The Day After After Cheito…

I guess you all liked Cheito… many comments and many hits on the page. He can’t believe it either… So he’s asking about coming back to “say something good again…” Very soon, I told him, very soon… Maybe I’ll retire and you can take over, I told him…

He’s a friend who has lived a complicated life, despite only wanting to “just have a life”… seems that circumstances don’t usually allow him to do just that. But, he’s OK… and will be back soon. I think he went to West Hialeah Lakes for a one week vacation… says the air is cleaner over there for his little angel….

Years ago, in my very much ephemeral childhood, there was a good friend called Polito. He was a short, always laughing guy who made you feel good just being around and we, whenever I was in the town of Cruces where my stepfather and mother lived, hung around. Polito was the embodiment of the childhood friend; always available and always willing to back you up in, or start, whatever prank “needed” to be done. My other and earliest childhood friend, Quique, occupied this niche in my hometown of Cienfuegos. These two guys are, perhaps, the friends I most remember from those confusing times. I say confusing, because in addition to the regular changes brought on by early teenager hormonal evolution, we had the family divorce and remarry issue (tough call in the context of that society) to contend with, along with the non-hormonal changes brought on by the political tempest in the country. Very rough waters to travel through sometimes.

The normal concept of friendship was, in those times, totally skewered by the knowledge and fear that anyone, including members of one’s own family (my own uncle –well, my aunt’s husband- was a member of the local communist party so we didn’t visit much) could be an informer. For those who never had the privilege of living under this type of “structured society”, an informant was a person whose job was to sniff out anyone who might remotely think even a little bit differently than what the official line was, and give his name to the authorities; sometimes this was done just as revenge … After this “tip”, the authorities would usually pick him/her up and do their thing. And not a pleasant thing it was.

But even within these parameters, it was possible to find someone whose family you knew and you would know that he or she was “OK”; this person would not necessarily be an informer. Key word in this last sentence was “necessarily”; friendships were somewhat slow to develop because of the negative impact of this influencing “cultural baggage”. However, in a small town like Cruces, this baggage was, perhaps, a little easier to manage. Most people knew most everyone else, especially when the families moved in the same “circles”. It was a little like it was in the old west … putting the wagons in a circle and defending the stead; you knew the people in your “society group” and tended to stay within this circle, for it was safer to do so. Too bad, because this lifestyle would not allow for a lot of socializing with those you did not know.

Despite all of the above, there were new opportunities to explore. During the time I was out of school (after my alma mater was closed by the government) I spent more days in Cruces. There, we had a local radio station (yes, AM frequency … FM was not here yet… NO COMMENTS!!) which like most small town radio stations everywhere, dealt with local issues and since its primary audience was in the countryside,  played a lot of (Cuban) country music… nothing like country music over here. We call ours “punto guajiro” and it is a fairly strident, continuing 10 verse rhyme. You have to be raised with it to like it … and I wasn’t… by a long shot.

The offshoot was that this station was not listened to in the urban markets. I had the chance to meet the son of the owner, a young man in his early 20’s then, who was not overly fond of the format his dad had instituted years before (eons, seemed like). During our conversation I, a brash 13 year old, bet him I could raise his audience in the cities if he gave me a chance to put on a show. Life was then a little less complicated than today; he did open the door and gave me an hour from 10 to 11am during weekdays.

I could tell you it was an instant hit … It wasn’t but, I guess my salesman’s mind was beginning to be shaped then, because I started to write imaginary listeners’ letters to the station praising the show, and got some of my friends in Cienfuegos to do the same and to actually listen in. Eventually, we did not have to do this anymore because it did catch on and became somewhat of a hit. So much so that, by the time my sister and I left the country, we had a show 7 days a week, including a 3 hour marathon on Sundays. We had poetry, rock music, and some talk. Oh yeah… the music which could not be then bought in Cuba anymore… we listened to “Tiger Radio’s Midnight Show” from Miami in my granddad’s SW radio and recorded all the latest hits with an old tape recorder… well… you have to make do, right?

This experience opened the door for my working in, amongst several “positions” along the way, radio stations in Puerto Rico, Connecticut and even in NYC, the Big Apple, the Mecca Market for those in the communications business… I still love radio; it takes a lot more imagination to create a world in a listener’s mind with only words, with not a physical image in sight.

What can I add to this? Just that no matter what the circumstances may be, there is always the possibility to explore different avenues and to do what others will tell you cannot be done. The Theater of Life is, despite the bad reviews at times, a wonderful show in which to take an active, leading part… so, just go and do it!!

Be Well… Be Back!!