Cuban Girl Quotes

Thing is, when you put something back together it’s never exactly the same as it was before.

I’ve grown to find peace and acceptance in not fighting what I can’t control.

You're painting stars where I colored black holes

You love that boy like you love the kitchen. . .but you add yourself like too much sugar sometimes.

So I wanted you to choose a future that’s first and foremost yours alone. Not to belong to me. I want you to belong with me.

She forgets that what she does in one small moment can affect tomorrow.

I’ve made this deal with the universe. I’ve learned not to ask more of it than what I’m given, both good and bad.

Mi estrellita, if you shine too bright in his sky, you’re going to burn him out. Burn yourself out, también.

don’t know what’s worse, not getting to say goodbye, or saying goodbye to a little more every year.

I know what it feels like to fall in love. But I’m not sure what falling out of love feels like.

It’s just too bloody hard. For now, let our time here be our moment.” The moment we cheated worlds and lives and universes for.

Mami never went to college, but she majored in drama, anyway, with a minor in extra. She also majored in doing the opposite of what’s best for me.

I know I'll keep some of my mates forever." Her blue eyes meet mine- thoughtful the vibrant, just like her music. "But there are others I don't see much anymore, and I've realized that's okay." She smiles pensively. "Sometimes I put them into songs, and that's where I keep them. Plus, there's always room for new friends.

Recipe for Goodbye From the Kitchen of Lila Reyes Ingredients: One Cuban girl. One English boy. One English city. Preparation: Give Polly her kitchen back and share a genuine smile, from one legitimate baker to another. Ride through the countryside on a vintage Triumph Bonneville. Walk through Winchester, all through town and on the paths you ran. Drink vanilla black tea at Maxwell’s. Eat fish and chips and curry sauce at your friend’s pub. Sleep in fits and bits curled up together on St. Giles Hill. *Leave out future talk. Any form of the word tomorrow. Cooking temp: 200 degrees Celsius. You know the conversion by heart.

...my beloved Eudosia [a member of Buckley's household staff], who is Cuban, very large, quite old, and altogether superstitious, and speaks only a word or two of English (even though she has been with us for 19 years), is quite certain that the gentleman who raped the 16-year-old girl in New Caanan three years ago and escaped has successfully eluded the police only because of his resourceful determination to ravage Eudosia before he dies. Accordingly she demanded, and I gave her, a shotgun, into which I have inserted two empty shells. Still, Eudosia with blank cartridges is more formidable than Eugene McCarthy with The Bomb.

And pick up my own.

If you find undissolved sugar in the bottom of your teacup, someone has a crush on you. -Superstition

And I don't know what's worse, not getting to say goodbye, or saying goodbye to a little more every year. The tidal wave or the hourglass.

And a best-friendship doesn't die. Instead, it runs its own way now, miles over bridges and roads and desert sand. Without us.

Another wish I can't even trust the stars with. What language do I use to wish for continents and cultures to bend?

So much is goodbye and fleeting in my life. I'm losing people and I'm so tired of that feeling.

As a result, toasting somebody with water is considered the same as wishing them and yourself bad luck, or even death.

there? Emotion burns my throat.

You found me,” I say. I lost you.

Impossible. I’d heard this word before and pounded it like a hard coconut shell. Then I used the rich, white flesh to make a cake.

His are large and ocean-deep enough to draw me in for drowning, his own siren song. This black suited boy hugs me again.

yes. I’ve grown to find peace and acceptance in not fighting what I can’t control.

Why did I think my half-lying plan would be different just because I was genuinely trying to help someone?

Claro, I’m still the girl carrying a trifecta of loss. I always will be. But as I wander along the pavement, I’m just a seventeen-year-old on her way to buy ingredients for Cuban flan. And that feels like the best part of home.

It’s everything new around me and it’s happening more and more. Happening right now—a Miami girl in an English club listening to an English band, sitting on an English boy’s lap, his sweater warm around me. And I can’t help but enjoy it for real.

No. It's not bad at all." The words rush out of me, outrunning countless Miami echoes and Cuban roots, and everything I packed in my bag for this cold, foreign place. It's entirely true. I'm wearing his sweater and it's okay and a new kind of good that I'm starting to wear his city, too.

