safe space :: madison, wisconsin // not a safe space :: guantanamo

I remember a couple of years ago I was invited, along with ten or so other queer activists, to a media training workshop given by a media education group in Madison (pictured). Madison is a super safe space and probably #1 city for lesbian couples. I was able to walk around freely, buy books from one of the oldest feminist bookstores in the country, enjoy a cup of coffee at one of numerous available cafes. It hardly seemed like real life.

We learned how to work with the media, be responsive to queer issues discussed in the media (mainly print), and respond timely with concise information, quotes, stats, etc.

We did a couple of samples together, disciminating a couple of topic points and focused on Guantanamo.

I never spoke up but should have. While the others talked about human rights, Geneva pacts, etc., I thought about how I, as a Cuban American, saw those who were kept at Guantanamo as Cubans. Despite their being from Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Iraq or Afghanistan, I saw them as now under the military thumb of Americans on land that was seized by Americans but that belonged to Cubans and Cuba. How must the Cubans view not just Guantanamo but Guantanamo's new role, new duties?

It hurt me that there were no screaming Cubans outside Guantanamo. It hurt me that I couldn't say anything. I had more than one relative or family friend stay in the prisons of Cuba after the revolution. The desperation they must feel - their lives squandered, military personnel and government officials surrounding them like parasites. My Tio Cheo made it out of the prisons and was one of the Marielitos but he was never the same. He drank himself to near death, smiled a faraway smile sometimes and, in looking at you in the face, would look like he was going to cry. He died of cancer. There's no story in the world out there for him. My grandfather's cousin, Pedro Luis Boitel, was more well known but died during a hunger strike on May 25, 1972. I was not even one year old.

Well, today, another Guantanamo detainee died - killing himself rather than staying there. My god, what possible information could they still be trying to collect after being subjected to mistreatment, forced detainment, and inconsistent protections and legal aid for 5 years! When are they gonna shut this crap down? And I don't just mean the camp but the whole damned base!? The House of Reps is trying to shut the camp now.

I'm really hurting today. I read the news item while at my desk at work earlier today and felt so ridiculous, trying to balance numbers while one man was dying. I keep crying.

new poem : tremendo lío

tremendo lío

for J.M.

contigo yo me quemare
contigo yo no morire
porque contigo yo renacere

— Sergent Garcia


on my hands and knees beneath the table
my purse has fallen off the boxes and lost itself
at the edge of the table skirt.

easier to have gone around, I could say
but, two cuba libres have me thinking
less people will see me
this way

and I do need my purse

my lips are dry
the man sitting across the room
has taken my lipstick off with his watching

it occurs to me:
I am not called for
my hips carry no one’s scent
there are no ties here

back to sitting at the table,
I try to compose myself,
smooth down the wrinkle in my skin
that holds my shoulders in

I rub my belly to relax,
open a pamphlet, straighten brochures,
put more gloss on,
and sip this drink that already loves me

what am I waiting for?

my earlier incarnations would have had me walk over
demand some words to go with the turn of his chin,
some conversation to soften the way his eyes move around me

if life were this dream…
I would be there already
warning him:

a step from me
a half circle in my hip
can set this place going, papí

and you are so close
the tangling fire will hold you

¿así lo quieres?

I don’t have time for obligation tonight

in walking over, you begin the dare
vacila’o, you almost mouth
give one step forward,
catch the flesh in your liberating gaze
and pull it in with another step

deep breathing, your beard alone says throw down
gone are those roses I held in my ribs,
the reminders of those who would keep me
push at my lungs

gone that desperation to breath
through the pain of growing fractures
within my ribs

suffocation of duty
– that ceramic heart –
left to me

all gone

unwound

prepárate

My apologies to middle and upper middle class Cuban Americans who thought they'd be taking their boats 90 miles South by next weekend to claim Cuba

Seems Fidelito is just fine. Even better, Cuba, the country, seemed to do just fine without his omniscience.

If I were a Republican conspiracy theorist (instead of the liberal one that I am), I might suggest that these photos of Papa Fidel in an Adidas running outfit were doctored, a la Osama bin Laden video and voice recordings.

