Next Year In Havana Quotes

That’s the thing about death—even when you think someone is gone, glimpses of them remain in those they loved and left behind.

Life is too short to be unhappy, to play it safe. To do what is expected of you rather than follow your heart

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is decide to leave when it is no longer wise to stay.

We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel.

Havana is like a woman who was grand once and has fallen on hard times, and yet hints of her former brilliance remain, traces of an era since passed, a photograph faded by time and circumstance, its edges crumbling to dust.

You never know what’s to come. That’s the beauty of life. If everything happened the way we wished, the way we planned, we’d miss out on the best parts, the unexpected pleasures.

To be in exile is to have the things you love most in the world - the air you breathe, the earth you walk upon - taken from you. They exist on the other side of a wall - there and not - unaltered by time and circumstance, preserved in a perfect memory in a land of dreams.

You speak of passion, but what about companionship, mutual respect, friendship? Why do people always seize on the spark that can peter out as the measure of a relationship?

The line between hero and villain is a precariously fragile one.

revolutions don’t care much for broken hearts and shattered dreams.

The Americans preach liberty, and freedom, and democracy at home, and practice tyranny throughout the rest of the world.

You speak as though politics is its own separate entity,” he says. “As though it isn’t in the air around us, as though every single part of us isn’t political. How can you dismiss something that is so fundamental to the integrity of who we are as a people, as a country? How can you dismiss something that directly affects the lives of so many?

... but the older you get, the more you learn to appreciate the moments life gives you. Getting them certainly isn't a given, and I feel blessed to have carved out a life here where I could be happy even if it wasn't quite the happiness I envisioned, if the things I dreamed of never quite came to pass.

Loyalty is a complicated thing — where does family fit on the hierarchy? Above or below country? Above or below the natural order of things? Or are we above all else loyal to ourselves, to our hearts, our convictions, the internal voice that guides us?

At the end of the day, the only thing you have left is what you stand for. If I said nothing, if I did nothing, I could not live with myself. I would not be a man. This is the position I choose to take, and for better or worse, I will accept the consequences of my actions.

To be Cuban is to be proud—it is both our greatest gift and our biggest curse. We serve no kings, bow no heads, bear our troubles on our backs as though they are nothing at all. There is an art to this, you see. An art to appearing as though everything is effortless, that your world is a gilded one, when the reality is that your knees beneath your silk gown buckle from the weight of it all. We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel.

Terrible things rarely happen all at once, she answers. They're incremental, so people don't realize how bad things have gotten until it's too late.

For some, there is only one true love. But not everyone is lucky enough to have that love work out for them. And for some, the love we cannot have is the most powerful one of all.

You think you know someone, imagine you know them better than anyone, and then little by little, the fabric of their life unravels before your eyes and you realize how little you knew.

Terrible things rarely happen all at once,” she answers. “They’re incremental, so people don’t realize how bad things have gotten until it’s too late. He swore up and down that he wasn’t a communist. That he wanted democracy. Some believed him. Others didn’t.

If she’s happy, that’s all that matters,

I am Cuban, and yet, I am not. I don’t know where I fit here, in the land of my grandparents, attempting to recreate a Cuba that no longer exists in reality. Perhaps we’re the dreamers in all of this. The hopeful ones. Dreaming of a Cuba we cannot see with our eyes, that we cannot touch, whose taste lingers on our palates, with the tang of memory. The exiles are the historians, the memory keepers of a lost Cuba, one that’s nearly forgotten.

That’s the thing with grief—you never know when it will sneak up on you.

Angry’ is the easiest emotion,

I worry I’m surrounded by madmen who desire to burn the world down without thought for the consequences of their actions, without regard for all the innocent lives that will be charred by the flames.

For many being Cuban is something they carry with them in their hearts, something they fight to preserve even when all they have are their memories. When they left, they couldn’t take anything with them. No photographs, no official documents, no family heirlooms or mementos. That kind of exile makes you angry.

On the surface, ojalá translates to “hopefully” in English. But that’s just on paper, merely the dictionary definition. The reality is that there are some words that defy translation; their meaning contains a whole host of things simmering beneath the surface. There’s beauty contained in the word, more than the flippancy of an idle hope. It speaks to the tenor of life, the low points and the high, the sheer unpredictability of it all. And at the heart of it, the word takes everything and puts it into the hands of a higher power, acknowledging the limits of those here on earth, and the hope, the sheer hope, the kind you hitch your life to, that your deepest wish, your deepest yearning will eventually be yours.

The United States isn’t perfect; there’s injustice everywhere I turn. But there’s also a mechanism that protects its citizens—the right to question when something is wrong, to speak out, to protest, to be heard. It doesn’t always work, sometimes the system fails those it was designed to protect, but at least that opportunity—the hope of it—exists.

