The Mind is FREEDOM

Excerpts from

"New niggers on the block"

Chapter 1“...recollections on the evolution of a nigger.”

History, is the keystone to the structure of understanding. By studying the “Past”, we can extrapolate hypotheses that would make us aware of other possibilities that may be more instrumental in arriving at a desired goal. The X-factors are that “Fate” may be in control and we are just living out a Life that has already been predestined. Or that there is a God and he has placed these challenges in our path for the purpose of our own individual spiritual evolution. The Truth probably lies in between both concepts. The “Meaning of Life” is to evolve, both spiritually and humanly. How do I know? A person’s life, from when they are born, consists of growing mainly. Physically, mentally, socially, and spiritually. We move through “Time” experiencing events of cause and effect. The memorable moments, good or bad, living vividly in our minds, over and over like a movie playing on a loop. We live for the good ones and exist through the bad ones. In the end, as the sun sets on the day, you remember it all. So if there is no meaning to Life, then who ever invented Life, created the greatest waste of time and effort imaginable by any entity living. And I imagine that when I get ready to die and my life flashes in my mind, I will have evolved enough so that I don’t have to return to this level of reality. Stubbornness and consistency are the mainstays of this world. Most people fear the idea of an idea. They desire to live in the same day again and again. Sure it’s safer and you feel more secure in dealing with similar events that you have experienced the outcome, but there is little growth in this approach. Familiarity is just an inbred way of hypothesizing the “Past”. We, as a civilization, have not advanced very much, socially, mentally, and spiritually, in the last two thousand years. The outlook is at a crossroad that only time will tell. You say the future is set? It has been my experience that Fate knows the problems, but not the answers. We keep living the same equation over and over until we arrive at a resolution. Sometimes I cheat by looking to the “Past”.

“Niggers go home. Go back to Cuba.” It was said to me by a white American family. I was seven years old when I heard a statement like this for the first time. Another paradox for me to consider at an early age. I thought niggers was a slang version of negro. Another way to insult black people. Why would they put us in the same context. After all, I was white. Not that it mattered much to me to be referred to as black. In Cuba, we were all one people. Sure some of us were of different color, but, it did not have any derogatory meaning to any of us. Niggers was one word that seem to increase in insult as time went by and I got bombarded by ideas from individual sources. From television to fellow students at school. Then, one day to top it off, I was called a nigger by a black person. He appeared to be trying to insult me. I looked up the word in Webster’s Dictionary, it stated the word referred to a person that was ignorant. A human beast of burden. Nothing about the color of a person. So anybody could be a nigger. Now I was truly confused.

Life started so joyfully. I was laying in my crib looking up at the ceiling. At nothing in particular. I don’t know for how long, but I remember feeling that I longed for something to happen. My head slightly cocked at an angle so I can see the ceiling over my parent’s bed. There was light reflecting on the surface of the ceiling, but I could not see from where. My view consisted of just the the top third of the crib, which was exposed. Then a face enters from the right. Big and smiling. Sounds and invisible impressions, seem to come from her moving mouth. She disappears. First time I experienced aloneness. I waited. Waited. Two faces now fill my entire view. One was the same as the first time, and another, with something on his face covering his eyes. But I could still see his eyes. Giant hands reach for me. The one without the eye covers pulls me to her chest. Warmth. First time I felt love.

Then came birthday parties, (they say I was lucky, I always seemed to win the raffles at parties or contests for prizes), fishing trips, horseback riding on my uncle’s farm. Trips to the neighborhood park, bus rides to the beach or going to a giant pool with my Tio(uncle) Ruben and Tia(aunt) Emma to the casino? Watching my uncle being friendly with girls there. (Somehow, my brother and I seem to always be a part of these flirtations.) Television. Heckle and Jeckel. Cinema and Pinocchio. Pinocchio, the first time I ever went to the movies. I had nightmares about turning in to a donkey for weeks after.

1959 was one of the most prominent years of my evolution in life. I couldn’t understand why my whole family would gather in front of the television, mumble among themselves, hushing us when we tried to find out what was going on. First time I ever heard the statement, “Quiet, sometimes, even the walls have ears.” But I did not find any ears on any of the walls in our home and I told her so. Besides this army man called Castro speaks like a good guy. He wants what’s good for everybody. My father leaned close to me, “That’s the way it always starts. They want to control the people. They promise equality for everybody. But Castro, eventually, will be the dictator and only Castro and his followers will have rights and equality.”

The walk to the local store to get groceries became extremely vigilant. I did not understand. All of those soldiers walking around and the tanks, those were really neat. Just like the ones I play with, but real. Still, I was discouraged from asking why we could not get ham or other meat, or other food that was, now, not available. The soldiers were always around. Even in the evening when I used to go with my father in his ‘47 Olds and drive around the city. We’d pick people up and drive them to where they were going. Then my father would hold out a plastic cup and the people would deposit coins in it . Like at church. Sometimes, I would sit on his lap and he would let me handle the steering wheel.

