Pandora's Other Box

The word "legacy" can be applied to several areas. One of them is that history which creates us, as who we are. Our culture and traditions passed on to us by those who came before, leaving a definite imprint on our lives. What happens when this continuing line is broken? Those who follow the break point lose much.   I have often thought about the concept contained in the word “legacy”. Those of you who have read these entries from the beginning know that, outside the occasional meandering, my thoughts tend to focus on events of a lifetime. Many come from those memories which make growing up possible. In the full sense of the phrase. Times which despite all the issues lived or, perhaps because of them, have deeply etched a life story into the psyche; in other words, what makes one whatever one is today. What makes me think this? It is neither depression nor the beginning of a bout of melancholy. The cultural story-line of a family should not end with any one individual...

In my childhood, there were defined rules of behavior. Children were children and not "young adults"  Therefore, each person(s) would do whatever it was that those of the same age would do. And, every once in a while, a pesky child would have to be removed and/or kept away for a while. This is where the concept of "detente" would come in. It usually worked... Back in my early days, in the sunny and beautiful island of Cuba, I was raised with teachings which I have, in latter years, understood to be an eclectic mix of many of the old time customs coupled with a, for the times and place, forward looking philosophy of life. However, there was “DETENTE...” Literally the word's translation means “STOP”. For me, as a five year old, it meant something entirely different. As a child, my luck was riding high. What to many in our then society would have been a “disgrace”, for us became a blessing. My sister and I lived with our grandparents as a result of the divorce ...

I am not sure what brought this one on. Being over 60 (although fairly"liberated") has allowed me to live in simpler times, when intimate experiences were just that: intimate. The concept of physical love was to be respected, looked forward to and cherished. I'm not saying "virgin until wedding night" The Good Lord well knows that after three marriages, what is expected of a relationship is the ability to share and to truly enjoy the other person's love, company and offering of her (or his, as the case may be) physical love. Everywhere one looks there is a veiled and/or very direct reference to sex. As human beings we are fast becoming a pack of wild dogs, being reduced to smelling the other animal's behind, so as to know whether or not an invitation will be accepted. It seems that more and more whenever two people meet, the immediate concern is “will he/she be good in bed?” and “can I get him/her there tonight?”. The idea of spending some time getting...

My early years were spent at catholic school in my hometown. Those were good, simple years which served as a very strong base for later and latter years. It was not all smooth sailing, there were some bumps on the road. But all was worthwhile; albeit from a much later in life vantage point. Including some very different schooling and some very difficult and rough teachers.. Wherever the Spaniards colonized, it seems that the crown flag was being carried by a priest, followed by a number of acolytes carrying swords. This has resulted in an, until recently, unchallenged tradition of Catholicism in all our Spanish speaking countries. As a child, I dutifully went to Sunday mass. Usually to the 11am mass, since this was the one favored by my friends, including all the girls with whom one would want to speak. Remember: in the 1950's, Cuban society was a very structurally rigid living thing. It watched you, made an opinion about you an freely disseminated the same through its ready mad...

I debated whether to cut this in half or leave it whole. I think it reads better whole. It is a stamp from a time long gone and, perhaps not to return. These are childhood memories which some may find difficult to accept. However, they are true and are a part of my life and my cultural heritage; it is all here to stay... Hope you like it.  It is a summer afternoon in the early 50's. I guess I was about 6 or 7 years old at the time. A lazy island summer afternoon, with warm breezes coming in from the bay, the sun in all its splendor, and nothing to do. My grandfather was a truly good person (I know, he put up with me!!) and let me not forget my grandmother, who was a blessed lady with the patience of Job. Anyway... he was not a follower of any one religion (being a 33 rd degree Mason) but a fervent believer in all spiritual things; being in Cuba and close to the heart of the AfroCuban religious mysteries, he was a follower of these as well (not including ritual killings, which ...

Illness, work and a very tired and unwilling computer have kept me away for a while. This particular entry truly marks the reason why these entries have been renamed "Pandora's Other Box"... not much in the way of a continuum, but that is the way it goes sometimes. I'll be back soon.  More than once I have come to sit at the computer in order to put down whatever comes to mind. Guess what?? Not much of any import has come to the fore and, as I sit, the blank page looms as large as a big wall and the ceiling fan, which is on most of the time, little by little begins to look like a helicopter which unsuccessfully is trying to take off. I'm not sure there is much to write about. There were elections and the party in control managed to barely hang on to the senate. This was a known issue, before the fact. All the polls indicated that the government was going to take a shellacking and, so it was. There are some issues that the political pundits and wannabes tend t...

