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Chapter One, page 13
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the time I could read. I had played the role of Cuba, the motherland,
wrapped in a flag, my head topped by a tiny red hat.
And yet there I stood that day in July 1974, watching my classmates giggle
as
they put on their costumes and the girls brushed each other’s hair
while the boys
fiddled with the sound system. The salty taste of my tears surprised me,
and I ran
to the bathroom to hide. On my way back to the show, I ran into Eradia, the
teacher who had stood by while Tania made my life miserable that year. She
grabbed me by the waist and said, There you are!
Here I am, I replied, bracing for the worst.
I’ve been looking for you, she said. I have no one to play the role
of Cuba, and
you are perfect for it.
But I don’t have a costume, I said, my mind racing, my heart beating
fast.
Could I run home and fashion a dress with my mother’s magical sewing
machine
before the show started in ten minutes? Probably not.
You don’t need one. You’ll play revolutionary Cuba, she said,
gesturing toward
my outfit.
I was wearing black cotton pants and a long red polyester blouse with ruffles
in the front. Red and black were the colors of the 26 of July Movement, the
group
that Castro had led in his quest for power.
Yes, I said, yes! And I ran to the stage, jumping on instead of climbing
the
stairs. I took my place in line just as the music began. When Eradia read
my
name and said, "And now, compañeros and compañeras, here’s
the Cuba of today, the
Cuba of all of us, revolutionary Cuba!" I took a gracious bow and looked
over
to my mother, who suppressed her surprise and politely smiled back from the
audience.
My graduation gift from my teachers was a large book titled Moncada, the
name of the military barracks that a group of young men, led by Castro, had
attacked
in their first attempt to overthrow the government of Batista in July 1953,
twenty-one years before I graduated from fifth grade. The shiny cover had
what I
thought were splashes of black and white paint until a boy pointed out that
the
black was really blood, the blood of the martyrs who had died so that I could
enjoy
the freedoms I was told I had. Inside the book were pictures of the dead
revolutionaries
who had accompanied Castro in that failed mission. Some had been