Why is everybody worried? We even celebrate Christmas Eve at my Uncle’s farm. The WHOLE family is there. I spent half the day meeting my cousins. ( My father comes from a family of thirteen. ) I was getting a little tired of all my relatives pinching me on the cheek and saying, “My! How you’ve grown!”, so I went riding a tricycle around the farm when I came to a barn. The doors were open and I could see that a group of men, including my father, had a giant pig tied by his legs, hanging from the ceiling. My Tio Rogelio, stuck a knife in his throat. The loudest and longest shrill, through, in, my mind. In one quick motion, the knife opened its’ stomach, and all of its’ guts splattered on to the floor. RED guts everywhere. "Mami look! They are killing a pig!” “Quiet son, you want to get us all in trouble?” “ But there is no one around.” “Sound travels far out here in the country.” All the way back home?

I went back to the tables where everybody was gathering. On my way I saw goats eating black beans on the floor. It wasn’t until my mother corrected me and told me that those were not black beans, but goat menour. Nothing made sense. Later at dinner, my Tia Mariana kept calling my father “Feli”. I corrected her. She told me that we were people of the land, campesinos. It is our custom to shorten a name when it is too long by taking the middle part and adding an "i" to the end. “Like you are Alfonsito, right? Your campesino name would be “Foni”.” Everybody in my family has called me that since that day. And the days passed. It didn’t seem as bad as all that. It was great having our Tio Ruben (my mother’s brother),Tia Emma(my mother’s sister), and Abuelo(my mother’s father), move in with us. It was a small apartment, but, it was like camping together. Though sleeping with my uncle in a hammock seemed like a fun idea at first, it was not very comfortable. I always seem to wake up feeling wrinkled. Money appeared to be scarce, but, I used to help my mother fold the laundry she would take in to make an extra peso. Still there was no ham at the local store. The soldiers and tanks were still there though. Standing before a giant billboard with a picture of a worm wearing a helmet with an American flag on it, carrying a rifle. The word “Guzanos” spray painted across the image. “I thought the Americans are good people?” I asked my mother. “They are.” she responded, “Castro is afraid that all the Cuban people are going to leave, so he spreads the story that all Cubans who go to the U.S. crawl like the worms there. We are traitors like the Americans because we turn our back on the country of our birth while the Americans continue to discredit Cuba.” “Are they?” “They say bad things about our country, but, they are true. Most of the things they say are bad are not about Cuba and its’ people, but, about Castro himself and the Communism he is introducing to our country.” “Communism sounds like a good thing though. Everybody is equal and gets the same pay and food.” “Communism works only on paper. There will always be people who will not accept it. If they are doing a harder job, they are not going to accept the same pay. They are going to want more money for their efforts. They want to be able to buy a bigger home or a big car. Under Castro, none of this would be possible. We do not have the freedom to individually pursue the quality of life that we choose. We only have the quality of life that Castro chooses.” “But Castro says that if all people are treated equally, they will be more of a nation.” “It’s propaganda.” “Propapa...” “Make believe stories that work in theory but not as long people are human. Because as humans, we are not equal. We may have been born with similar bodies, brains, etc..., but, we are not born with the same way of thinking. There will always be someone who wants more who will not be happy being in the same station as those he considers inferior.” “That’s why Communism is good. Equality for everybody.” “A mass of people, like all of the people of Cuba, will never be able to live in harmony and equality. There are always going to those who are not satisfied. At least in the U.S. people are free to choose the individual quality of life we want. Free to worship the God we believe in. It may not be perfect, but, we will be free to choose.” I hadn’t realized that we had not been to church in quite a while. Raised as a Roman Catholic, we attended church every Sunday without fail. Even my father would get dressed up and come with us, even though he did not believe in our God. Another paradox, at four, that I couldn't’ understand. Isn’t there only one God?

April 27th, 1962 was the day. It seemed like any other day. I was six years old and I knew that we were going on a trip, but no specifics. It wasn’t until my mother did not follow me in to the room, at Customs in the Airport, that I started to suspect that only my brother and I were going on this trip. The man there told us to take off our clothes, down to our underwear, so he could check if we were only wearing one pair of underwear. We were only allowed to take two including the one I was wearing. One set of clothes with socks, one coat, and one pair of shoes, the ones we were wearing. No jewelry.

For the first time, I felt fear. I grasped the gold chain and cross I was wearing and grew anxious. It was a present from my grandfather. It was representation of my religious beliefs. It was gold. Valuable. To my surprise, the man told us that we could keep them, he wouldn’t tell anybody. Just don’t tell anybody else. Somehow, his word made me feel even greater fear. For now, I was doing something wrong, illegal. If I get caught, I will go to jail.

