Finding the untold stories

This was surprisingly hard to write. I don't understand why my journey of trying to learn about my heritage left me speechless (so to speak), but I have written and re-written this post several times. 

I am a first generation Cuban-American in my family. My father is American, with a European lineage of Scottish, English and Norwegian that I can trace back to the 1500s in some branches. My mother was born in La Habana, Cuba. I knew my grandparents. I knew my maternal great-grandmother. I even knew some great aunts and uncles, along with my mother's siblings, a few second and third cousins. Time, distance, and death makes talking to them really hard.

Left to right:  Brian, cousin; Guadalupe, g. gma;
Chris (baby), cousin; Me. Don't I look thrilled?

I grew up with my Cuban family, but I never really thought a lot about my heritage. The culture and the customs that I loved, without any idea why they were so important. I remember hearing names like Jose Martí, or seeing images of Hatuey on cans of malta and having no idea. I really didn't know where I came from at all. (It's like not knowing who Martin Luther King or Sacajawea were. I know!)

When I was 15, I moved in with my dad and stepmom. They lived in a suburb north of Atlanta. Suddenly, everyone, mostly, looked like me. For the first time, I was not la gringa. My peaches and cream complexion and blue eyes did not stand out in a sea of olive and café con leche skin tones. I was just me. It's not like I wrote off my history, but I continued in my comfort zone of not thinking about my heritage. Teenagers are notoriously self-centered. I did not break that mold. 

About two years ago, I was taking a Western Civ class that covered the 17th century through current events (well, as current as the latest publication of the book). As one of the required assignments, we were assigned a paper to cover something that happened after the French Revolution. We had just covered a section on slavery, and I decided to talk about Cuba. I really didn't know anything much about the War of Independence, so I began to research it. 

This was the first time I sought out any kind of historical information on my country. While I knew that Cuba had been the center of slavery for the Americas, I did not grasp what that meant for me, personally. It wasn't until about this time last year, while reading Nobody Passes, that it hit me. 

1. I have black relatives. My great grandfather was black. 
2. I have relatives that were slaves. 

It was a bit of a mind fuck for me. I'm certain that this experience is not unique to me, especially since there are millions of Cubans who are in America learning about slavery. (Well, in the states that still teach it, but I digress.) Still, it was the first time that I felt how disconnected I was from my heritage. I really never considered what being Cuban was prior to the Revolution. 

It dawned on me that I was privileged to be able to pass. I started thinking about the "one drop" rule in America, and that if it still held today, I would be considered black. I don't consider myself black, so you can save the Rachel Dolezal jokes for someone else.

What does this mean, really? In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't mean anything. It means, like many Americans, that I have an ancestry that is unique and confusing and contradictory. Nothing has changed for me, socially. I'm still privileged and marginalized in all the same ways I was before. 

On a personal level, I still have conflicting feelings about how I pass through society unmarked by my ethnicity. I still feel like a fraud when I tell people I'm Cuban. More-so now than before because my conversational Spanish is clumsy and out of practice. 

Me and my mother, Marta. 1984

I mentioned that I knew how far back my father's family goes; but there is a whole half of my history that I don't really know. The details are very hard to find. Access to records from Cuba are not so easy to come by. I have started reading more about the history of the country. I've started emailing with a journalist in Cuba who may or may not be a distant relative. I've learned a few things here and there. What I'm learning most, however, is that the cliché is very true:  You never know what you have until it's gone. When I was young, I never asked the questions. Now there's no one left to ask. So, I'll leave you with the pictures of some of the beautiful women I loved. These women I wish I could talk to. These women that I miss.

My grandmother, Carmelina "Mima" Dudot
holding me as a baby.

My grandmother rocking
 a stunning frock

My great-aunt Georgina (grandmother's sister).
She was my favorite. So kind and elegant.

My great grandmother Guadalupe in red
Her sister Ofelia in white.