Passport Diaries Pt. 2: Cien Horas de Soledad

Me llamo Shawn, y yo soy cubano. I call myself Shawn, and I am Cuban.

 I remember a time when I lived the tourist life, freely spending hard urrency and visiting great monuments like the Capitolio.

Real Cubans have never been there, and their pesos buy them food to get by.

I remember a time when I wrote about Cuba’s economic history – based on books, statistics, angry opinions from Miami.

Real Cubans dance, laught, talk, drink, smoke , play, love, live, fight – oh do they fight – steal, beg, sell, buy, argue, breathe, and die.

You’d have to see it for yourself.

 Each day I have risen, and for many days more will I rise, each day knowing what to expect, each the same as before.

The only drama here is scripted – on the nighttime soaps so beloved of TV-empowered Cubans.

I used to think that the result outweighed the process.

But now I see that the right process leads you to the right result,
never mind what you think the result should be.

And so I pass time here, reading, thinking, talking with friends, asking them how their families are and really caring about the answer.
I could have forced, begged, bribed, swum (!) my way home, but I shouldn’t. Process, not result.

Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me.
I wake up living my other life, the one I was supposed to have had.

Time for class.
But this is a classless society.

OTher times I think I have lost something and run out of the house to retrace my steps-only to find it where I started.

I wish I only thought I lost my passport.

The only identity I have left is Cuban.

Me llamo Shawn, y yo soy cubano. I call myself Shawn, and I am Cuban.