I get how counseling or therapy can help people. But I will decide whom I talk to, and when. I couldn’t stop Stefanie from boarding a plane to Africa, or rewind Andrés’s goodbye speech or… Abuela. I couldn’t change the hand of God. But I could have control over my words, my heart, my pain.

I hold back too and remain like the last-minute toppings of things. My stories are dusted powdered sugar and mango glaze. I can’t tell my friend about the thick, bittersweet fillings of castles and vanilla black tea, or the rich, spongy cake of new friends and songs. I can’t talk about the motorbike wind and green and stone I baked into crusty bread and into the baker.

The time came when they both needed clothes, and one evening Ralph suggested that they spend some of the money they had put aside. Laura refused. When he brought up the subject, she didn’t answer him and seemed not to hear him. He raised his voice and lost his temper. He shouted. She cried. He thought of all the other girls he could have married—the dark blonde, the worshipful Cuban, the rich and pretty one with a cast in her right eye. All his desires seemed to lie outside the small apartment Laura had arranged. They were still not speaking in the morning, and in order to strengthen his position he telephoned his potential employers.

Recipe for a Funeral From the Kitchen of Lila Reyes Ingredients: One grieving family. One coffin (it must be white like flour and sugar). One cathedral. One white apron. One abuela, gone, dressed in her favorite blue vestido. Preparation: Sit between your boyfriend and best friend as they try to hold you upright in the pew. Clutch a white apron tightly on your lap. Watch your parents weeping one row ahead, and your sister leaning on your mother’s shoulder. Look back once over the massive cathedral, marveling at the crowd that came for her. *Leave out actually seeing your abuela laid out so lovingly in the white coffin. She is not there. Instead, cry, kneeling during the private viewing with your eyes secretly pressed closed. Cooking temp: 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The coldest your oven goes.

Mardi Gras in Cuba was one of the most uninhibited festivals I have ever witnessed. Although I do not condone the criminal elements that existed behind the festive atmosphere, I dove into the sweeping pleasures without guilt. At my age, life was to be lived, and live it I did! Most of the people surrounding me, on the packed streets of Havana, came from the United States. It also seemed that half of the Miami Police Force was there for these unrestrained festivities. Perhaps the excesses I witnessed are to be criticized, but it was all fun and well beyond my imagination. Everything was new and extremely exciting at the time. The many beautiful girls, who were said to have been exploited, certainly were as caught up in the euphoria as we were and enjoyed the moment every bit as much as we did. The decorated cars and beautiful floats with girls and guys waving, were followed by people dancing to the loud Latin beat. The jubilant parade wound its way along the coastal route to the Avenida Maceo, having started from the wide boulevard Calle G or Avenida de los Presidentes. Crowds of tourists and other revelers laughed and cheered. Smaller, but every bit as intense, were celebrations on other main streets such as Calle Neptuno. Everyone had a great time, and thanks to our officers, even our available time ashore was extended by an hour. I don’t think that it was abused by anyone, but the next day we were all tired and nursing hangovers.

During the mid-1930’s Jorge's father arrived in Camagüey, looking for work. Being single, he asked some of the locals where he could find a brothel with some “Fun Girls.” After getting explicit directions, he started walking along the winding streets of the city, but the maze proved more confusing than he had expected. So, instead of finding the brothel, he wound up staring at the gates of the cemetery. He was at the dead center of town!

That evening, Desi took her to El Zerape, a Mexican-Cuban nightspot close to downtown Los Angeles and the current rage for slumming Hollywood celebrities. It turned out to be a group excursion organized by George Abbott, a fanatic ballroom dancer. Nearly the entire cast of Too Many Girls was there, including the fourteen singing and dancing choristers that RKO had hired from the New York production at a weekly salary of forty dollars each.

For a few years after leaving Cuba, Marita was looked after and protected by a mobster named Ed Levi. It was his job to protect her from, what was considered, a likely attempt on her life by “Cuban Intelligence Operatives.” In 1961, Marita met Marcos Pérez Jiménez, the former President of Venezuela, in Miami. Marcos told her that he was anxious to meet her because he knew she had been “Fidel's girl." He successfully pursued Marita, and when she gave in, they had an affair that resulted in the birth of a daughter. She now lives in New York City.

