November 2004 Archives

South beach was home to me for about 3 years. It is where I began my journey away from home. I was 18 when I first called South Beach home. It was a lot different then. Its commercialization was not so intense there were still many more families and life wasn’t always as fast as it now is. South Beach’s Art Deco buildings, pastels, stucco walls, tropical gardens, and hidden courtyards are called home by many communities of diverse cultural and sexual identities. Back then, everyone came here escape, to get away from it all. It’s small enough that it’s easy to recognize faces when you live here but I saw no old familiar faces, only new ones. I was happy to walk down Lincoln Road and look at its many store fronts and silently relive old memories. It was my last day in Miami and I wanted to absorb most of what I use to call home before heading to New York. It felt good to walk down its’ street but I realized that I walked with the glee of a spectator not the calm of an insider. I was not home anymore this was just a place I would always visit and nothing more. Home was calling. I felt the cabin fever and the desperation of feeling out of place. Walking back to the car I remembered that younger version of myself, lost, inexperienced, lonely, and unaware of whom I was, finding and reinventing myself through experience on these very streets. The freedom of that journey unhindered by my care of judgment and guided by a spirit, long caged by worldly rules and outside forces, allowed me a lifelong confidence in myself. I am the man I am today because my path once brought me here.

"I come from the way of thinking called leftist. It was something very important in my training. Now I don't know, the only thing I know is that my dialogue - sometimes my discussion - is with them (the intellectuals of the left). I don't have much to talk about with the others."

-(Braulio Peralta. El poeta en su tierra. Dia'logos con Octavio Paz. Ed. Grijalbo. Mexico, 1996, p. 45).

Reflecting on Macrosocio Paradigms: Á la Moore

Many right wing fundamentalist might argue that Michael Moore was looking to piss people off when he published “Stupid white Men”. The collective left perhaps feels that he was shedding light on a system gone bad and right out injustices suffered at the hands of those in power. I say he was doing both. Is this book a Weapon in the Culture Wars? You betcha! Lines like, “But let me ask you this: if you have trouble comprehending the complex position papers you are handed as the Leader of the Mostly-Free World, how can we entrust something like our nuclear secrets to you?”, (p. 37) in reference to George W. Bush, are clearly aimed at pissing off a few, and enlightening the masses. The public opinion tug of war is a difficult one. At a time when the wealthy elite are pillaging the Middle East, Affirmative Action, and civil liberties are in question. Moore’s work serves as a definite moral booster for team Left.
On page one, of the introduction alone, Moore mentions Jed Bush, George W. Bush, the DOW, attacks the legitimacy of the Appointed Commander-in-Chief, hints at rising gas prices, energy scarcity in the sate of California, possibility of war with Russia or China, and the rise and fall of the dot-coms. How have the working class allowed conditions to get this bad? What ever happened to the idea of strength in numbers? In case you forgot we have it, it includes the power of vote and the ability get off our behinds and doing something towards the process of change. We however live in a world of corrupt systems, stolen public offices, and whining taxpayers that do absolutely nothing to ensure change. A good majority would rather sit back, not vote and wait to see who the president elect turns out to be on election night, as they use their voter registration cards to pick the ten hours worth of grudge accumulated under their finger nails, at a whooping $5.50 an hour.

Thirty something Cubans ate and drank their asses off in my house today. It was a big honor to celebrate Thanksgiving at the new house. So everyone decide to either eat at our place or show up later that night. Children ran all night followed by crouched over mothers. My mother’s turkey was a big success. She got a lot of praise for the bird and her frijoles negros (Black Beans) as always were incredible.. I made the stuffing and also got my props. I wanted to hook them up with something other then Stove-Top™. So I went to Winn Dixie, spent $58.00 on ingredients and went to work. I ate so much that night. Then came desert; a choice of pumpkin, pecan, or apple pie. The whip cream was optional except for on my plate where it was mandatory. Miami munchies are an ongoing thing. Damn, that herb! Everyone was drunk, not at my fathers level but non the less drunk. Papi looked like he had a nuclear combuster inside. Parecia un sumbarino Russo. (He looked like a Russian submarine.) People were laughing, dancing, fighting, acting up, and at times plain incoherent. It was all what one would expect from a Cuban style celebration. Well, it is about 5:30 am and I am beat.

Click Below to see pics.

