By Pedro Pablo Morejon
HAVANA TIMES – I am sitting by the lake where I live. A family approaches. The little girl must be about four years old; she looks at me and smiles with the innocence typical of her age. Behind her are the parents, all blond, Caucasian, typical Anglo-Saxons.
“Good morning,” they say to me because US people are like that, polite. And they walk away without worry, perhaps happy, or at least that’s how it appears.
In contrast to me, I can hardly enjoy this peaceful Sunday. My mind travels back to Cuba, and I start to ponder why I am here, in a country that is not mine.
Like many Cubans, I cannot find solid ground in these places. We have our feet on the sea. We have no homeland.
A homeland is like that land, environment, society, whatever you want to call it, where one works, dreams, and has hopes for the future while enjoying a present where one feels in the right, natural place.
Cubans on both shores lack this. Unfortunately, a small group of criminals led by a psychopath, thief, manipulator, and murderer stole our homeland and dedicated themselves to destroying it for their own benefit.
Those of us who had the opportunity to leave did so in flight, though many do not seem to understand it.
And for more than 60 years the United States has played the role of a prosperous and generous neighbor who says: “Okay, I’ll give you refuge in my backyard, there, in the little shed, until you can have a better room in my mansion, like my children.”
Meanwhile, for that, you have to work like a madman. In my case, I work in construction. My days pass there.
I get up at 5:00 in the morning. A Cuban picks me up 30 minutes later and drives me for over an hour to the workplace and start around 7:30.
On the way back, after 5:00 in the afternoon, we again cover the 80 km distance to the city, navigate the unbearable traffic at that hour, and arrive around 7:00.
So the week goes by, working hard, carrying wood, paint cans, metal packages, throwing away trash, and other activities that leave me exhausted, with barely any time other than to bathe, eat, and sleep. Half the time, I manage to workout for half an hour with an effort of willpower.
My studies were not much use, and literature has been closed until further notice. Now there are other priorities.
Luckily, I have something to work towards. A few months’ course will allow me to become a paralegal, which in law is something like a paramedic in medicine.
A course that costs several thousand dollars that I will need to save up for after paying for rent, food, water, electricity, internet, and other necessities, as well as sending something to my daughter.
A job that would be somewhat better than consuming life in that place that only leaves me Sunday to live and that, of course, is temporary and that most US citizens do not do. We are all Latinos there. Cubans, Nicaraguans, Mexicans, etc.
By the way, I am mistaken for a gringo because of my height and fair skin until I clarify that I am Cuban. However, I like the confusion, just because it makes me feel that yes, I am going to get ahead in this great country that will never be mine.
Read more from Pedro Pablo Morejon’s diary here.
