Rubén Darío
Rumbaut
Selected Works
|
A Psalm for
Refugees:
LOT'S WIFE
In that way:
your neck
turned towards the past;
your hair
loose, long, in disarray and gray;
your eyes
absolutely fixed in the flames;
your flesh
braised by burning ashes;
your feet
covered by creeping lava;
your whole body
made into salt, stone, and coal, and diamond;
not wanting
any distraction, any consolation;
ignoring
the present and the future, and all images
different from that perennial, radiant image
which fuses into itself
the cradle with the grave,
the home with the old land,
and the unforgettable
presence of persons, places, times and circumstances;
that total, vivid, never-passing image
where all the things we were, and had, and loved,
forever lie . . .
Statue of the exile,
tall trunk, deep root, firm rock and living water;
biblical pillar; tireless, sharp spur;
dry pain without asylum or respite;
dark silhouette against the red bright fire;
sentinel, solitary and ever-watching;
infinite witness of the human history
erect between destruction and expulsion.
You, the one who defied
the orders of departing and forgetting;
the most loyal, most faithful,
most tenacious
beyond fear, beyond death;
of all your ancient people
only you have remained:
single survivor since the day you died
among corpses that chose - they thought - to live.
I do not know
if your city sinned more than other cities;
I do not know
if the extermination was predestined;
I do not know
the cause of so much darkness, so much pain.
But from the catastrophe and the exodus
(when all the ashes cooled
and all the noises ceased
and the last sandal wore slowly away)
I know that you persist
the same forever;
you, heroine
victorious over death, space and time,
sculptured in the flower of the mountain
with your profile of salt and mute defiance,
a longing gesture in the extended hand
while eternally looking at your land.
|
Un salmo
para refugiados:
MUJER DE LOT
Así,
con el cuello
tendido hacia
el pasado;
con los cabellos
encrespados, revueltos,
agrisados;
con los ojos
clavados en las
llamas;
con el cuerpo
bañado de cenizas
encendidas;
con los pies
lamidos por la
lava;
con la carne
hecha sal, hecha piedra, hecha diamante;
no queriendo
que nadie intente distraer tu pena;
ignorando
el presente, el futuro,
y toda imagen
distinta de esa
imagen que no pasa
donde se juntan
la cuna con la tumba,
el hogar con la escuela, el mar y el monte,
el sol, la estrella, el árbol, la campiña,
la nube, el río, el canto y la paloma,
la lágrima, el suspiro, la sonrisa,
el beso, la caricia, la plegaria,
el hijo y la bandera;
de esa perenne imagen donde yace
todo cuanto quisimos y logramos
y lo que fuimos
y lo que produjimos…
Estatua del exilio;
tronco, y raíz,
y roca, y agua viva;
bíblico ejemplo:
alucinante espuela;
seco dolor sin llanto
y sin asilo;
silueta oscura
ante la roja hoguera;
solitaria figura
del sendero
--infinito testigo de
la historia--
situada entre el castigo
y el destierro.
Tú, la que desafiaste
la orden de partir y
de olvidar;
la más tenaz, la más leal,
la fiel
más allá del temor y de la muerte:
entre todos los tuyos
sólo tú permaneces,
tú permaneces
sola,
sobreviviente desde
que moriste
entre muertos que optaron por la vida.
Yo no sé
si tu ciudad pecó más que
las otras;
yo no sé
si el exterminio
fué predestinado;
yo no sé
por qué tanto dolor y tanta sombra.
Pero de la catástrofe
y del éxodo
(cuando ya las cenizas se enfriaron
y se apagaron todos
los clamores
y se gastó la última sandalia)
si sé que tú nos
quedas,
tú, heroína,
esculpida en la flor
de la montaña,
con tu perfil de sal y desafío,
vencedora del tiempo
y la distancia:
¡un estupendo amor dentro del pecho,
en las manos un gesto de ternura,
mirando eternamente
hacia tu patria!
|
|
Poem of
Dying Well
Advice
to a Soul about to Depart
Say
goodbye to this world softly, slowly,
So
as not to disturb the peace of these moments.
May
nothing you loved be left behind
Without
their memory enlightening all
Of
the shadowy corners, the faded images,
The
forgotten stuff of submerged yesterdays.
May
no one you loved be left behind
Without
your hand caressing
Their
faithful eyes, their humid lips,
Their
silky hair and warm and soft skin…
May
your farewell be like a slow song
Of
gratitude, of eulogy, of sadness, of love.
Come,
leave all behind. Let us go into the
darkness,
Into
the silence, the refuge, infinite peace.
Perhaps
on the other side another world will await us,
More
serene, more pure, more beautiful, more just.
