Connecting With Your Roots Through Myth and Storytelling
I was born in South Florida and spent the first decade of my life there before moving to Central Florida. Growing up I’ve always been closer to my moms side of the family. She came here with her parents in the late 1960’s as refugees fleeing Cuba on the Freedom Flights sponsored by the LBJ administration. Her grandmother was already in the country, having left Cuba years earlier and opting not to return when Castro took over. My mom didn’t stop working when I was born, so during the week I would spend my days with my grandmother and great-grandmother (who didn’t speak any English). Some of my first words were definitely “chocolate con leche”, and “guagua” because my grandmother didn’t drive so we took the bus everywhere. I also absorbed a lot of superstition from my time with them. For example, to this day I make a point not to rock a rocking chair if its empty because I’m convinced it invites ghosts into the house.
My mom’s family didn’t talk about Cuba very often, likely because the memories were painful. They left everything behind and only took what they could fit in a suitcase. Once I got older I started to ask more questions and with the help of Google Maps my grandparents were able to show me where they grew up in Havana, the house they moved into, and the restaurant down the street they used to go to. I learned how, when they signed up for the waitlist to leave the country, they were forcibly reassigned into new jobs while they waited for permission to board a plane to the United States. My grandmother had been working in a candy factory but was assigned to work in the sugar cane fields. She showed me the corner her and the other women would wait at for a pickup truck to come collect them and drive them out to the field every day. My grandfather had graduated from nursing school and was also assigned to the fields as a medic, driving around administering vaccinations and doing simple first aid.
I also learned stories of how they and their families resisted the communist regime. Pork and coffee were considered luxury items and were extremely regulated, but my grandmothers aunt routinely managed to acquire some through underground trade. They would stuff towels under the doors and windows to prevent the aroma of cooking pork and brewing coffee from leaking into the street, otherwise they risked being arrested.
Hearing these stories was fascinating. There was so much about my own family that I didn’t know, and over the last year or so I determined I wanted to learn more about the culture my mom’s side of the family came from. I found books on Cuban legends and folklore and over the most recent Christmas holiday I showed them to my grandparents. They absolutely lit up as they pored over the table of contents. Even though I had already read the legends as presented in the books I asked my grandparents to tell me the stories as they had heard them. We sat there for hours and it was the first time I felt a truly deep connection to where my mom and my grandparents came from.
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Sometimes when we explore the legends and myths of our cultural backgrounds we come across stories that resonate with us. They highlight aspects of our identities or lives that we didn’t realize have deep ties to where we come from. I’d like to share one with you now.
In the middle of the field of Yara there was a large bonfire. Around this bonfire were several Taino indians, conquistadors, and a priest. The priest, Bartolomé de las Casas, was attempting to convert the Taino to Christianity, and those that refused were thrown into the fire by the conquistadors. One of the Taino was a man named Hatuey. When the priest came to Hatuey he told him to convert to Christianity in return for eternal life in Heaven.
“Is Heaven beautiful?” asked Hatuey.
“Very beautiful, because that is where God is,” answered Bartolomé.
“And do the Spaniards go to Heaven?” asked Hatuey.
“Yes, those Spaniards who are good go to Heaven,” answered the priest.
“In that case, I don’t want to go to Heaven,” Hatuey declared.
And with that, Hatuey threw himself into the bonfire. Ever since then a dim light has been seen wandering the plain of Yara keeping watch over those who are still oppressed.
When I read this legend I had a very visceral reaction to it. We were two years into the Trump administration and I was starting to question the way I engaged in activism and advocacy. I was feeling frustrated and burnt out, and questioning what progress looked like. DACA recipients, the ‘Dreamers’, had recently been bandied about as negotiating piece during a budget debate only to ultimately be cast aside. The backdrop to all of this was the unfolding border crisis and every day was a new glimpse into the barbarity of refugee concentration camps and child separation. As a first-generation son of a refugee, a woman who was seeing what was going on and had begun to share with me the racism and xenophobia she experienced as a child in this country, I was feeling deep despair and anger.
Seeing so little progress I began to question the demands I was placing on my elected representatives. A part of me understood that politics is a process, and compromises have to be made, and…and…and…all these and other rationalizations swept through me.
Until I read the legend of Hatuey and the lights of Yara. Here was a story of standing up to oppression without fear or compromise, even with the “promise” of being rewarded for capitulation. This was even a legend my grandparents knew! And they shared with me that, growing up, Hatuey was seen as a symbol of doing what you know is right no matter what.
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Exploring the myths and legends and stories of my Cuban background unexpectedly provided me strength when I needed it. Asking for stories about my family exposed me to a depth of resilience and survival I never knew was woven through so many generations. Now when I find myself questioning my capacity to continue fighting against injustice I have a deep well of energy to pull from and I feel like I’ve expanded the depth and range of my ancestor work. I can reflect on how my grandparents survived a government that punished them for wanting to leave, I can be inspired by family that found ways to quietly resist and provide for their community at the risk of being jailed, and I can find strength in a legend that was also told to my grandparents as kids and which in turn inspired them not to back down.