But, I'm actually happy the island stayed peaceful. And a little surprised the American government was so low-key about the whole thing. Could it be someone in the White House finally believes that the more you pound on someone (or their country and leader), the more they'll back them? I wonder if maybe that's why Bush was with a high percentage this last election over the first. If we were a dictatorship who wanted to look democratic, and Bush could run over and over again, would he continue gaining voters?

I'm not saying Cuba shouldn't have Fidel. I work at a nonprofit where the executive director's been there countless years. I've seen other nonprofits headed the same. They could all benefit from some fresh blood. I suppose if the organization was doing well that thought wouldn't have crossed my mind at all...

Another question : How much did Adidas pay Fidel to wear their clothing line? Props on the culturally specific branding done by Adidas. Scope out American Adidas and Adidas Latinoamerica. Seems appropriate that the brand's new logo is Impossible is Nothing.

at last, a word on Castro's whereabouts

The media has been surprisingly quiet as to Fidel's health, even to Raul's absence from view in Cuba. Everywhere in Cuba and Little Havana, even in New Jersey I'll bet, small groups of Babalows or Santeros are gathering to meditate on his death or life or in the limbo he must be in. Several have reported he is no longer with us.

Cubans spread gossip amongst themselves too: My mother called me yesterday to tell me, almost in whisper, that a Russian paper had an article about how both Fidel and his brother had been killed and that remaining government heads are unsure as to the next step. And, of course, that Washington knew already.

Worse that Bush was caught saying Cubans living in the US now deserved to be able to go back to their homeland and reclaim their living and work spaces. It was just a few years ago that Bush celebrated, in the White House, the impact of Cuban Americans in the US, with the 100th anniversary of Cuban independence. So, does he want Cubans here or over there?

My mother, always in bed by 9:30, sent me this picture by email last night around 11:30:



Seems Fidelito's headed here. Wachale Bush!

los blancos son candela

My mother called me this morning and told me her Tia Teresa, just arrived from Cuba and visiting our family in Florida, couldn't imagine all the things our country throws away and how our hands don't handle even basic tasks anymore. Her prime example was grapes she saw at a grocery store, already washed and in individual bags. Teresa says "los blancos son candela."

a new year

it's been a few weeks since I've written anything.
it's actually been several weeks since I've felt like writing anything.

curiously, I moved into the apartment and ended up with a rash that usually shows up when I am stressed. true enough, work's been hell with changes. not intolerable but it's easily visible that lines are being drawn and friends help friends.

the rash finally gone I realized my writing was at a change and needed some time to come together again. I feel like I'm in the first few months of pregnancy, and am starting to feel the flutter like butterfly wings inside my center now.

this month of quiet has been unique, magic and calming:

tigrette's learning an incredible amount of sign language at school
and she can laugh about looking like a boy sometimes, especially now that her hair is even shorter, and sometimes, the way she looks at me, reminds me of a picture of my great great grandfather, a mulatto french man who moved to Cuba, with wild, kinky hair and intense eyes;
cliffy and I are coming together
and things like grocery shopping aren't chores so much as they are the opportunity to provide some softness to my family;
the apartment is all lived in already but still fresh, a real opportunity to grow;
we have a new hamster, puffy, who has the same boitel attitude all the rest of the family has;
I've strengthened my friendships, in some cases finding friends again, and claimed them as family.

there's a lot more but some moments of growth and change are so subtle, I would have no appropriate word to show the movement they provoked in me.

today is my birthday and cliffy gave me a gift last night that I didn't want to open until this morning. at 1 a.m. I couldn't sleep so I got up for some water and opened the present. you know, I've been accused of holding back on letting people see me. I didn't expect any present at all except a handmade card from Delhi and some great emails from friends.

a gift from cliffy was incredibly sweet and she chose these things that were so exactly right for me. it makes me feel good that she sees me. in particular, she bought me a cute red and purple ceramic heart with the word "create" on it. there I was, all crying, just holding that heart.

cliffy thinks I'm not writing because of work. I can't disagree with her but I do know that my writing is present, is with me - just quietly sleeping, a small group of petals promising an entire landscape.