Americanah; Ayad Akhtar, American Dervish; Julia Alvarez, How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents; Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street; Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao; Teju Cole, Open City; William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying; Nell Freudenberger, The Newlyweds; Cristina García, Dreaming in Cuban and King of Cuba; Chang-rae Lee, Native Speaker.

Earlier, I taught Flora the way Abuela taught me: I do a few, then we do a few, then you do a few.

Right now, he's warm as sweaters and sure as stars.

This he says like that's both plenty and not nearly enough time.

I stop and stargaze, but my telescope is backward. I turn my search inward.

Mañana, by the way, does not mean tomorrow: It means not today. -Billy Collins

...See, market cake mixes are fine.' He backs away, winking like the stars. 'But I like the real deal.

Maybe Orion's earlier superstition was spot-on. Maybe he nailed it. But as the sky dips into dusk, the lover who is thinking of me after I spill my coffee is an unexpected one. Myself.

knew from experience that most people who met me in my itty-bitty town saw me as a representative of the entire black race from African Americans to Black Cubans. I knew anything I did wrong would be a permanent strike against the Black race. This was a lesson I learned from pretty much everywhere: media stereotypes, offhanded comments from strangers and family members, the fact that white people could get away things with black people couldn’t. A recent example would be the praise Miley Cyrus received for doing the black dance known as twerking (“dance move that involves a person shaking their hips and bottom in a sexually provocative manner”) in a video, yet the YouTube comments on videos of black girls twerking condemn them as shameful and disgraces to their races.

destination for Cubans arriving from the island.

Liked Following Message More Contact Us .. Status Photo / VideoOffer, Event + . Write something... . 1 Draft Created Saturday, November 5 at 4:05pm. See draft. . The Year of “Alphabetization In the Cuban post revolution era it was at “Che” Guevara who promoted educational and health reforms. 1961 became the “Year of Cuban Literacy” or the “Campaña Nacional de Alfabetización en Cuba,” meaning the “Year of Alphabetization in Cuba.” The illiteracy rate had increased throughout Cuba after the revolution. Fidel Castro in a speech told prospective literacy teachers, “You will teach, and you will learn,” meaning that this educational program would become a two-way street. Both public and private schools were closed two months earlier, for the summer than usual, so that both teachers and students could voluntarily participate in this special ambitious endeavor. A newly uniformed army of young teachers went out into the countryside, to help educate those in need of literacy education. It was the first time that a sexually commingled group would spend the summer together, raising the anxiety of many that had only known a more Victorian lifestyle. For the first time boys and girls, just coming of age, would be sharing living conditions together. This tended to make young people more self-sufficient and thought to give them a better understanding of the Revolution. It is estimated that a million Cubans took part in this educational program. Aside from the primary purpose of decreasing illiteracy, it gave the young people from urban areas an opportunity to see firsthand what conditions were like in the rural parts of Cuba. Since it was the government that provided books and supplies, as well as blankets, hammocks and uniforms, it is no surprise that the educational curriculum included the history of the Cuban Revolution, however it made Cuba the most literate countries in the world with a UNESCO literacy rate in 2015, of 99.7%. By Captain Hank Bracker, author of the award winning book “The Exciting Story of Cuba,” Follow Captain Hank Bracker on Facebook, Goodreads, his Website account and Twitter.

When he returned to Florida in the early part of 1939, Hemingway took his boat the Pilar across the Straits of Florida to Havana, where he checked into the Hotel Ambos Mundos. Shortly thereafter, Martha joined him in Cuba and they first rented, and later in 1940, purchased their home for $12,500. Located 10 miles to the east of Havana, in the small town of San Francisco de Paula, they settled into what they called Finca Vigía, the Lookout Farm. On November 20, 1940, after a difficult divorce from Pauline, Ernest and Martha got married. Even though Cuba had become their home, they still took editorial assignments overseas, including one in China that Martha had for Collier’s magazine. Returning to Cuba just prior to the outbreak of World War II, he convinced the Cuban government to outfit his boat with armaments, with which he intended to ambush German submarines. As the war progressed, Hemingway went to London as a war correspondent, where he met Mary Welsh. His infatuation prompted him to propose to her, which of course did not sit well with Martha. Hemingway was present at the liberation of Paris and attended a party hosted by Sylvia Beach. He, incidentally, also renewed a friendship with Gertrude Stein. Becoming a famous war correspondence he covered the Battle of the Bulge, however he then spent the rest of the war on the sidelines hospitalized with pneumonia. Even so, Ernest was awarded the Bronze Star for bravery. Once again, Hemingway fell in lust, this time with a 19-year-old girl, Adriana Ivancich. This so-called platonic, wink, wink, love affair was the essence of his novel Across the River and Into the Trees, which he wrote in Cuba.

