Buuut...they tell you—with a perfectly straight face—that life in Cuba was easier!
Petronila Was Rich in Cuba.
Meet Petronila: homeowner, cruise passenger, SUV driver, proud MAGA voter, and living proof that memory can become richer than reality.
I ran into her at Walmart last Monday. That reunion explained more than any political speech ever could.
The last time I had seen Petra was in Cuba, about twenty years ago. Back then, she was a walking skeleton—plain skin and bones. The only permanent resident of her freezer was a frozen orange.
Today I barely recognize her. She looks as if Miami had fed her every meal she'd missed in Cuba.
Well, I left Cuba because it's under a dictatorship. Children are starving, and the police would throw me in jail just for wanting democracy. They torture people and all that stuff.
Forget the Dictatorship. Petronila Left Paradise by Mistake.
My friend waved away the dictatorship, the shortages, and the police as if they were minor inconveniences. “Honestly,” she said, “I still don’t know why I left. In Cuba, you can get anything you want.”
A Close Encounter of the Cuban Kind
I was ready to enjoy the faiy tale but Petro was in a hurry.
A cruise to Punta Cana was coming up, and she needed a tablet to keep her youngest daughter entertained. Still, two Cubans can always find time to trash talk.
She started with her car. She had traded her 2000 transportation, a worn-out Corolla, for a 2021 Ford Escape. “Great deal,” she proudly announced.
“Look at you. You’re making moves, huh? ”
She didn't blink. Instead, she gave me the look of someone about to explain economics to the Federal Reserve.
“My oldest daughter is pregnant, so we need room for all the baby stuff. But with these Democrats and the gas prices, imagine the costs.”
I changed the subject. “How’s Pepe doing?”
“He’s at the title agency picking up the keys to the house we just bought. We finally made it. FHA loan, 3.5% down. Now we have to save for the poolside bar he won’t stop talking about.”
English? Optional. Complaining? Mandatory.
English? C'mom. That's the one expense pure bred Cubans refuse to finance.
“Who needs English in Hialeah? Our daughters were born here, so they’re Americans. They don’t even think about Cuba. Pepe and I are different. We are cheap mutts. We still think about el barrio. And now that everyone has a room, a plasma TV, and Wi-Fi, our only worry is that we won’t be able to send as much money to the family. Fortunately, they have everything they need.”
And the Nostalgia hit the wall.
Petronila paused. For a few seconds, the homeowner, cruise passenger, and SUV driver looked genuinely troubled. She still could not understand what she and Pepe were doing in America.
“From the moment we wake up, we have problems. Cachy is having a baby, her husband is a Cuban asere, and we’ll have to handle everything. Now the house has all these rooms, all these televisions, and Wi-Fi. Forget it.”
As we were saying goodbye, nostalgia completed the transformation. She told me they had not had so many problems in Cuba. Apparently, she had forgotten that I know her from there.
“What could we really have needed? Pepe worked at a posada in Cerro and made money under the table. I was a cashier at a bakery one block from home.”
In my head, I could think of a few needs: the Escape, the tablet, the cruise, the house, Pepe’s poolside bar, the Wi-Fi, the televisions—and the freedom to complain loudly about all of them. I kept the list to myself, though.
“And gas at Democrat prices on every corner,” she kept on bitching about while walking away, now loudly enough for the entire store to receive the message.
I wished her a wonderful trip to Punta Cana and complimented the red MAGA cap sitting proudly above her selective memory.
SPECIAL NOTE:
If you are not Cuban and followed all of this, congratulations: you now know that we, Cubans, don't even know what we do in America.