Next Year in Havana

by Chanel Cleeton

There is an art to this, you see. An art to appearing as though everything is effortless, that your world is a gilded one, when the reality is that your knees beneath your silk gown buckle from the weight of it all. We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel.

To be in exile is to have the things you love most in the world—the air you breathe, the earth you walk upon—taken from you. They exist on the other side of a wall—there and not—unaltered by time and circumstance, preserved in a perfect memory in a land of dreams.

And I like the freedom it brings, but I don’t say that. I grow restless if I’m in one place too long, and while I always return to Miami, the familiar itch springs up after a month or so.

That’s the thing with grief—you never know when it will sneak up on you.

This is family, home, the most fundamental part of me. I could be sitting in my grandparents’ elegant residence in Coral Gables, or off in Europe, and all it takes is the scent of mojo, the sound of my people, to ground me.

And so occasionally, we do exceedingly foolish things like sneaking out of the house in the dead of night, because it’s impossible to stand near the flame consuming everything around you and not have some of that fire catch the hem of your skirt, too.

Our father runs his businesses, but our mother rules our home with a jewel-covered fist.

This—watching couples dance, listening to music, taking the occasional sip of rum—is more than enough for me.

There’s a hunger there, though, beneath that hardness—a hunger I’ve seen before—the kind that looks at the world and isn’t afraid to say it isn’t good enough, that there must be more, to demand change. He looks like a man who believes in things, which is truly terrifying these days.

Loyalty is a complicated thing—where does family fit on the hierarchy? Above or below country? Above or below the natural order of things? Or are we above all else loyal to ourselves, to our hearts, our convictions, the internal voice that guides us?

“You speak as though politics is its own separate entity,” he says. “As though it isn’t in the air around us, as though every single part of us isn’t political. How can you dismiss something that is so fundamental to the integrity of who we are as a people, as a country? How can you dismiss something that directly affects the lives of so many?”

“You speak of passion, but what about companionship, mutual respect, friendship? Why do people always seize on the spark that can peter out as the measure of a relationship?”

I now have an uncomfortable familiarity with men who look as though they are on the precipice of hanging by one means or another.

“Terrible things rarely happen all at once,” she answers. “They’re incremental, so people don’t realize how bad things have gotten until it’s too late. He swore up and down that he wasn’t a communist. That he wanted democracy. Some believed him. Others didn’t.”

They ensure we’re so preoccupied with the daily struggle that there’s little left over for the most important one, for taking control of our future.”

That’s the thing about death—even when you think someone is gone, glimpses of them remain in those they loved and left behind.

The line between hero and villain is a precariously fragile one.

And the whole time we were pretending our way of life was fine, the “paradise” we’d created was really a fragile deal with a mercurial devil, and the ground beneath us shifted and cracked, destroying the world as we knew it.

Revolutions are for the young. When I could, I fought for what I believed in. But I’m an old man now.

“The problem with revolution, with the wave of violence it carries with it, is that it’s like a flash flood—it sweeps everything away, and nothing looks the same as it once did. And you think this is good, change was what you wanted in the first place, change was what you needed. But suddenly you have a country you must govern, people whose basic needs must be met. You must stabilize a currency, and create a legal system, and reform a constitution. Those are not the things young men dream of. They dream of dying for their country; dream of honor in battle. No one dreams about sitting at a desk and arguing over phrases.

But I am here, with my pen. The revolution we need now will be fought by those arguing over words, phrases, passing legislation and loosening restrictions. Men willing to sit at a table and discuss the things we’ve been afraid to address for many, many years. I am meant to be here, to finish what I started, and hopefully, to be part of that change. For my family, for my country.”

When you’re young, life’s punctuation so often seems final when it’s nothing more than a pause.

“You never know what’s to come. That’s the beauty of life. If everything happened the way we wished, the way we planned, we’d miss out on the best parts, the unexpected pleasures.”

Governments change, regimes fall, alliances shift—with so much that lies out of our hands, it seems like love is the easiest and only thing worth trusting.

We carry our home with us in our hearts, laden with hope. So much hope.

“You’re in love.” She says the word cautiously, as though there’s a world of danger contained there, as though it’s a word that could topple governments, conquer kingdoms, lay siege to everything in its path. She says it as if she knows a thing or two about bargaining with love and isn’t a satisfied customer.