I study the faces of my new friends and try to memorize them. We'll have texts and FaceTime, but I want all the RealTime skin and bones of them, the hearts and little pieces of them. Enough to last.

Without the benefit of being married to Ángel, Lina Ruz González had seven children by him, three boys and four girls. She was a simple woman who worked for him as a domestic servant. Fidel was her third child…. Lina married Fidel’s father in 1943, after his first wife, María Luisa Argota y Reyes, who was sarcastically known as the “Princess,” died, leaving her five children behind. From all accounts, it didn’t seem as if anyone missed her. In addition to the five children that María had, there was also a farmhand’s daughter, Generosa, who bore Ángel at least one son, by the name of Martin. Fidel was given his mother’s name “Ruz” before her marriage to his father, but even after his mother’s marriage, when Fidel was a teenager, although he was accepted, he continued to be treated as a bastard child, rather than a son, by his rough-hewn father. Much of Fidel’s early life is obscure, but as a teenager, there were times that he acted impulsively, as with most boys…. Once when he was refused the use of the family car, he threatened to set it on fire. At another time, he rode his bicycle as fast as he could into a stonewall on a dare; of course he got scraped up, but fortunately for him, it didn’t take long before he made a complete recovery.

It was my father and I that were inseparable. His darling girl; that's what he called me. He understood me- his bright, easily bored, passionate, underdog-defending, in-need-of-large-doses-of-physical-activity-and-changes-of-scenery daughter. And more important than understanding me, he liked me. He was most proud when I took the road less traveled by. It wouldn't be exaggerating to say I lived for the look of delight and surprise in his eyes when I accomplished something out of the ordinary. Beating him at chess. Reading the unabridged version of Anna Karenina when I was ten. Starting a campfire with nothing but a flint and a knife. But now it seemed our father and daughter skins were growing too small. I still craved his attention and approval, but he gave it more sparingly. Our long, rambling conversations about everything and anything- the speed of light, the Cuban missile crisis, how many minutes on each side to grill a perfect medium-rare steak- had petered out, replaced with the most quotidian of inquiries: Is Gunsmoke on tonight? Is it supposed to snow tomorrow? When's the last time the grass was cut?

I begged Ana to shut them up, come out as Cuban, play the jail card. But she refused to claim that authority. 'It will mean you, as a Kentucky girl, have nothing valuable to say about Cuba. And Cubans have nothing to say about the rest of the world.

Marita Lorenz, was born on August 18, 1939, in Bremen, Germany. In January of 1960 Marita, described as an attractive “curvy, black-haired young lady was named American’s “Mata Hari” by New York Daily News reporter Paul Meskil. Having had an affair with Fidel Castro that turned sour, she now returned to Havana where she attempted to take part in an assassination attempt, supposedly orchestrated by the Mafia and the CIA. Marita brought along poison pills in her cold cream jar, which predictably melted in the tropical heat. Besides, she later said that she really did not have the stomach for killing her former lover. Apparently Castro aware of why she returned to Cuba, handed her his pistol with a dare for her to use it. Even after knowing the truth regarding her visit, he allowed her to safely leave Cuba. Returning to Miami, Marita said that Frank Sturgis, presumably a CIA operative, was involved in this attempt, however it was his close associate, Alex Rorke, who was responsible for orchestrating the plan to poison Castro. Sturgis was extremely angry when she returned and rebuked her for putting the pills into the warm cold cream, calling her stupid, over and over again. For a few years after leaving the island, Marita was looked after and protected by a mobster named Ed Levi. It was his job to protect her from, what was considered, a likely attempt on her life by “Cuban Intelligence Operatives.” In 1961, Marita met Marcos Pérez Jiménez, the former President of Venezuela, in Miami. Marcos told her that he was anxious to meet her because he knew she was “Fidel's girl." He successfully pursued Marita, and when she gave in, they had an affair that resulted in the birth of a daughter.

A pastry never needs to be overly sweet. It only needs to be memorable.