A Cuban Mambí for Trump.
It was during this wild era that I met el Mambí(2). The introduction came courtesy of Cheo, a family friend, while I was visiting the eastern side of Hialeah. The streets buzzed with life, and it was here, amidst the unpolished charm of the city, that I encountered a man as colorful as the place itself.
A Cuban at large.
El Mambí was the quintessential Cuban: bold, loud, and dripping with nostalgia. He carried the baggage of a not-so-secret past as a miliciano(3) —a revolutionary soldier— a history he tried, with little success, to sweep under the rug. His stories were a dizzying mix of bravado and scandal, served up with the conviction of a man who couldn’t help but relive his glory days on an endless loop.
During my stay at Cheo’s, el Mambí was a non-stop chatterbox. He ranted about being exploited in Cuba, bragged about his supposed heroics against communism, and waxed poetic about his current mission: organizing a campaign in Hialeah to overthrow Fidel Castro (a sport that has kept and continues to keep countless Cubans in good shape).
Cheo, visibly mortified, tried to cut him off, but el Mambí was unstoppable. He won’t put away his machete long enough to pick his nose, Cheo muttered under his breath.
Guerrilla past of the Mambí.
Just as I was about to ask the mambí when the invasion to liberate Cuba was happening, Cheo sprang from the couch and mercifully suggested a detour to pick up his daughter from school.
On the drive, Cheo confessed something that didn’t shock me in the slightest. El Mambí, who had been his friend for a long time and lived in an efichenci (makeshif room) across the street, was yet another chiva(4). He had once been a fire-breathing communist dragon, but now he was all over Hialeah loudly hallucinating about taking down Fidel.
Cheo's confession didn’t surprise me at all. So, I shifted the conversation to something else and kept my cool as we navigated through the usual Miami traffic.
Back at Cheo's.
There was el Mambí, leaning against the fence, ready to pounce on his next victim. But that victim wasn’t going to be me. The second I got out of Cheo’s car, I threw out my best Cuban farewell, nos vemos, see you, and got the hell out of there.
That wrapped up my trip to Hialeah for the day and, likewise, my short stay in South Florida. A couple of days later, I was gone, hoping never to return.
Fast forward twenty years: life took its turns, and never never happened.
Here I am, back in carnival-like Miami, where I quickly discovered that Cubans today love Trump even more than the croquetas from the Versailles (5).
As for el Mambí, if he’s still around, I can picture him thriving in this orange-hued universe. His humble shack is probably a shrine to Trumpism, with MAGA caps, gaudy Supertrump posters, and every conceivable shade of orange plastered on the walls. Even his toilet bowl is likely painted orange, with cheap wigs from Ño Que Barato(6) scattered everywhere. His poor dog, Trumpybaby or Trumpy, no doubt might be the only creature in Hialeah that still respects him.
Election Day must feel like Christmas morning for el Mambí. I can imagine him hosting a party where guests are required to wear orange wigs and red hats emblazoned with Make America Goofy Again! Over slices of Trump-branded pizza, they debate the logistics of Cuba’s post-Trump utopia: a 14-party democracy, with non-English-speaking, Miami-based media personality and major political wannabe Otaola as president , of course.
Fortunately, reality has a way of keeping fantasies in check. Cuban Trump-patriots may be loud, but their dreams of saving both Miami and Cuba from communism are, to put it politely, delusional.
Cuban 101!
- (1)-Fonomemecos: Cuban comedy duo that was very famous in Cuba and in Miami.
- (2)-Miliciano: Cuban militiaman.
- (3)-Mambí: Cuban insurgent who fought against Spain.
- (4)-Chiva: snitch, informant, rat.
- (5)-Versailles: famous Cuban restaurant where Trump supporters get together.
- (6)-Ño Que Barato: famous cheap Cuban store.
- (7)-Brujería: Cuban witchcraft.