Today I was condemned to a day of stringing Christmas lights along side my father. There was absolutely no escaping his wrath if one was unfortunate enough to misunderstand his not-yet slurred directions, regarding the proper placement of festive lighting. I am not quite sure if he has or has not written a book on the subject but he spoke with the air of having written a dissertation on it. It seemed that there was nothing that I, my brother nor cousin could do right. His disapproving gaze, through the smoke of a Marlboro stub hanging carelessly on his lip, was enough to send all of us into a frantic, at times nervous, laughter which only furthered my pop’s frustration causing his aorta to become swollen. Damn, that the man has a short fuse! Our neighborhood on that Hialeah (a part of Miami highly populated by Cubans.) day was filled with his chorus of: “Ño!” which is short for coño; the Cuban equivalent of the word Damn. There was one point when he asked for a nail, while up on the ladder and the only God forsaking nail available at that time was one welded to another equally forsaken nail. (See pic below) Our hysterical laughter at the thought of my father in a pending situation where only such nails were available drove all of us to tears. At one point we took a break and a rode to Wal-Mart were I was stiffed into paying for more Christmas lights and cat food. It was well past 12am when we finally got several sections of the plum tree lights that were not working to start blinking. Well tomorrow is Thanksgiving which means more decorating, cooking, shopping and more lecturing by the world renowned expert on “your-doing-it-wrong.”

El viejo fajao con el albolito y las luzesitas.
(Translation: the old man fighting with the tree and little lights)

Forsaken nail(s).

Wow! This is by far the largest house that my family has ever lived in. They have finally accomplished every Cuban refugee’s American dream. I think that my favorite part of the house in the terrace out in the back. It comes equipped with a circa 1985 television set, equally old stereo and an always present bottle of whiskey. What else can you ask for when you already got all three of the Cuban people’s opiate? (That was a joke….a good one.) I see myself spending more long hours here doing nothing but rocking my problems away. There’s a plum tree (Mata de ciruelas) in the back just like the one I use to love in el guajai when I lived in Cuba. There’s also an Avocado tree and a grape vein growing on the plum tree. This must be an incredible move for my mother who refers to her previous apartment as “El Palomar.” (the pigeon coop) Today I saw my cousin Edward (A.K.A. “chu-chu”) for the first time in over 25 years. We are a year apart and so were very close as children. Many of my earliest childhood memories are with him. He is my age and identifies himself as a Master cigar roller. He is proud of his ability to roll every single kind of cigar style in the world regardless of gauge. I wonder what I would have become skilled at had I stayed behind. Perhaps, a curator at a museum, a translator for foreigners or simply making tourist trinkets out of palm leaves. Who knows? Who cares? The latter is scary enough. I would probably be in jail for arguing my right to read foreign books or complaining out loud about some injustice or another near a member f el “commite de defense.” (Neighborhood Committee of Defense)…Unfortunately for my neighbors no such committees exist because my household is a well frequented loud one.

Terrace

Snoozing

Mom & Chu Chu

There's my cat, Nikita, trying to figuer out how to stow herself away im my briefcase.

There's my suitcase awiting a cab ride to La Guardia Airport.

This morning was insane. I woke up with my head on backwards. This trip to Miami is definitely making me anxious. It’s been perhaps two years now, since I last visited home. Oddly enough for the first time ever, I am unable to visualize what home looks like. My parents just purchased their first home and this will be my first time seeing it. It’s an extremely large accomplishment on their part. [Buying a home] It only took them 25 years to get around to doing what every other newly arrived rafter was able to accomplish while still picking seaweed off his/her matted hair. I guess in reality this house is an overall tribute to my Mother. She is our matriarch, the true business women of the house. When it comes down to it she is the one who keeps everything, from the daily meal to the, to the balancing of the check book, in order. She’s an extraordinary woman who suffers from relentless determination, be it refurnishing a room or nagging my father into a submitting recoil at the end of a whiskey bottle. I would love to introducer her to Allen Greenspan an every other economist out there. They would be awestruck at her uncanny ability to stretch a penny well beyond its worth. I can already see her disapproving look at my high end label goods. “Are those Christian Dior?” “How much did you pay for that piece of cr@p?” I can see her asking, followed, of course, by the same old monologue about the importance of future planning and saving. I think she was a chipmunk or perhaps a hamster in a pass life or some sort of harvesting rodent, with full cheeks preparing for whatever it is that winter may bring. I love her.

Well, the captain just announced our landing soon which means I have got to cut this entry short but promise to add stuff throughout the week.

Who wouldn't want to leave a cold gloomy day like this behind...

...and land in a a sunny South Floridian day like the one above?

I deeply believe that 1984 serves as a precursor to our times. I recommend that everyone read it. If you are short on cash, there are several free versions online. Below are my overall impressions on the book, including similarities I found in the story, with that of our present administrations’.

