i am rev

By Magda Lopez

Magda Lopez, a fitness enthusiast and resilient Miami community contributor let's her defense down and delivers an honest account of how a story can bend you in ways that are prosperous as opposed to breaking in bad. Her willingness to find gratitude through life's waves is admirable and inspiring. The picture on the cover speaks for itself. @revete means to dare in Spanish, may we all embrace the pain in our lives and dare to make it different.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098370565

Book preview

foreword

CHAPTER 1

i am rev.

Rev means /rev/

noun

noun: rev; plural noun: revs

a revolution of an engine per minute.

an engine speed of 1,750 revs

an act of increasing the speed of revolution of a vehicle’s engine by pressing the accelerator, especially while the clutch is disengaged.

she started it up with a violent rev of the engine

verb

verb: rev; 3rd person present: revs; past tense: revved; past participle: revved; gerund or present participle: revving

increase the running speed of (an engine) or the engine speed of (a vehicle) by pressing the accelerator, especially while the clutch is disengaged.

he got into the car, revved up the engine and drove off

(of an engine or vehicle) operate with increasing speed when the accelerator is pressed, especially while the clutch is disengaged.

he could hear the sound of an engine revving nearby

make or become more active or energetic.

he’s revving up for next week’s World Cup game

Origin

early 20th century: abbreviation of revolution.

Secret: People call me Rev more than they call me Mag.

CHAPTER 2

i am grateful.

The dedication of this book is incredibly special. This book is dedicated to a writer, dedicated to a journalist, dedicated to a screenplay director, dedicated to a poet, dedicated to a movie producer, dedicated to an actor, dedicated to the first Cuban talk show host in New York City, dedicated to a legendary Miami radio personality, dedicated to a ferocious protector, dedicated to an honorary Interpol sharpshooter, dedicated to my father. He is always in my heart. His mellifluous voice is always in my ear, and his strong presence is always in the mirror staring back at me. THANK GOD! I love you Papi.

Secret: If you Google ENRIQUE DE LA TORRE,

you will be impressed, I promise.

CHAPTER 3

i am going to live forever.

My name is Magda de la Torre Lopez, AKA @REVETE. If I get married again, I will change my last name again. I believe in marriage still. I am human. I bleed just like you. I know this book is going to be criticized. I know it is not going to be accepted by everyone, and that is okay by me. What’s new, pussy cat? I know I am going to hurt people’s feelings. That is not the intention. I am not for everyone. Criticism is something that I learn from. Feedback is power. When I wake up every morning, my goal is not to make people happy. My goal is to always maintain my own happiness first. That goal is sometimes overwhelming. It is a full-time job.

I am writing this book because I needed to write this book. It is a story of survival. For many years, I wondered how on earth I made it, how I got through it. As an unsupervised child, my main source of defense was developing habits. Also, developing O.C.D. I can remember this process all the way back to pre-teen years. I always ask my clients to describe their day from the moment they open their eyes. ‘Oh, I am a CERTIFIED life coach, did I forget to mention this?" It is in the daily habits that you can identify EVERYTHING. I believe that this strength of developing positive habits was one of my strongest defense mechanisms. Also, my business. I turned it into a business. What else do you do with lemons?

This book is not meant to hurt anyone or insult anyone. I apologize in advance if it does. On the contrary, it is meant as a form of therapy for me, and the result of many years of wondering if my story could help another human being. My story is not different from other people’s stories. I just have the courage and the sticktoitiveness to tell it. We all suffer pain and love loss. Hopefully, through my pain you can move. We all do not have the deep need to share our pain. And that is okay too. I have never walked a day in your shoes. But I hope that after reading parts of my life (the juicy ones), you will share yours in your own way at your own time. It is my hope that you gain some confidence, laugh out loud, and grow your knowledge. It is my goal to share some true insight into who MAGDA really is. She is vastly different than @REVETE.

Grab some popcorn, this is one hell of a ride.

Secret: Originally, I was afraid to get on social media

for fear of privacy issues. HA! HA! HA!

CHAPTER 4

i am cuban.

