on me that it must be someone’s idea of a practical joke so I ran into the bathroom and waited for the bell to ring and then ran to my next class. I did this all day and during lunch I sat in the nurse’s office with a not-so-imaginary ache.
5.
Coral Gables Senior High is nestled safely inside of Miami’s shirt pocket, shaded under endless rows of ancient banyan trees. This part of the city is full of beauty, wealth and Mediterranean architecture and its high school fits right in. At one point the school’s population had been 99.9% Blond-American, but slowly and then not so slowly, the Cubans arrived. County lines were redrawn and the lower-income areas along the Gable’s border forced Elizabeth’s, Kimberly’s and Dianne’s to mingle with the likes of Yesenia’s, Yamile’s and Yurislady’s.
The results of these two worlds coming together was no melting of an idyllic pot but more like a dirty West Side Story with Tony Montana taking on the cast of 90210. It was typical class-warfare filled with jealousy, judgments and fed mostly by the misunderstanding that “they” had nothing in common with “us.” School areas were split up and re-classified. The Surfer’s Patio was All-American turf while the Cubanitos hung out under The Marielito Tree in the parking lot. Though I could never understand why they’d chosen that spot since only the Americans could afford cars and all the Cubanitos could do from that tree was watch the enemy zip off to lunch in their BMWs.
By the time I was a senior, the school’s population had grown to almost 3,000 and was about 50/50, but the Americans still ran things. They had a stronghold on all the school’s clubs and activities, except for baseball. Looking back, it’s hard to know if this had all been our own fault. Were Cubans just afraid to take them on? Had anyone actually tried to join a club and been denied access? Had our school become a mirror of how things were run in this city? Regardless of who was to blame, resentment was growing and the peasants were restless.
My friends only wanted to avoid “them”, but all I could see was that The Americans cared about their grades, dressed well and appeared to have normal families so clearly I wanted to be one of them. To me, all that blond hair made our school sparkle. In Junior High, Scott Rodriguez had been the only guy with blond hair. To me, he stood out in our cafeteria like a golden retriever in a sea of mutts.
A few weeks before graduation, nothing had changed. I began to spend weekends on the lawn, squeezing lemon juice all over my head because I had heard that it would make your hair lighter. As my hair and I toasted away in the unforgiving Miami sun I imagined myself eating lunch at The Surfer’s Patio. My long blond hair gaining me access to sit with the cool American girls. In my daydream my thick black eyebrows were also blond and Bradley Bradington, Captain of the golf and field hockey teams, would walk by and fall head over heels for my lemony yellow splendor.
The lemon juice only ended up staining my hands with black spots and turning my hair into a dry, frizzy helmet… but that turned out to be a good thing for my acne.
6.
Santa Barbara likes a bit of irony just as much as the next saint because just before the prom fiasco, things were actually going my way. I had helped Stephanie Hall cheat on a French test and before I knew it, she had taken me under her wing. Stephanie was upper echelon Blond-American, President of the French and Key Clubs and the Co-Captain of the volleyball and golf teams. One day she invited me to her house a few blocks from school. She gave me a makeover and let me have some of her clothes. We drove her bright pink Jeep Cherokee to the fancy golf course at The Biltmore Hotel and she taught me how to hit a 7-iron. Bradley Bradington and his golf buddies walked up to us. “Nice swing” he said. And then I forgot if the golf club was supposed to go counter clock wise or what, but I didn’t care. I loved Stephanie Hall and overnight we were best friends.
At school, I wore my new clothes and walked down the hallway with her. It was just like in the movies where everyone stares at the girl as she walks by in slow motion with a whole new sexy look. I, however, was more covered up in a long-sleeved rugby, new jeans, fancy leather belt and penny loafers with dimes in them. I didn’t look sexier, I looked… less Cuban. Finally.
7.
The senior trip was a day cruise to nowhere. The ship would depart at 6 am with all 921 Coral Gable’s seniors aboard. We’d all heard stories about hanging out by the pool and dancing and hookups until midnight, when the boat would make its way back to the Port of Miami. Eighteen nautical hours of Bradley. I imagined the night sky reflected in the sea and in his blue eyes. My infatuation with him had heightened to the point where I was writing him poetry, the rhyming kind. Not much rhymes with “blond” but that didn’t stop me from trying. Pond. Palm Frond.
One long sonnet later, I was in the kitchen telling my mother that she had a deal. I would go to prom if she let me go on the Senior Cruise. I could see she was thrilled and saw nothing wrong with blackmailing her only daughter. Then again, she actually believed that I was the prom queen. But when in the history of the world did a prom queen not have a date to the prom?
8.