But
this world of ours from which we are departing,
At
times so absurd, so confusing, so cruel,
Is
still so beautiful that as we leave it
The
roots and fountains of our tears are broken
And
a waveful of tears spontaneous and sweet
Separates
us forever from the shore of our birth.
|
Poema
del bien morir
Consejos para un alma al punto de partir
Despídete del mundo en voz baja, despacio,
para que no se turbe la paz de estos momentos.
Qué no se quede nada de
lo que tú quisiste
sin que el recuerdo encienda sus luces sobre todos
los rincones sombríos, las pálidas imágenes,
los olvidados trastos del
ayer sumergido.
Qué no se quede ninguno de los que tú has amado
sin que tu mano pase su
caricia postrera
sobre los ojos fieles, sobre los labios húmedos,
sobre el pelo sedoso y la piel tibia y
suave...
Que sea tu despedida como una canción
lenta
de gratitud, de elogio,
de tristeza, de amor.
Vamos, déjalo todo. Vámonos a lo oscuro,
al silencio, al refugio,
a la infinita paz.
Quizá del otro lado nos espere
otro mundo
más sereno, más puro, más
hermoso, más justo.
Pero este mundo nuestro del que estamos partiendo,
a ratos tan absurdo, tan confuso, tan cruel,
es sin embargo un mundo
tan bello que al dejarlo
se rompen las raíces y las fuentes del llanto
y una oleada de lágrimas espontáneas y dulces
nos separa por siempre de la orilla natal.
|
|
I SING
Over the dense, smoky atomic
mushrooms
I sing.
Among bombings and carcasses and
fires
I sing.
Through wars and revolutions and
subversions
I sing.
Against fear-hate-rage unbridled
running,
I persistently sing.
The insanity of it all is
overwhelming
and senseless the destruction
and blind the angry warriors;
we feel like vomiting and
sweating,
crying
shouting excreting, passing out.
But I sing.
Beyond humanity’s cruel past,
uncertain present
and ominous horizons,
I keep singing my song.
While reason’s voice is silenced
by explosions,
smiling lips sliced by biting
teeth
and friendly hands rejected by
tight fists,
I sing my song:
a
clear, serene, melodic, simple song.
Within the ruins
I try to understand, to warn, to
endure,
to hope,
to love,
to sing.
|
published in UPSTREAM
A
TARZANITO POEM
You are entering the world with fresh
uncertain legs
while I am leaving it with tired
uncertain legs.
You are coming with hunger in your mouth,
curiosity in your eyes,
tentativeness in your hands,
clumsiness in your feet.
I am leisurely going, with decreased
appetite,
and yet the same curiosity in my eyes.
As
for the tentativeness and the clumsiness,
they are subtly starting to claim me.
You are jumping into the world as I
am beginning to slowly walk away from
it.
This earth, I assure you,
is beautiful, mysterious,
disconcerting,
wonderful, exasperating, a valley
of tears, a mountain of smiles,
a sweet and sour place to be,
awaiting you with big and testing arms.
You are saying howdy;
I
am saying good bye.
It
is o.k. You are taking our pennant
into the jungle
and I really trust you, little Tarzan.
To Clint, from Granpapi
Thanksgiving Day
1991
Meditation
Before Your Ashes
The night begins. In our bedroom,
your dresser. On the dresser, a sober urn of
polished wood. Inside the urn, your mortal
ashes. In silence and solitude I bow before them. I
meditate.
Only a few days ago your avid hand had sought mine in our
nearby bed. Now it is my tremulous hand that seeks your hidden
presence. More than half a century of images, sounds, smells and
sensations crowd my memory: your face, your body, your voice. Our vital adventure.
I evoke your lucid eyes, your luminous smile, your musical conversation. I go back to when we began
to feel irresistibly attracted to each other, to those first fleeting kisses
under the stars in Almendares, the happy hours of
apostolic activity in the Cuban Catholic Youth Federation, the discovery that
true love does not consist merely of mutual contemplation but of looking
together in the same direction and walking hand in hand toward the same
objectives. I remember your agile body of flexible muscles on firm bones,
your luxuriantly long hair, your smooth skin that so
many times my fingers caressed. I remember our honeymoon in Mayajigua, Trinidad and Cienfuegos, the delight of our
senses while we loved each other without hindrance, and the gradual creation of
our solid nest, with three sons and three daughters who arrived rhythmically,
healthy fruits of fertile soil.
I can see you then as a feminine leader, a pioneer, founder
of Catholic youth groups throughout the whole island, organizing national
conventions, presiding over the Diocesan Council of Havana and later joining
the National Council, writing, advising, preaching through your example and
your enthusiasm, so much so that Pius XII granted you a rare recognition from
the Vatican, the Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice
cross. I see you helping the needy, quenching spiritual as well as
physical hungers, abreast of Cuba's destiny, and always helping me with my
medical career, my writings, conferences, speeches and meetings. And all
the while starting out at Sabatés, the industrial
company, and rapidly reaching positions of responsibility and prestige.
