Because stories must be told:
My Political Post
I normally don’t ‘do politics.’
But… today I have to make an exception…
Today is July 26th. It is the anniversary of that Commie’s attacks on the Moncada Barracks. According to that Commie (no, he doesn’t deserve his name mentioned on my blog), it is the anniversary of the beginning of La Revolucion. It’s the day that Cuba began to lose itself to an ugly and diseased man.
I wasn’t born in Cuba, but my parents were. They left Cuba as soon as they realized what was happening – and because of that, they were punished. For years, they lived alone En La Yuma, not knowing whether their loved ones in Cuba were living or dead. They missed weddings and seeing the births of their nieces and nephews.
They were robbed of the chance at saying goodbye to their own parents – my grandparents. And because I was their daughter, I was robbed of having aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents to share my life with. All I have are bits and pieces of stories – told to me by my father and mother, and then a few years ago, by my maternal grandfather, who was too old to remember much of anything.
This morning, my mother called me from her South Florida paradise: Good morrrrning, mi hija. How are joo? Felicidades – hoy es Santa Ana.
No mention of Cuba. Perhaps it’s easier for her to not remember it.
Being my mother’s daughter, I didn’t mention it either: Gracias, Mami. Como estas? Y Papi? Mandale saludos. Te llamo por la noche.
We hung up.
But both of us knew: despite it being a day to celebrate todas las Anas, my grandmother and I included, it’s also a very, very grim day.
To that Commie – I hope when you die, you rot in hell. Not only did you ruin a beautiful and magical paradise and its people, you stole my history from me. You stole the stories that I am supposed to tell my children. And not only did you do it to me, you did it to countless others. That is unforgivable.
Albeit it a bit late, Feliz santo, Ana!