Cuban Stories

By Susana Jiménez-Mueller

Since Cuba became a republic, its ever-changing historical landscape impacted families differently. Yet, although everyone's story can't be painted with one brush, we find truth in the common denominator: the foods we eat, the songs we sing, and the stories we tell.

The cuentos – stories chosen for this anthology are part of The Green Plantain – The Cuban Stories Project podcast series. They illustrate the lives of Cubans on the island and those who make their home in other countries as part of the diaspora.

The accounts and anecdotes illustrate resilience, entrepreneurial spirit, a strong sense of family, and love of country and God. They vary in mood – some are funny, nostalgic, inspirational, or share a bit of history.

These are our stories - shared in celebration of our roots.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susana Jiménez-Mueller
• Release date: Jul 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201922405

Susana Jiménez-Mueller

Susana, a Cuban-American writer, is a storyteller and a podcaster. She is the author of and host of The Green Plantain - The Cuban Stories Project podcast, author of Now I Swim, co-author of Flight of the Tocororo and El vuelo del tocororo, and Perico - The Amazing Burro. She writes prose and poetry about love for family, genealogy, and the microscopic. She holds a Master in Business Continuity Management from Norwich University, a Bachelor in Chemistry from Florida International University, and a writing certificate from the Institute of Children’s Literature. Susana teaches Life Story Writing and leads the Bloomingdale Regional Library Life Stories Enrich (LISTEN) Project, producing audio recordings for writers in Valrico, Florida, and as the owner of SusanasBooks, her goal is to help new writers publish. She is an avid genealogist. family storyteller, and podcaster. Susana is presently working on a novel based on her family, dating to colonial times in Cuba. You can find Susana (Sue) at: https://susanasbooks.com/ https://anchor.fm/susana-mueller https://www.facebook.com/susanasbooks/ www.Linkedin.com/in/susanamueller https://www.instagram.com/susanasbooks/

Book preview

1

No Oranges for You

My father passed away when we first arrived in the U.S. in 1964, and we had to apretarnos los cinturones – tighten our belts, and make our way through those early years in exile. My sister, Gloria, was always upbeat and full of spunk despite our new life situation.

In 1974 we lived in Florida, the land of sunshine and orange juice.

On any given day, anyone could buy orange juice with or without pulp, fresh or frozen – any size - and serve it at their morning table; orange juice – the perfect drink for a perfect American home.

At the edge of this idyllic Floridian life was an immigrant culture that served Cuban coffee and hot buttered bread in their homes on Saturday mornings, not orange juice. Oranges were reserved for mid-morning or afternoon snacks, and drinking orange juice was a luxury for many.

We lived in a motel converted to studio apartments on Flagler Street across from my Alma Matter, Miami Senior High School.

While coffee and buttered bread were our daily breakfast, I woke up late on Saturdays and bought orange juice and a dozen Krispy cream doughnuts at Zagamy’s, a nearby Jewish grocery store down the road on 17th Avenue.

One Saturday in January, I arrived from Zagamy’s with my treasure and sat with Gloria in our tiny kitchen. It was mid-morning and Mom was already montando los frijoles para el almuerzo[i] – preparing the beans for lunch.

The acrid smell of black beans filled the air as they started to boil with their spices, and the mantra of ajo, cebolla, comino, y aji invaded my thoughts. We recited the names of these spices when we first learned to cook basic Cuban meals: garlic, onion, cumin, and green pepper. The different smells fought for air space and mixed with the mild breeze entering the back door.

While breathing with the counter smells was difficult, I continued drinking the orange juice and taking huge bites from the doughnut. My left hand hovered under my right to catch the cloudy crystallized sugar flakes before falling on the green speckled Formica kitchen table.

I worked through the stack of doughnuts, half-listening to my sister telling us about school buses full of Cubans that went to the Homestead packing houses on Saturdays to grade and wash oranges.

Easy work, she said. Definitely, easier than washing dishes or cleaning houses. Gloria was alluding to the many Cuban professionals still jump-starting their lives.

As she spoke, I pictured doctors in their white coats washing dishes, busing tables, and cleaning houses instead of attending to the sick. I recalled this information was part and parcel of everyday life, and often you could catch someone exclaiming, Did you hear doctor so and so, the best in Santa Clara has opened a practice? He doesn’t have to wash dishes at the Fountain Blue hotel anymore! These conversations always ended: If they can do it, so can we. We can all succeed in this country.

Pulling me back to reality, Gloria said, Come on, let’s all go. It will be fun, and we will get paid a few dollars and bring home some oranges.

Okay, I will go.

Why did I agree? Was I drunk on sugar?