Stephanie and her mom spent a leisurely afternoon shopping for her prom dress at Miami’s most luxurious mall. At Bal Harbour the high-end shops are separated by tropical plants and coy fishponds and classical music plays from unseen speakers. To get my prom dress, my mother walked me down the street to the home of our cross-eyed neighbor Leonora. Leonora was also her best friend, a political activist and, lucky for me, a seamstress. When we arrived she had spread out dozens of small envelopes on her dinner table. Leonora’s dinner table had 3 layers of vinyl and plastic tablecloths to protect it from spills or an impromptu autopsy.
Each envelope contained the pattern for a dress neatly folded inside and on the outside there was a sketch of a woman wearing that dress. There were long flowy dresses, mod patterns and some appeared to be from the 1870′s. I sighed and chose the envelope where the girl looked the least unhappy.
At school I had lunch with Stephanie in the Surfer’s Patio. Sitting there with her was like dating a celebrity, I was worthy by proxy. All week I had tried to tell her I was going to prom but I hadn’t found the courage. I had told her I couldn’t go to prom for religious reasons. What would I tell her now? “Well Steph, my mother has had one of her visions. She believes that I’m the prom queen so she’s forcing me go. Don’t worry, I know you have your heart set on being the prom queen, God knows I voted for you! But isn’t my mom quirky? Now you understand why I want to go to the University of Alaska.”
Suddenly, Bradley sat down in front of us, smiled at me and said “So why aren’t you going to prom? Are you one of thosegirls?” I laughed nervously because A. he was speaking to me, B. I wasn’t really sure what he meant, but mostly C. how did he know that I wasn’t going to prom? My brain went wild and settled on this: maybe he was going to ask me to the prom but had heard that I didn’t want to go and had been devastated beyond belief. The thought of this was enough to make me cry when I got home and saw my prom dress.
The thing laid out on my bed resembled the picture on the envelope in its shape alone. But this one was covered in shiny red sequins and had large purple lace flowers sewn all around. Leonora had taken my measurements but not done anything with them because this was tighter and shorter than anything I had ever worn. The flowers hung limp around my waist like a non-functioning life preserver. Which was probably for the best, because I wasn’t going to want any help when I jumped in the Miami River.
9.
The day of the vote for Prom King and Queen was the worst day of my life but I was glad to have somehow made it through without anyone vomiting on me from disgust. But then, just as I was walking past The Marielito Tree on my way to the bus I was approached by Jesus Jr., the sidekick to the chief of the tree.
“We all voted for you!” he said, pointing to the tree.
“What?” I tried to smile as I looked over at the different kinds of Cubanness represented under the graceful limbs of the giant oak. Tall, pudgy, strong, short… but still a same-minded and dark-haired congregation.
“So that another gringa doesn’t win, for once,” said Jesus Jr.
There was a playful bitterness in his voice.
My face was frozen. My mouth stuck in an exaggerated “huh?”
But Jesus Jr. was smiling.
10.
My date was 20 minutes late when he pulled up in his black Camaro. By most standards he was tall, dark and handsome. It had been my mother’s idea that I not go to prom alone and at the time it sounded like a sensible idea. Now that I believed Bradley would have asked me to go with him I felt sick to my stomach when I opened the door and saw my cousin Jaime standing there in a black suit and skinny leather tie.
Prom was being held in the largest ballroom inside The Intercontinental Hotel, just a few feet away from Bayside Mall the sight of my royal childhood photo sessions. Ten years ago, the cousin that had knelt before me as a loyal knight was now playing the part of my prom date. He wasn’t wearing a blue velvet beret but other than that my life hadn’t gotten any better.
A few hours later, I tried to act surprised when my name was called out.
Once on the stage, the crown was placed on my head and my mother, Leonora, my cousin, Jesus Jr. and every Marielito in Miami rejoiced.
I was the first Cuban Prom Queen of our All-American High.
But it was the last thing I wanted to be.
That night, I stood in front of Santa Barbara with the tiara in my hands.
What did she want from me?
What was the purpose of her prophecy?
Was she forcing me to accept my Cubanness?
I set the crown down by the red carnations my mother had placed before her that morning. And as I walked away… I could have sworn I saw her wink.
Nueva York, 28/12/2011.
Nota del editor: Entre los años 2006 y 2015 el blog Penúltimos Días publicó colaboraciones de 87 escritores, en su mayoría cubanos, establecidos en una docena de países. Uno de sus temas más recurrentes fue la experiencia del exilio, entendida como una pieza clave para explicar el “tema Cuba”, que fue su preocupación fundamental. Escojo aquí apenas diez de esas contribuciones (de autores de diferentes generaciones, lugares, visiones y experiencias) porque creo que su relectura puede arrojar luz sobre la manera en que hemos vivido y sentido las últimas seis décadas el hecho de quedarnos sin un país que, sin embargo, se prolonga en la memoria. (Ernesto Hernández Busto).
La recepción de Igor Stravinsky en Cuba (1924-1946)
Las aventuras y desventuras de “un raro Quijote eslavo” en La Habana.
