I was free in Cuba. Flew there with strangers who later became comrades, so to speak. I was flying away from a marriage which had become my prison, my husband, my jailer. I lived, bound and gagged, in a free country. I handed the key over every night to my jailer, gave permission even. “Yes, you have my unyielding permission to be sadistic and deceptive. We’ll call it love”. He accepted the role willingly. It was the only way he could live with himself. Symbiotic perfection.
There was no sex for me in Cuba, no wild, romantic flings. My freedom would never have surfaced in that case. Lucky me, I still held on to the vows. I held on, that is, until all the prerequisites were met…the divorce papers filed. Glad I did because if I hadn’t I would not have been able to walk upright through the shit-storm of accusations mostly slung by my husband who had been slinging them for years, but also generated by my own family. There is strength in integrity. I knew that going in.
The DECISION to go was met with venom from him. He could reek of venom and rage when trifled with. He would not allow it, refused to pay for it. But in the end, he did. I pulled out my VISA card and charged the whole thing. Got a cash advance for $1,000. Americans cannot use ATMs, banks, checks or credit cards in Cuba. American dollars were welcomed though. When we landed in Havana, I could perceive the freedom instantly. My bindings and gags dissolved as my being was permeated with an unfamiliar feeling. I became subtle in body and mind almost immediately. It was like skinny-dipping after wearing a tight swimsuit for hours.
Nobody from home could contact me. They did not even know where I was exactly. All of my fears fell away completely. Pretty soon even the tour bus became constrictive so I slept in and missed it. Missed the scripted tour given by Cuban men all wearing the same button down short sleeve shirts, men who could not look me in the eyes. I wondered why. I had not tried to engage a man’s gaze for over 20 years. Now, it seemed, they all looked away. Later I found out it wasn’t me. It was Cuba. Cuban men were not free like I was. The Strangers who became my friends told me they did look, though, when I wasn’t watching. Of course I did not believe them. I never believed any man would look and now, a few years later, I know they do. They do look. They all look but few actually see me. There is a big difference.
Most of my life had been spent accepting that I was invisible. Vision is a lot tougher to find and doesn’t always come in a beautiful package. Everyone, it seems, both men and women, still seek the pretty package. In Cuba, though, there was freedom of vision. If the Cuban people had nothing else, they had vision that went beyond sight. Perhaps in a communist country, the human freedoms that cannot be governed are actually accentuated. Ironic that I never conceptualized the distinction before. I no longer accept being invisible, although I still feel that way. A roll in the hay is a roll in the hay and as an embryonic free person I am still learning that. It takes a whole damn lot of inner reflection, along with a couple of whacks on the head, to discern seduction from sincerity. Sometimes the need to be wrapped up in a man’s warm body, tasting him, consuming his smell and masculine touches distorts my senses. I’ve decided not to be too hard on myself about that along the way. Part of being free is letting go of other people’s rules and creating your own.
Awareness is impossible on a tight leash. I chose to believe whatever I was told. The illusion & lies died in Cuba and left me stripped and exposed to the elements at the age of 40. My assortment of coping skills did not include understanding my own intimacy needs. My knowledge was based only on teenage boys and one man, maybe two. My husband and my father were poor guides. My trance was so deep that I could barely hear the very core of my inner self screaming, “Leave now while you can.” Five days in bed is not a good thing. When taking a shower requires the effort needed for walking through quicksand…something is really wrong. It wasn’t until I toyed with the idea of dying that I knew I had to make a move. Death entered the picture slowly and silently until it became an option. Cuba, although perhaps unconventional, was my other option. I wanted to live, always have loved living. The decision was as simple as receiving the brochure advertising the trip one day in the mail. It was really a ticket masquerading as a brochure, masquerading as a path to stay alive.
As I sat in the Havana airport awaiting my return home, I sobbed hopelessly. Freedom has its price and I knew it would take every ounce of physical and emotional stamina to truly break free. Risky business. Might not make it. Take the chance anyway. What is there to lose? I could always run the car off a mountain if things didn’t work out. Dark humor became fuel.
Cuba had just been a taste, a sampling of rediscovering a woman I had never known and reuniting with the adolescent who was left behind so many years ago. The woman is both wise and naïve, still learning how to parent a demanding teenager in desperate need of nurturing. She may have overindulged with the red convertible and Yamaha scooter. A midlife crisis, people exclaimed. “No”, I answer, “they are for my child”. Usually shuts them up. They think I mean my daughters. Ultimately I knew if I could manage life’s obstacles for 40 years with my distorted vision and broken compass, I was capable of accepting this challenge too. In one of the most communist countries that remain, I gained the courage to insist on freedom for myself.
