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Black American in Cuba Parte Dos: Don't Trust Men to Write History

Black American in Cuba Parte Dos: Don't Trust Men to Write History

“We’re all black, we have to stick together,” Enso said.

He was clearly Afrocuban but identified as Black. That stuck with me as Corey and I headed to a nearby hotel for drinks on a rooftop overlooking Parque Central to end our day long trip in La Habana.

Ten hours earlier, we started the day with breakfast from our host family. Over breakfast, Corey and I talked about patriotism, blackness, and nationalism in an international context.

We wondered how AfroCubans viewed their blackness, and whether discrimination in a socialist society was as prevalent or visible as it is in a capitalist society. As a Black American woman, I’m very aware of how I’m viewed in my country. I know that prejudices exist against my people. I know what discrimination feels like. And yet, while walking around La Habana yesterday, I felt welcome. I felt like people were interested in where I came from—and were interested in getting to know who I was. I was also keenly aware that this could be because my husband and I stuck out like sore thumbs as Americans. Regardless, the stares and passive aggressiveness we typically would experience while buying tickets for exhibits, or going into bars, or getting service at restaurants was noticeably different than several experiences we’ve had in the U.S.

We rode into La Habana in an old school sea green Chevy with beige seats covered in plastic. Roberto, our taxi driver, was kind and stopped on the way to get his tire changed at a local tire shop. We picked up other passengers on our way to the city, none of them speaking to us or Roberto until they were close to their stops.

Cab ride into La Habana Cuba from Brisas del Mar, November 29, 2017. 

We decided to visit La Museo de Revolución first - a tribute museum to Fidel Castro, Che Guevara, Camilo Cienfugos, and the many Cubans who worked to overthrow Fulgencio Batista. Under Batista’s rule, the wealthy were extremely wealthy, and well, as capitalist countries go, the poor were extremely poor. Because of America’s relationship with Cuba immediately following Batista’s overthrow, my education on Cuban politics and government was extremely limited. I knew about the Bay of Pigs, the so-called communist/socialist threat, their allyship with Russia, and that was about it. American history books on Cuba were slim—and as a pretty well-traveled child, I never thought about Cuba or put in on m y bucket list as a place I had to visit. 

La Museo de Revolución reminded me that history is in the eye of the historian. Facts can always be construed to influence one side of a story—for your gain and another’s demise. As a Black American, I’m all to aware of how men and particularly white men have written world history and how it has had an affect on literally every facet of my life. Men have had the luxury throughout history to basically write whatever they want, so I will always be skeptical of historical accounts of anything. It doesn’t matter if that’s Cuban, American, Cameroonian, Nigerian, or British history. I will always be skeptical of men and their memory of things. Particularly when it's used to start wars and disenfranchise people.

I will always be skeptical of men and their memory of things.

Thus, I went to the museum skeptical of what I would learn, but found that I was sincerely interested in some of the stories I read about the revolutionaries highlighted in the museum. I reminded myself over and over, “be open.” As we moved through the exhibit, it was fascinating to read how men had crafted their own version of history of the revolutionary war of the 1950s and to the country's post-1959 history. 

We spent a large portion of our day at the museum which didn’t leave us much time to discover anything else in the city other than public parks and spaces, so we wandered around the city a bit before heading to Hotel Sevilla to grab WiFi and dinner.

After dinner, we met Enso, outside of the hotel as we headed to La Inglatera Hotel. He told us the drinks were very expensive. I wasn’t sure whether that was code for “they don’t like Black people or not” but I could sense he was genuine.

As we approached the lavish hotel, I felt a familiar anxiety that I have whenever my Black husband and I try to visit a new place.

“Are they going to turn us away for my husband’s tennis shoes?” “Are they going to ask for our I.D.’s and say they aren’t acceptable?” “Are they going to say I can’t come in with my head wrap on?”

All of these questions swirled around me. Questions I ask to arm myself for what is to come—typically when confronting white people or police in America.

I have to reiterate that all of this is relative in the context that we are American in a country that was once not open to Americans. We could’ve been treated fairly and nicely because we were tourists, or this could be just how it was. Socialism in theory is a great idea though it doesn’t account for equity. The idea that all people should be equal while everyone works towards the greater good is, in theory, good. In practice, it creates rampant poverty and doesn’t account for colorism, colonization, cultural appropriation, or other isms that hinder people of color from thriving.

I left La Habana feeling overwhelmed by all of the thoughts I had swirling in my mind:

  1. Men write history to benefit themselves. Can we trust it? Probably not. 
  2. Socialism does not work because people always look out for themselves first. Is that selfish? Probably not. 
  3. Black people will bond over being black just about anywhere. 

I decided two days in Cuba wasn’t long enough for me to figure it all out and I would try again when we ventured back into the city—this time to meet two of our American friends who would be joining us from New York.

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