Excited, Gloria continued to explain the details of how we would travel to the packing house, something about an old school bus picking us up near Miami High School.

I had no idea what I was getting into!

The following Saturday arrived soon enough. In the fog of sleep, I turned on my side and reached for the thin sheet to cover my face, trying to hide from the dim kitchen light flooding the apartment. The sun was not up yet, but Mom was busy preparing lunches for our adventure in the kitchen.

No orange juice and doughnuts that morning! 

With eyes still shut, I inched to the edge feeling for the sneakers under the bed. I found them, rolled out of bed, slipped them on, shuffled to the bathroom, and dressed in white shorts and a red gingham blouse.

We left the house as the was rising and crossed Flagler Street, joining other women heading for the bus. Many wore big rollers under head scarfs, and the fragrance of Dippity Do hair gel emanated from their wet hair.

They were colorful, walking in pairs, chatting, purses hanging from the crook of arms, and lunch cantinas swinging in their hands. Some held on to their skirts to keep them from blowing in the gentle morning breeze.

Soon we reached the infamous run-down yellow school bus at the end of the street. I am sure the bus was shiny when it carried hundreds of kids to school. Unfortunately, its hardened and aged brittle green vinyl seats could not cushion any of its occupants.

I sat toward the middle of the bus, Mom beside me and Gloria to her right at a window. I was there in body but not in spirit. I felt like a stranger amongst these people, yet I am sure others driving alongside our bus that day saw a girl with olive skin, hair pulled back under a scarf, and a portion of a sleeveless blouse, just another Cuban.

We rambled south on dusty US 1 as the women sang songs and men told stories from la Patria - homeland and its hated leader. Gloria sang along with the women and was happy. Mom quietly looked out the window, and I sat there looking at them, forever stuck between two cultures.

We arrived at the packing house and walked through tall itchy grass. I had never seen a packing house before, but it was not what I expected. It was a damp and dirty building filled with several conveyor belts. Large open windows lined both sides, providing much-needed ventilation. 

The scent of citrus invaded every pore as soon as we entered.

A tall, red-faced man dressed in jeans and wearing a large hat came barking orders. The happy atmosphere was gone as the bus leader translated the barks - I felt humiliated and trampled.

We all took our places by conveyor belts, and oranges started tumbling down the straps soaked in chlorine water.

Hands in yellow gloves moved in compass to the rumbling of the machinery, a count of 4 by 4, like window wipers. The hands lightly brushed the tops of the fruit, sometimes swiftly stopping to pluck one and throw it in a box under the conveyor belt by the worker’s feet.

We didn’t come prepared; our hands were naked and exposed to chlorine water.

The job was to choose United States Department of Agriculture quality fruit by feel and sight.

What did I know about choosing quality fruit? Absolutely nothing!

After a few minutes of pushing the oranges around, the stench filled my nostrils and burned my eyes; I began to sneeze. I turned around and told mom it was not a safe environment, and we needed to stop.

The foreman towered over us and said, Stop talking and work.

I looked straight into his eyes, saying, No. This water has too much chlorine, and it’s not safe. I am not going to work.

I turned to my family, pleading for them to step away from the line, but they felt obliged to continue selecting fruit.

Now inches from mine, his flushed face stared at me in disbelief. I continued to explain that I was a chemistry major in college and knew this was not safe.

Visibly upset, he said, You are not getting paid, and the bus will not take you back now. No oranges for you!

That’s fine. I will sit on the steps and wait.

I had no idea why he told me there were no oranges for me. Then, turning, I signaled Mom that everything was okay and told her I would sit and wait.

The wooden floor planks echoed as I made my way to the front steps. Reaching the handrail, I turned and watched the lovely women and men, their hands moving in rhythm; oranges tumbling under their hands, jumping and landing, moving along by the impetus of the fruits behind them – a wave of oranges. I would never look at produce the same way. Orange juice would never taste the same again.

I sat on the steps and contemplated the tall wild grass, which probably was never cut, noticing the sun was still low in the sky.  The morning heat escalated, vaporizing the dew, and I became engulfed in my thoughts of future success – I had all day.

My family and bus cohorts visited me during the morning, lunch, and afternoon breaks, and the cafecito – coffee, still warm from the thermos was the best I had ever tasted.

Later, as the sun began its descent, the bus came down the road to the packing house, and everyone piled back on, each carrying a bag of disqualified oranges.

The sweaty bodies slumped in their seats on the long bumpy ride home, drained by the heat, without voices left to sing.

2

The Last Awakening of a

Spanish Colony

There were several attempts to liberate Cuba from Spain. The Ten-Year War, also known as the Great War or the War of 1868, was the first