I was caught between two lands—two iterations of myself—the one I inhabited in my body and the one I lived in my dreams.

Even in a country where everyone is supposed to be equal, there are clear disparities between those who have little and those who have less.

Never forget where you come from. You come from a long line of survivors. Trust in that when things get hard. And in each other.

If everything happened the way we wished, the way we planned, we’d miss out on the best parts, the unexpected

And so, the beauty of life here—the simplicity of it—is also the tragedy of it.

You learn the deepest truths about yourself when you fail at something.

At the end of the day, the only thing you have left is what you stand for.

You can’t live your life to please others if you’re not proud of yourself.

That’s the thing about families. They always tell you the truth, even when you’d almost prefer the lie.

To be Cuban is to be proud—it is both our greatest gift and our biggest curse.

Guantanamera

The exiles are the historians, the memory keepers of a lost Cuba, one that’s nearly forgotten.

On good days, I am hopeful. On bad days, I wonder why I bother. But isn’t that the point? They’ve created a system to wear you down so you’re so tired from the weight of it, fighting lines and bureaucracy and the things you need to make it through each day, you don’t have any fight left.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s difficult spreading your message when the government censors certain words in communications.

There are natural pauses in conversations when one speaks of family estrangement—the inadequacy of words to convey the unnatural state of breaking from those to whom you are bound in blood, the pauses physically manifesting themselves in an empty chair at an ostentatious dining room table that hailed from Paris. I know all about those pauses—a relationship severed at the knees, a sibling lost to ideology, a family forever fractured.

I told myself being a Perez meant more than being Cuban, that my responsibility to my family, to do what was expected, to be the woman my parents wanted me to be meant more than fighting for what I believed in, for speaking out against Batista's tyranny. And the whole time we were pretending our way of life was fine, the "paradise" we'd created was really a fragile deal with a mercurial devil, and the ground beneath us shifted and cracked, destroying the world as we knew it. Fidel has shown us the cost of our silence. The danger of waiting too long to speak, of another's voice being louder than ours because we were too busy living in the bubbles we'd created to realize the rest of Cuba had changed and left us behind.

And so occasionally, we do exceedingly foolish things like sneaking out of the house in the dead of night, because it’s impossible to stand near the flame consuming everything around you and not have some of that fire catch the hem of your skirt, too.

The problem with revolution, with the wave of violence it carries with it, is that it's like a flash flood - it sweeps everything away, and nothing looks the same as it once dd. And you think this is good, change was what you wanted in the first place, change was what you needed. But suddenly you have a country you must govern, people whose basic needs must be met. You must stabilize a currency... reform a constitution. Those are not the things young men dream of. They dream of dying for their country; dream of honor in battle. No one dreams about sitting at a desk and arguing over phrases.

person, the buildings towering before us. Many of the exteriors are adorned in vibrant colors—coral, canary yellow, and turquoise—the sun bathing them in an amber glow. The walls match the flashy cars surrounding us, the paint on the structures peeling in places. Clotheslines hang from intricate wrought iron and stone balconies, clothes flapping in the breeze; power lines zigzag across buildings. People are stacked upon one another here, crammed into any available space, spilling from the buildings.

There is somewhat of a divide between the Cubans who left and the Cubans who stayed. There is affection and worry for family members and friends who remained behind, the intrinsic need to help anyone leave Cuba, but there is also a schism, Some believe those who stayed contributed to Cuba becoming what it is now, and in doing so, bolstered Fidel's power and legitimized it. People like my grandmother saw that as another betrayal-One that hurt especially because it came from her fellow Cubans. It is much easier to forgive a stranger than it is one you love.

Despite the new impediments that DeWolf faced, he became more powerful than ever. On December 4, 1795, his ship the Juno sold seventy-five slaves valued at $19,390 at an undisclosed location in the West Indies. Then, on January 9, 1796, this same ship landed in Havana and sold the remaining slaves from the same voyage, valued at $25,105. The next entry on the ship log for that year showed that DeWolf subcontracted with thirty-five different individuals to fulfill their requests for slaves. This exhibits an incessant need to obtain free labor at any cost, even illegally. DeWolf typically charged an average $40 consignment fee for each slave ordered, to be delivered to the original requester, along with a 5

Your grandmother—you said she was all you had. Is that why it’s so important to you to find him?” I nod. “Losing her has been harder than I imagined. I should have realized it would be, but she was always so vibrant, seemed so much younger than her years, and I suppose I took for granted that she would be around a long time. Would see me get married, hold my child in her arms.” A tear trickles down my cheek and I bat it away. “I hate that she’s not going to be here for all of these moments. That she won’t be here to sing ‘Cielito Lindo’ to my child like she did to me when I was a little girl. There’s this giant hole in my heart. I miss her arms around me, the scent of her perfume, the smell of her cooking.