He told us to get dressed. We did so. I thanked the gentleman and he replied by saying that I was a good little boy. I walked out and was greeted by my mother’s question, “Is everything all right?” I told her that he was very nice and he even let us keep our chain and cross. There was a sign of relief on both of my parents faces. It made me finally feel at ease. As long as I was careful and didn’t tell any body else. It wasn’t until about fifteen years later, that another possibility came in to the light. It appears that my grandfather, who was very wealthy before Castro took it away, by his very own words, had foreseen the possibilities and invested most of his wealth in gold jewelry that he gave to all his relatives and friends. They were supposed to be the assurance of his life’s work and provide resources in an alien world. Unfortunately, the people, mostly relatives and close friends, he gave the jewelry to, found the worth in what they had been given and used them as resource. When he finally came over to the U.S., there was no fortune waiting for him. Not even a penny. After all, they were presents! I don’t think my grandfather understood that. It was just another injustice by fate. It might be said that he earned it. Karma. I’ve heard tell stories that one time he was at court being sued for selling motor oil as cooking oil. He says he didn’t know. That he had purchased the product from this other gentleman on good faith. Probably untrue. My grandfather trusted no one. He suspected everybody of scamming. And they are memories of a ten year old listening to his father and grandfather argue about the history that Fidel Castro rewrote.

By this time, we were separated from our parents. A stranger assured my parents that he would look after us. He was pretty nice. My brother and I followed him through the gate. We boarded the plane and seated. Fastened our seat belts and waited with a hornet’s nest in my stomach. The propellers started turning and the plane took off and started ascending. It’s not so bad I thought. Until my eardrums felt like they had turned inside out. Our adopted guardian gave us each a stick of gum. “Chew it !” he said. “It will clear your ears.” Relief finally. The stewardess gave us all a box, with a bottle of liquor, and a chocolate bar. I told the stewardess that I didn’t drink. She laughed and told me that I could give it to somebody as a present. I told my brother that I was going to give mine to my uncle, Avelino. As soon as we see him at Miami Airport. The flight got bumpy and the voice of the captain came over speakers. “Turbulence, everybody fasten your seat belts.” I looked out the window and was overwhelmed with how clear the ocean was. Then our new friend informed us that it was because it was shallow. We saw a school of sharks swimming below us. I wondered if it was shallow, could some one walk from Cuba to Miami ? The captain informed us to prepare to land. Not again I thought. Well, at least it will be all over soon. It is going to be an adventure visiting our uncle and aunt in the magical land of the U.S.A. No poverty, crime, everybody is friendly with one another. Utopia. I can finally relax.

As I walked down the ladder, I could see my Uncle Avelino and Aunt Emma waving at us. I recognized them from the photos. It had been three years since I had last seen my mother’s sister. Now she’s married and pregnant. I missed her. When I was three, she used to tell me the story that my parents found me in the garbage because I was an ugly baby with big ears. “But now your ears are small and your the best looking of the whole Estevez Family.” I remember her always being very loving while living with us, after Castro took power. My uncle I thought was real cool. He had hip glasses on and he was a bass player in a music group. They were in their late twenties, I thought. Once, while dating my aunt before he married her, I was two, he gave me a ride in a brand new fifty-seven Plymouth, pink and white, shiny chrome, with electric windows. That was the coolest thing I had ever seen. Up, down, up, down. Until he snapped at me and told me to stop. That left an impression on me. First time any body, but my father, yelled at me liked that.

They didn’t have that car, when they took us home from the airport, but an older version. This one was not as shiny. They lived in a building that had an apartment in every corner, “A double duplex,” my aunt would call it. The neighborhood seemed white, clean. They gave my brother and I presents. A red, white, and blue sailboat. I couldn’t wait to put it in some body of water. It was around two o’clock when my aunt told me to take a bath and she would take me with her to the store. I went in to the bathroom and started playing in the water. After a while, my aunt came in and started yelling about how long it was taking me. I had built a wall with a towel so that I could test my new gift. My aunt started yelling about the water being everywhere, and that was the towel to dry me off. She told me to rinse off and finish getting out of there. I started washing my hair. With soap in my eyes, my uncle came in and started striking me with his belt for about ten minutes. “You’re not going to have it soft around here. This is what you can expect if you don’t obey what I say.” I can remember hearing my aunt’s pleas to stop. I thought he wouldn’t stop. I rinsed during this experience. Thinking it was the right thing to do. But he seemed to think I was trying to avoid it. It made him madder. The pain got more severe. My aunt finally got him to stop. When I came out of the bathroom, I discovered that my aunt had already left to the store with my brother and without me. First time I experienced the fear of receiving pain. My parents had never punished either my brother or me like that. I was ordered to wait quietly on the bed until her return.

Two hours and forty-three minutes passed before she came back. The longest moment in my life. Nonfiction. Ultra-reality. My uncle had kept watch and I couldn’t even see what he was watching on television, from where I was lying on the bed. My aunt informed me that tomorrow we were going downtown to the refugee center at the Freedom Tower. There, we were going to get clothes, food, and toys. First time in my brief life, the idea of acquiring a new toy did not seem to appeal to me. All I could think of was, why did my parents send us here. When will I see my parents again. Not tomorrow. Not even a day, or a week. Maybe, not even a month. Maybe, even never. Six years old. First time I completely understood what being alone was.