I Could Never Be a Cuban by Claudia Fanelli

"I Could Never Be A Cuban"

Since I started this blog and because I have been investing so much time reading, writing, learning and talking about Cuba, some people have been teasing me. I knew this would happen eventually. Now, instead of asking me “Claudia, why do you care so much about Cuba?” they say, “So, do you want to be Cuban now?” “No, I am proud and content being Italian-American,” I always say, “and I do not want to, nor could I ever be, Cuban.” Although many Cubans whom I have encountered a result of my blog have bestowed upon me the lofty title of “honorary Cuban,” I truly am not worthy of it.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the richness of the Cuban culture. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to claim the same heritage as artists such as Andy Garcia, Paquito D’Rivera, Arturo Sandoval, Desi Arnaz and Celia Cruz. It’s not that I wouldn’t be proud to say my lineage is the same as luminaries in the world of writing like Guillermo Cabrera Infante, Oscar Hijuelos, Cristina Garcia and José Martí, or intellectuals like Carlos Eire and Antonio de la Cova. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to be able to cook Ropa Vieja, Maduros, Vaca Frita and Congri to perfection every time I try. It’s also not because I wouldn’t love to be able to lay claim to a culturally rich community in South Florida, full of people just like myself, who share the same history and heritage. It’s certainly not because I wouldn’t want to say that my family is part of a group of over 125,000 Cuban-owned businesses in the US that generate billions and billions of dollars in sales annually. Could it be because I would not want to be associated with a culture that is responsible for creating Salsa music or the lively steps of the Mambo or the Cha-cha? Of course not.

So with all of these contributions to the world for which Cubans are responsible, why would I not want to be Cuban? Aren’t I practically Cuban already? I mean, I’m of Italian descent, they’re largely of Spanish descent; Italian and Spanish both come from Latin. My mother’s side is from Sicily- that’s an island, like Cuba is. Italians and Cubans have similar family values and traditions. Italy has produced many artists, writers, scientists and entertainers and so has Cuba. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Except that’s pretty much where the similarities end.

I could not be Cuban because I don’t have the guts. I could not bear to see so many of “my people” suffer the way the Cubans have for almost 50 years. I am in awe of Cuban-Americans and the dangerous and brave ways in which they have managed to leave the island. I get choked up every time I read about a raft-load of Cubans making it to land in Florida. I give a little cheer for them. However, I could not do something as courageous as that, and I don’t have the stamina to watch it happen to my own compatriots. No, I could not be a Cuban.

I couldn't be Cuban because I’m not strong enough. If I were here in the US, I could not bear to think of my family members still trapped in that island prison with run-down living quarters, not enough to eat, and no chance to improve their lives. I could not bear the thought of never seeing my family members again; the ones who didn’t want to leave with me, or could not. I do not know where Cuban-Americans get their fortitude from to be able to look ahead to the future and to persevere under such dismal circumstances but I do know that perseverance is not one of my character traits. I don’t know with what I could fill the hole in my heart to stop the pain of not having my family with me, and I don’t know how Cubans do it. So, no, I could not be a Cuban.

I could never be Cuban because I am not ingenious enough. Cubans are the Latin American MacGyvers- they make sandals out of plastic bottles and boats out of cars and trucks. I can’t even figure out how to work the DVD player with cable tv. Cubans both here and on the island have a spirit of entrepreneurship and practical understanding, qualities both driven by the will to survive. A taxi driver in Cuba is savvy enough to negotiate a fare in advance and turn off the meter so he can make a little extra money; bakers will water down the bread dough to stretch it and sell the extra loaves on their own. Cubans came here and not ones to be satisfied with indefinitely living off the helping hands they are offered, they make their own way, work menial jobs and build their own businesses. And not just a few little businesses, thousands upon thousands of them. That perseverance on the island keeps them alive and in the United States, helps them to attain a dream. Me? I give up on the DVD player and watch Lifetime. I’m a quitter; I could never be a Cuban.

I could not be a Cuban because Cubans do not know what freedom is. I enjoy freedom of speech, the freedom to complain, to use the internet, to visit any hotel I can afford, to dine as frequently or infrequently-- anywhere I would like, to watch whatever television show I want and to read whatever I want. The government does not “own” my brain (and probably wouldn’t want it) just because it subsidized my Pennsylvania state college education. If I want to leave the country, I can. And, I can take my brain with me. With that in mind, I still don’t want to be a Cuban.

I couldn’t be Cuban because in spite of what Michael Moore says, the Cuban healthcare system is a joke. I don’t have to wait in line to go to the doctor or the hospital. I don’t have to worry about the sanitary conditions of the local hospital or count the bugs crawling around on the floor. I don’t have to go to run-down facilities while Canadians and Europeans travel to my country for treatment in state-of-the-art facilities where I am not allowed to be treated. I don’t have to do without medication because there is a shortage, while foreigners get whatever they need. While the US healthcare system is not perfect, I can’t complain. I have had six surgeries, countless injections, physical therapy, orthopedic devices and medications on my right knee to prevent me from having to have total joint replacement before I am fifty. My medication, because I have a good job and insurance, costs me a few dollars per prescription and is available whenever I need it. The cost of treatment for just my right knee so far is in the tens of thousands—I’ve paid a few hundred in co-pays. My doctor’s visits, again because I have good insurance, cost $10. I’ve been lucky enough to have the same doctors, who know me and my case well, treat my knee for the past twenty years and I don’t have to worry about them being sent to Venezuela in exchange for oil. So, nope. Neither my knee nor I could be Cuban.

I could not be Cuban because there is no better place in the world to live, in my opinion, than the United States. Cubans, sadly, can no longer say that, since although before the revolution, the once beautiful and prosperous Cuba received over one million immigrants in a thirty-two year period, Cubans will now risk their lives to leave. Furthermore, nobody is fleeing TO Cuba. That tells me that there are much better places to live than Cuba. If I were Cuban, knowing that would break my heart, especially if I had been around before fidel castro destroyed the island. So, I’m sorry, but although I accept the “honorary Cuban” title with pride, in reality, I could never cut it as a Cuban. I’m just not qualified.