These past few days we have witnessed the saving of 33 men, who had at one time been presumed dead some 2,000 feet under solid rock. Many people were responsible for this miraculous rescue. From the rescue workers and technical people who opened the way, to the miners' families and the people of a country who, simply, refused to give up. All the way up to a recently elected President, who risked all his future and his political life when he made a decision that had to be made: everything we have, as a country, will be committed to get these men out. He had the wherewithal to do this; by doing so and seeing it through, he has won the respect of many other politicians, most of whom would not have had the guts to do this. I truly salute him for it. Like most people who have access to a news canal, during the last couple of days I have been riveted by the in-your-living-room-story of the rescue of the 33 Chilean miners who had been trapped 2,000 feet underground for just over two mon...

Often I come up with a title which is conducive to thinking outside the usual channels of what has been done on these postings before. The above title is one of these. While pondering as to whether to erase it or not, this memory came to mind and it sort of fit the bill. This was a true gathering; in the end, all remained as friends as we were in the beginning. Perhaps it is just a microcosm of one of the issues that ails us in general: intolerance of that which disagrees with what we think is right. Sometimes a title is written on a blank page and then, as one looks at it from every possible angle, the question begs: “What do I do with this heading now?” The easy way out is to erase the line and then write something which suggests its own title. On the other hand, one can stare at the page long enough and hope that a trail takes shape and tells one where to go (in a literary sense please!). That is exactly where I am right now. Unfortunately not much is coming along. Let’s see… As...

Some days are very important in one's life; sometimes without even knowing so. This was one of those days. It marked the beginning of the end of a life and the eventual start of another one. I would never get all these people together again. In fact, after my departure, only one of them would come again into my life along the years. It has been quite a while since this particular folder and pages were open for the last time. No particular reason, other than a slew of issues which have come up, all at the same time, it seems. Some were resolved, others were not. Some will have an additional impact over the next few months, while others will linger on for a much longer time. Nonetheless, the idea with this particular piece was to create a time capsule and travel back to one very special day in my life: the last birthday I would spend in Cuba (albeit unknowingly so); my 15 th birthday. My parents and grandparents knew this would be the last such opportunity and that most likely,...

In 1962, when I lived in Miami (well, in Camp Matecumbe… close enough) the feeling was we were living in a semi-abandoned city. It was a playground (along with Miami Beach) for the rich and the not so famous; mostly Canadians and Jewish folks from New York who came to their winter condos from the northern cities, escaping from the harsh December and January weather. What is now the three block stretch colloquially known as “Miracle Mile”, the traditional business and restaurant heart of Coral Gables, was an expanse of empty store fronts where grass was growing from the sidewalk cracks. Back then, Miami ended at about where the University of Miami is on US1 (purists will argue that it ended well before that corner since this site sits in Coral Gables, a different city altogether).  From there on, it was a road full of teepees and kiosks selling cigarettes, oranges and little plastic gators along with cold sodas to those on their way to the Keys. The migrating Cuban families who mad...

In our memory banks there are places and then, there are places. Looking back, it seems amazing that one city block (exactly 100 meters) would carry enough weight to remain attached for a lifetime. But so is the case for that block of Boullon (Calle 25 today) Between Santa Cruz and Sta. Elena. My world's center for most of the first 15 years of my life. “Paco… dame una Materva, que me muero del calor”… “Paco, give me a Materva (local soda); I’m dying from the heat!!” This would be a very common cry during any summer afternoon. The place where this cry was usually heard would be the corner “bodega”(store): combination soda fountain, hangout, quasi bar for the afternoon home returning working crowd and general food store. In Cienfuegos, Cuba in the 1950’s, there were no supermarkets as we know them here; instead, it was the corner store, much like the small towns across the USA. In our case, we had two from which to choose: the store owned by Pedro y Paco, or a similar store at th...

Illegal immigration is a difficult topic. Understanding the hell from which most of these families come, does not help decisions to become easier, either way. Our country is a magnet to many who live in hopeless despair but in coming here illegally, they themselves are contributing to the lessening of the number of opportunities which may have been available here. The legalization of migratory status is a multi-layered issue. Like peeling an onion, every layer reveals other layers beneath and each one provides issues and possibilities of its own.  It is difficult to agree on a course of action which is fair and just to all concerned but we as a people must do so for the survival of our own country and society. This is a topic which has kept me on an ideological balance beam for sometime now. I am an immigrant, first generation. I was born elsewhere and was accepted to come to this country some 48 years ago. I did not wade into a river, nor did I stuff myself in the back of a catt...

Good people often finish last. I am not sure who coined this phrase but, in these times on uncertainty within  the economic world, it certainly is brought home by stories that are lived by good people who are known to us and close friends. Apparently, they have done all the right things, with all the wrong results. In one of the recent presidential campaigns (believe it was one of the Bushes) the title phrase above became a war cry. However, ever since I have had a memory of things financial, this has been the war cry or, simply, the cry of most people. In the early 1970’s, with the gas crunch (which has now become a constant gas squeeze) the price of gasoline went from less than a dollar to well over 3 dollars. All this, in less than 6 months. We did not know it then, but this crunch was the end of economic wellbeing in general, and the beginning of a very long US economic slump. There have been temporary upswings but on the average, it has been a continuing downward slump whic...