silverware, every ashtray, every cup and saucer, every item
of clothing. All of our shoes,” she said.
“Some people smuggle as much as they can out of the house before filing their application,” Imperio said.
“Yes,” Cuca said, “but if they get caught they void everything. I couldn’t risk that.”
Even houses with children, where items are always breaking or disappearing, had to account for everything before they were
allowed to leave. The process was not just time- consuming but humiliating too.
Poor Cuca Soto, a common housewife who’d never had anything to do with the military before and had never expected to, walked
around nervously opening and closing drawers for men in big black boots and olive green uniforms, men she had never seen before.
She showed them her closets and cupboards, let them look through her most private belongings.
“Halfway through the day,” Cuca said, “they wanted almuerzo, so I had to treat them to food as if they were guests. They sat
at my dining room table, eating and chatting like they were friends of mine doing me a favor.”
Once they were gone with their long list, Cuca would spend the next few months—she was lucky, others spent years—worrying
and wondering what would happen if something went missing on the day the visa finally arrived. Because everyone knew that
everything on the list had to be accounted for before they could leave the country. Once their possessions had been inventoried,
they belonged to the state, and heaven help anyone who tried to sell or give anything away.
Even Graciela, whose head was always in the clouds, stopped what she was doing and paid attention. Her little brush stopped
in midair and dripped onto the tabletop.
We had already heard horror stories about families whose visa had been denied because the exit inventory did not match the
original. I had seen desperate people running around the neighborhood begging and borrowing items from friends to replace
lost or broken ones.
“It’s a blatant invasion of our privacy,” Imperio said over and over, while Graciela quietly clipped her cuticles. “Por Dios,
why doesn’t someone stand up to them?”
“Some people complained,” Cuca said. “But their paperwork disappeared, and now they’re stuck and outcast, neither here nor
there. I’m keeping my mouth shut and my bags packed.”
The people whose paperwork “disappeared” were the first people to take one- way midnight boat rides. Before long, everyone
stopped complaining. Just like Cuca said. You filed for your exit visa and kept very, very quiet.
I agreed with Imperio. It was an invasion of privacy. As soon as those military guards showed up at someone’s front door,
all their neighbors immediately knew that that family was planning to leave the country, and from then on they became, depending
on who you talked to, “one of us” or “one of them.”
The adults in the family lost their jobs, and the vultures starting circling their house. Admitting that you wanted to go
into exile was the same as admitting that you were a traitor to the Revolution. You were excommunicated from your country.
No longer a Cuban citizen, you were more like a slimy worm inching toward hell. You waited for that visa and tried to survive
as best as you could.
Cuca was understandably terrified. It could take years for the visa to arrive. During this time, it was almost guaranteed
that her money would run out completely. That she would go into a severe panic every time one of the kids accidentally broke
a dish that had been inventoried. That the kids would suffer insults and physical violence at school and everywhere they went.
In Palmagria, when the visa finally came, it was in the form of a telegram. Not brought by the same mailman who always delivered
telegrams, letters, and packages, but by a special messenger appointed by the state. In Palmagria, this man was Pepe Medina
Ynclán, who had been a
of clothing. All of our shoes,” she said.
“Some people smuggle as much as they can out of the house before filing their application,” Imperio said.
“Yes,” Cuca said, “but if they get caught they void everything. I couldn’t risk that.”
Even houses with children, where items are always breaking or disappearing, had to account for everything before they were
allowed to leave. The process was not just time- consuming but humiliating too.
Poor Cuca Soto, a common housewife who’d never had anything to do with the military before and had never expected to, walked
around nervously opening and closing drawers for men in big black boots and olive green uniforms, men she had never seen before.
She showed them her closets and cupboards, let them look through her most private belongings.
“Halfway through the day,” Cuca said, “they wanted almuerzo, so I had to treat them to food as if they were guests. They sat
at my dining room table, eating and chatting like they were friends of mine doing me a favor.”
Once they were gone with their long list, Cuca would spend the next few months—she was lucky, others spent years—worrying
and wondering what would happen if something went missing on the day the visa finally arrived. Because everyone knew that
everything on the list had to be accounted for before they could leave the country. Once their possessions had been inventoried,
they belonged to the state, and heaven help anyone who tried to sell or give anything away.
Even Graciela, whose head was always in the clouds, stopped what she was doing and paid attention. Her little brush stopped
in midair and dripped onto the tabletop.
We had already heard horror stories about families whose visa had been denied because the exit inventory did not match the
original. I had seen desperate people running around the neighborhood begging and borrowing items from friends to replace
lost or broken ones.
“It’s a blatant invasion of our privacy,” Imperio said over and over, while Graciela quietly clipped her cuticles. “Por Dios,
why doesn’t someone stand up to them?”
“Some people complained,” Cuca said. “But their paperwork disappeared, and now they’re stuck and outcast, neither here nor
there. I’m keeping my mouth shut and my bags packed.”
The people whose paperwork “disappeared” were the first people to take one- way midnight boat rides. Before long, everyone
stopped complaining. Just like Cuca said. You filed for your exit visa and kept very, very quiet.
I agreed with Imperio. It was an invasion of privacy. As soon as those military guards showed up at someone’s front door,
all their neighbors immediately knew that that family was planning to leave the country, and from then on they became, depending
on who you talked to, “one of us” or “one of them.”
The adults in the family lost their jobs, and the vultures starting circling their house. Admitting that you wanted to go
into exile was the same as admitting that you were a traitor to the Revolution. You were excommunicated from your country.
No longer a Cuban citizen, you were more like a slimy worm inching toward hell. You waited for that visa and tried to survive
as best as you could.
Cuca was understandably terrified. It could take years for the visa to arrive. During this time, it was almost guaranteed
that her money would run out completely. That she would go into a severe panic every time one of the kids accidentally broke
a dish that had been inventoried. That the kids would suffer insults and physical violence at school and everywhere they went.
In Palmagria, when the visa finally came, it was in the form of a telegram. Not brought by the same mailman who always delivered
telegrams, letters, and packages, but by a special messenger appointed by the state. In Palmagria, this man was Pepe Medina
Ynclán, who had been a
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