Terrible things rarely happen all at once,” she answers. “They’re incremental, so people don’t realize how bad things have gotten until it’s too late. He swore up and down that he wasn’t a communist. That he wanted democracy. Some believed him. Others didn’t.” “Did you—” “Believe? Support Fidel then?” I nod. “No.

How do you gain any power in a world where a few control all of it if you aren’t willing to wrest that power from them?

There is an art to this, you see. An art to appearing as though everything is effortless, that your world is a gilded one, when the reality is that your knees beneath your silk gown buckle from the weight of it all. We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel.

Life is too short to be unhappy, Marisol. To play it safe. To do what is expected of you rather than follow your heart.

If things don’t look the way you anticipated, you change your expectations. It’s an easy way to avoid being disappointed.

Our love is tangled up in our expectations, our perception of reality. And you never know what people really think. They often keep their deepest emotions locked away.

could, I fought for what I believed in. But I’m an old man now. The older you get, the more you realize that change—meaningful, lasting change—doesn’t always come with violence and bloodshed, but with reform, however slow, however gradual.

They ensure we’re so preoccupied with the daily struggle that there’s little left over for the most important one, for taking control of our future.

The best thing to do, the smart thing, the way to survive in Havana is to keep your head down and go about your daily life as though the world around you isn’t creeping into madness.

the accomplishment is in the attempt.

those who keep a tight rein on power.

All are equal, but some are more equal than others,

Marisol. Do not ask me to choose between who I love and who I am. I fear it would not reflect well on either one of us.

Never forget where you come from. You come from a long line of survivors. Trust in that when things get hard.

Happy New Year, Cuban Style In Havana, Christmas of 1958 had not been celebrated with the usual festivity. The week between Christmas and New Year’s was filled with uncertainty and the usual joyous season was suspended by many. Visitations among family and friends were few; as people held their breath waiting to see what would happen. It was obvious that the rebel forces were moving ever closer to Havana and on December 31, 1958, when Santa Clara came under the control of “Che” Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos, the people knew that Havana would be next. What they didn’t know was that their President was preparing to leave, taking with him a large part of the national treasury. Aside from the tourists celebrating at the casinos and some private parties held by the naïve elite, very few celebrated New Year’s Eve. A select few left Cuba with Batista, but the majority didn’t find out that they were without a President until the morning of the following day…. January 1, 1959, became a day of hasty departure for many of Batista’s supporters that had been left behind. Those with boats or airplanes left the island nation for Florida or the Dominican Republic, and the rest sought refuge in foreign embassies. The high=flying era of Batista and his chosen few came to a sudden end. Gone were the police that had made such an overwhelming presence while Batista was in power, and in their place were young people wearing black and red “26th of July” armbands. Not wanting a repeat of when Machado fled Cuba, they went around securing government buildings and the homes of the wealthy. Many of these same buildings had been looted and burned after the revolt of 1933. It was expected that Fidel Castro’s rise to power would be organized and orderly. Although the casinos were raided and gambling tables overturned and sometimes burned in the streets, there was no widespread looting with the exception of the hated parking meters that became symbolic of the corruption in Batista’s government. Castro called for a general “walk-out” and when the country ground to a halt, it gave them a movement time to establish a new government. The entire transition took about a week, while his tanks and army trucks rolled into Havana. The revolutionaries sought out Batista’s henchmen and government ministers and arrested them until their status could be established. A few of Batista’s loyalists attempted to shoot it out and were killed for their efforts. Others were tried and executed, but many were simply jailed, awaiting trial at a later time.

The City of Boston allowed us to dock at the dilapidated Mystic Wharves, right next to where the ships from the Havana Line used to tie up. Without knowing it, we were witnessing the end of an era. Steamship companies that connected Cuba with the United States were dwindling, as commercial aviation came into its own. The Havana Line was already gone, and the New York & Cuba Mail Steamship Company, commonly called the Ward Line, was a shipping company that operated from 1841 until 1954 and ran “Whoopee Cruises” during the prohibition years. Because of a number of accidents, including the fire on the SS Morro Castle off Asbury Park on September 8, 1934, the company was left hanging on by a thread. In the mid-1950’s it was still possible to buy a round trip passage from Miami to Havana for about $45.00, which was a bargain, even in those days.

We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel." - Elisa Perez, Next Year in Havana

I could not put this book down!

Why do people always seize on the spark that can peter out as the measure of a relationship?

Does he feel it—this thing between us—too?

in Miramar. It’s loud, even in the hallway, the walls offering

What’s it like to be Catholic in Cuba?” I whisper to Luis once he’s caught up to me, his earlier warning about curbing my words fresh in my mind. His gaze sweeps across the church before returning back to me. “Nearly as difficult as it is to be Cuban in Cuba,” he replies, his tone dry.

