The plan was to go to tonight’s Korda exhibit at Florida International University donning tshirts with photographs of che guevara’s real legacy: death, murder, assasinations. Unfortunately, I neglected to read the fine print and didnt realize it wasnt an exhibit of photographs, but the screening of a documentary. Still, Henry, Robert and I went and sat down at the theater on campus and decided to stay for the film.
I could stomach only up to the credits, specifically, where they said “and special guest appearance by el Comandante fidel castro.”
I looked at Henry, told him, “that’s it. Im done.” I got up and started to leave the theater. As I made my way up the center aisle, movie still running behind me, I felt the bile build up in my stomach. Felt it start to brew there, beads of sweat formulating on my forehead. By the time I’d reached the entrance doors, I was already throwing up in my mouth. I barely made it to the men’s room.
As I type this, Henry and Robert are still there and I’m here at home and all I can think about is that I need to apologize to my parents for not doing a better job, for not spending more time, for not having a stronger voice and for having failed them. Failed to tell their story and failed to show the world what pure hatred like that espoused by fidel castro and che guevara, etal, does to one’s soul.
The plight and suffering of generations of Cubans have been relegated to obscurity by a beard, a beret and a grin.