Growing up in Miami means being a Cuban patriot. Trust me, bro, you don’t have a choice. I was born in the United States but felt like a Cuban patriot all my life. In my high school history class, my essays were always on Cuba. It is what I knew. In Sociology, my observations were always about Fidel Castro and the demise of Cuba. I had no choice but to defend my country even if it was their country.

My father was not only a patriot, but he was also a hardcore Batistiano. My father died defending his country on air and every other way possible. I knew he would never live to see a free Cuba. I had lost interest in meeting Cuba after he died. He would always tell me about how he was going to introduce me to his birthplace and show me my heritage and los tinajones de Camaguey. I knew it wouldn’t happen, not in his lifetime.

My father fought communism with his microphone on television and radio for over fifty years. His interpretation on how to attack Fidel was effective. His name was placed on a list of Cuban immigrants that weren’t allowed back into the island. Fidel had active connections in Miami as well. My father would receive death threats, bomb threats, and all kinds of rhetoric because he exercised his right to freedom of speech.

He was fortunate enough to make a healthy living using his heart-driven passion in defense of his country.

My mother described her adjustment issues in school after she arrived in Miami Beach. She came at a much younger age than my father. Her concerns were less political. They both remember a beautiful island and its fond memories.

As a child of Cuban immigrants living in Miami, it is hard to remember that we lived in the United States. Miami, for all my life, has been a tiny Cuba. I can choose a myriad of places in Miami that are made to mimic and replicate different parts of Cuba.

The Cubans that came to America at the time my parents did worked quickly and diligently to recreate their lives–or create something as close to their lives as possible. They rebuilt the same restaurants, i.e. Versailles, Casa Larios, El Pub, etc.

The radio stations were also duplicated CMQ, WQBA, and others. The Calle Ocho parade was my father’s playground. Anyone who loved and defended Cuba would gather there annually to celebrate Cuba. The slamming of the dominoes, the smoking of the Cohiba cigars, and the sounds of Celia Cruz are a typical day anywhere in Miami.

When I moved to Canada during my developmental years, the thing I missed the most was Cuban coffee (Café Bustelo) and platanos maduros. I remember being in Toronto and longing to taste these tastes again. I can’t imagine how the Cuban population felt and still feels about having to abandon everything they knew. All the fucking feels.

I was never privy to Fidel and his bullshit regime–I am second generation– but man, did I ever want to kill him. He stole so much from so many. Every time the news reported the failing of his health, I took out my pots and pans to celebrate. I wish my father could’ve rejoiced in this celebration.

In my house today, you can find mementos of Cuba throughout. I feel very Cuban even though I own an American passport.

After my father died, I felt there was nothing left for me to see in Cuba. My mother’s family was nonexistent in Cuba by the year 2000. The architecture was decayed. Where would I go? What would I see? I decided to kiss that dream away and add Fiji to my bucket list. I made a choice to live vicariously through photographs, stories, and the new Cuba called Miami to keep that dream alive. When I speak of Cuba, most people believe I was born there. The passion coming through the lens of my parents comes through me vividly. I learned the ABCs at the same time I learned about El Malecon. I learned my 123s and about La Virgen de La Caridad simultaneously, too.

I remember sharing a story of my maternal grandmother flying to Cuba to rescue family jewels with my neighbor and adopted sister Mimi. I would tell Mimi all the Cuban stories often. She would share her Lebanese stories. The suffering was the same, the places were different. The loss was heart-wrenching and unanimous.

My grandmother was a seamstress and stay-at-home wife and mother. She was an innocent American. She filed a 1040 tax return as a spouse. She had no real experience with infiltrating countries, spy-like activity and theft. She and the other families that were close to ours in Miami chose her to rescue the treasure because she was the least likely to get caught.

She sewed herself a custom trench coat with the lining removed and flew back to Cuba on a mission. She went to our family home with the mission of saving everyone’s jewelry and treasure. This included deeds to properties, wills, photographs, and some of the rarest stones I had ever seen. The relatives of the immigrants that had left Cuba joined forces and kept hiding all of this in order for someone from Miami to come and save it eventually.

One of these families was the Bacardi family. The Bacardi family owns the Cuban rum, and our families were close for many generations. When my grandmother arrived in Cuba, she found the specific tile in the floor that had secretly hidden all these treasures for all of these years. She cracked it open and began sewing the