Across the water, there’s La Cabaña, the infamous prison Che Guevara ran after the revolution. The sight of it sends a chill down my spine when I think about the blood shed there, the lives lost. There’s a violence to our history that gets lost somewhere in the telling, buried beneath the beautiful scenery, the deceptively blue sea and sky, the palm trees swaying placidly in the breeze. It’s the sound of firing squads that echo in the wind. “They’ve built shops there now, a restaurant,” Luis murmurs, his body tucked away from the tourists, his mouth hidden in the curve of my neck. “You can gawk at the world’s largest cigar in the site where we bled.

So where do people go to get the food they need when the government stores aren’t enough?” “The black market.” “What’s the penalty if you’re caught?” “It depends on the scale of involvement in the black market, but it’s not unheard of for people to be sentenced to more than fifteen years in prison. You can serve a greater sentence for killing a cow than a person in Cuba.” “Jesus.” “—hasn’t been to Cuba in a very long time,” Luis replies.

A man strums a guitar in the background. Luis’s hand is on the stone inches away, his naked fingers long and tapered, his nails neatly trimmed, his skin a few shades darker than mine. Those inches feel like a mile—or ninety.

Love is a remarkably physical entity—the beat of his pulse at his wrist, the heaving of his chest with each breath, the fluttering of lashes, the line of his jaw. I want to press my lips there, want to know every inch of his body, every movement, want the parts of him no one else sees. There’s a greediness to love that I didn’t anticipate, either.

I walk down these streets, and I look out to the sea, and I want to feel as though I belong here, but I’m a visitor here, a guest in my own country.” Luis takes my hand. “Then you know what it means to be Cuban,” he says. “We always reach for something beyond our grasp.

We are Rome, and this is the Coliseum,

History professor. Musician. Waiter. The legacy of the Cuban revolution - donning many hats to stay afloat. For some, the love we cannot have is the most powerful one of all.

Have faith, Marisol. You could be good for each other. It might seem impossible now, but trust me, you never know what the future can bring.

He is not a careless man, and whatever the future holds, I know he will be careful with me.

Despite the way we left things, the uncertainty of us, I cannot stop hoping our relationship isn’t finished.

how my body shifts once he’s around, my attention gravitating toward him. It seems supremely unfair that these pings of energy, these sparks flying around me, have found a target they cannot—and should not—have.

I’m forever caught between two languages. I learned Spanish before anything else, grew up speaking both languages at home and at school. In my most vulnerable moments, the ones when I feel things most deeply, when I hope, when I fear, when I love, it’s the Spanish that comes to me first.

He will kiss her and everything will change.

Batista was a harsh president. He loved sugar, loved the money that flowed into the country from overseas, but he didn’t love the Cuban people. He wanted to be king over a people who didn’t want to be ruled.

You’re the romantic, the dreamer, the one who’s searching for something.

Nineteen and a pampered bird in a gilded cage.

artifice.

My siblings are my friends because we are joined by birth, the bond strong and unbreakable, but there is freedom in having a friend with whom I can be myself, without the expectations and strings of family dynamics and drama.

Can you have a relationship where you exist in half measures, or does the very nature of love demand you throw yourself into it with gusto?

It is a remarkably painful thing to have someone you care about and admire judge your existence, your very identity, the world you inhabit, and deem it rotten to the core. My brother hates everything about being a Perez, and the more he professes his desire to distance himself from our family, the more it seems impossible for him to love those of us who were born into this lifestyle. I am my parents’ daughter. How can you love something you denounce with such fervor?

That’s the trouble with sisters; they know you far too well.

Loyalty is a complicated thing—where does family fit on the hierarchy? Above or below country? Above or below the natural order of things? Or are we above all else loyal to ourselves, to our hearts, our convictions, the internal voice that guides us?

There are fewer tourists than you typically encounter on the Malecón. The attacks at the Montmartre cabaret and the Tropicana have rattled nerves and people are on edge. Then there are the bombs exploding around the city at random intervals, interspersed between parties, elegant dinners and lunches, and trips to the beach. And Nero fiddled while Rome burned.

Pablo holds the flower out to me, and I take it from his hands, the silk soft against my palm, the simple beauty of it tugging at my heart. I’m grateful for its resilience, that I won’t have to watch it age and turn to dust, that I may tuck the rose into a drawer somewhere and pull it out, stroking its petals when I feel the need to remember.

welcomes the attention,

Havana is like a woman who was grand once and has fallen on hard times, and yet hints of her former brilliance remain, traces of an era since passed, a photograph faded by time and circumstance, its edges crumbling to dust. If I close my eyes I can see Havana as she was, enshrined in my grandmother’s memory.

Santeria gods and goddesses. It’s a quiet act of defiance,

Speaking words gives them an unimaginable power

It is much easier to forgive the stranger than it is one you love.