-Share the knowledge

1984

1984 by George Orwell was written in 1949 towards the beginning of the Cold War, when the communist threat was strong and the world was just getting over the hardships and instabilities of the red-scare and fascist movements of the Second World War. This novel offered a view of what a hypothetical totalitarian society may have looked like in 1984. The book’s two main characters are Winston Smith and Julia who fall in love despite the fact that love is a feeling that’s not permitted in their “ideal” but sterilized society.

Orwell’s fictional Oceania, modern day London, is a society were every move and conversation is monitored by telescreens, which are sort of interactive surveillance machines, and hidden microphones. This is the means by which “Big Brother” the unseen, non-aging, questionable symbol of the party, that’s at war with an ever changing enemy, watches over its citizens. This anti-utopian vision of the future serves as a warning of what a capital state in the power of a few may become and serves as a precursor to the globalization of the new millennium.

1984 illustrates what could happen if we don't ask critical questions about technology and privacy today and parallels can be drawn between Orwell's fictional society and our society today. It is important to make the comparison of this fictional work to that of the information and propaganda control systems put in place by many communist and dictatorial nations and recently that of our “democratic” America. We already find ourselves falling prey to the instilment of the U.S. Patriot Act, the Homeland Security Act, and the soon to be Patriot Act II, which in essence is an attack on civil liberties, paving the way to an American life without privacy.

Today is a day like any other. I awake, startled, and rush to the alarm, to make sure that I have not over slept. My mind races to identify the impending tasks of the day before me. I cough a dry cough. My throat feels dry and not yet accustomed to the dry air the heating pipes produce. I half heartedly make my way over to the clock and press the snooze button which will allow me another fifteen minuets of sleep. It is these in between states of deep sleep and wakening that enjoy the most. Dreams are so vivid and easily remembered during these short eternities. I suddenly jump to realization again. My short revist to the world of dreams, is interrupted as the blaring of a familiar tune in the background, breaks the silence. Have I over slept? I ask myself. No. I walk over to the alarm clock and turn it off. Once again, I find my way back to the bed, where I lay on my back and watch small particles of dust dancing in a beam of sunlight oblivious to the laws of time and unburdened by notions of responsibility. I get up and struggle to recollect the dream world I just left behind. When i get to the bathroom mirror, my reflection stares back wearing a look of utter despair. Deep beyond the blackness of my eyes lays a yearning for some undiscovered element that life has yet to cross me with. I try and wash the look off my face. I apply water, upon water, and more water. The wetness and cold run down my face. I stare back and focus on my reflection. Yet, my reflection remains the same, nothing has changed. It’s just a day, like any other.

HX '04

Flyers: New York/ Los Angeles

I am much more than this site, the words that you'll find here, the images you will see, the thoughts I share and opinions I'll give. A gazillion megabytes could not encompass my totally; my past, present, and constant transforming future. I am all of these things and so much more. Inside this carnal broken shell lays spirit; incarnate, ageless, perfect, venerable, guardian to the secrets of a thousand lives now past.

I was born on the Island of Cuba in the year 1975. Nearly 16 years after the Marxist-Leninist regime of Fidel Castro came into power. A mixture of political ideological differences, scarcity, and the hopes of a better life, resulted in my parent's exile to the United States in 1980.

It was here in the Diaspora, displaced and torn between two worlds of cultural reinforcement where identities developed, the child became man, the refugee an alien, and an escoria turned Yankee.

America is where alliances were forged, roots forgotten, dreams assimilated, realities questioned, fantasies taxed, wars were fought, victories cheered, minimum wage was collected and my social security is being robbed.

New York's crammed towering buildings, manicured parks, loud streets, busy sidewalks and the contrasting spatial vastness of my childhood days spent in humid Miami are the backdrops of my experience and I yearn to one day to include Havana where I hope to sit on my grandparent's porch and watch silently as a world forgotten by embargos passes me by.

My life is an up or down of whatever chance provides and the struggles and negotiations I make to amass the rest.

Cubanizm.com manifested due to a love of writing and photography, because I am extroverted, opinionated, didn't get enough attention as a kid, am my biggest fan, won't self condemn personal glorification, am grown, do not require anyone's approval, permission nor acceptance, and am perfectly alright with every peak and valley of my journey as they have molded me into what I believe to be a perfectly screwed up individual, who I am personally very fond of.

An Anthropologist named Malinowski once stated the importance of recording what he once referred to as "the imponderabilia of actual life and everyday living."

This site is a subjective platform of personal analysis, my outlet for self, worldly, cultural and social criticism. It is a megaphone for an otherwise small voice, a commitment, an outlet of self and non-defined expression, a testament to the peaks, valleys and imponderabilia of my journey.

Disclaimer:

Ultimately, only you can decide whether or not you will ever revisit the site but own your masochistic victimization if you do.