Meanwhile both our physical love and our spiritual union
were strengthened. For some years Cuba offered us a protective climate of
freedom, work, and contentment. Later came the 10th of March [1952] and
the 8th of January [1959], and soon after the inexpressible sorrow of exile,
and the harshness of beginning anew in an alien land. Then I saw you once
more standing up to adversity, to the shock of cultures and counter-cultures,
and the daily struggle to survive, while caring for our children and
adolescents. We were shaken by fear and anguish and the long spells of
obstacles, depression, anxiety and discouragement. Yet, when at last our
nest had emptied, I observed with admiration how, starting out from the bottom,
you rose to the Vice-Presidency of one of the largest and most reputable banks
in the United States.
Finally I was a witness and coparticipant
in the gallant struggle that for a year and a half you waged against an
inexplicable cancer of the lung pleurae. In this last phase I admired you
more than ever. When the inevitable became obvious, you showed us how to
confront death with courage, serenity, dignity, and unfailing courtesy toward
all who helped you; with profound faith, and with a genuine sense of humor.
You felt, in your own words, "at peace with myself,
at peace with the family, at peace with the world, and at peace with
God." You relished the visits, calls and family reunions with the
children and grandchildren who surrounded you in a chorus of love and
respect. You asked to die in your own home, in your room, in your
conjugal bed, and you achieved it. You joked with homegrown creole sayings about the unknown and the inexorable, stood
firm over your sufferings and the certainty of the end, and in that way you
reached a Christian and Cuban death. With your characteristic impatience
you had requested that your body be cremated so that the flames could
accomplish in a matter of hours what would have taken years for the worms and
the bacteria. Your homeland was never far from your mind, and you asked
us that in a propitious and symbolic moment we scatter your ashes over the
Caribbean sea that bathes day and night the beaches of
Cuba.
And now here you are, once more alone with
me, enclosed in that silent urn that yet says so much to me.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, and tomorrow is St. Valentine's Day. I try
to link the two symbolic dates. I reflect on the mystery of life, death,
love, and the perennial enigma of the fragile human condition.
Grave penitential voices warn us, "Dust you are and to
dust you shall return." Scientists assure us
solemnly and coldly that all that we are came out of nothing, is the
product of pure chance, and will be extinguished without a trace.
In contrast, I remember your favorite prayer, of St.
Francis, that ends affirming that "It is in giving that we receive, it is
in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to
eternal life." And I also hear the passionate words of José Martí: "Human life would be a repugnant and barbarous
invention if it were limited to earthly existence. No! Human life
is not all of life... The grave is a way, and not an end."
As for me, Carmen, well beyond that truncated and dry
ascetic view that only stresses our physical mortality, and in disagreement
with the pseudoscientific version that reduces existence to a process without
meaning or transcendence, I take refuge in the poetic theology of the Spanish
classic that over three centuries ago grasped the essence of being human in a
short poem, and with it I repeat to you that your calcined
remains
"may be but ash, but capable of meaning,
may be just dust, but
capable of loving."
I had heard it said, but now I know it: love is stronger
than death.
Published in Spanish as "Meditación Ante Tus Cenizas,"
Sunday, March 2, 1997, Diario Las Américas [Miami,
Florida]
[Su
última poesía, escrita a principios de diciembre de 1997, en lo que hubiera sido sus
bodas de oro. Carmita murió unos
meses antes.]
********************************************
RECUERDO EN GRIS
Hace un año, en otoño,
vinimos a comer aquí ¿recuerdas?
En esta misma mesa junto al fuego,
el mismo cielo gris, la misma
hora temprana, el mismo pan exótico
de restaurant francés. Vestías
tu boina rojo vino, chaqueta
y blusa sobrias,
pantalones modernos, zapatos de tacón.
Apreté largamente tu mano temblorosa
con tu anillo nupcial. Me sonreíste.
Tus ojos de gacela me miraron
con viejo cariño y una tristeza nueva...
La escena es casi igual:
la mesa para dos, el cielo gris,
el fuego, el pan, la hora y
el menú.
Mas tu anillo nupcial
ahora adorna mi mano
y tú, mi amor de siempre, ya jamás
habrás de acompañarme de nuevo en una cena.
Rubén
Rubén
Darío Rumbaut
December
1997
********************************************
Yo era un niño cuanto Batista entró "por la
posta" de Columbia el 10 de marzo de 1952. Vivíamos en Marianao, no muy
lejos de ese lugar que vive en la infamia de la historia del país por más de
una razón. El golpe de estado de Batista ha vivido en la memoria de mi
familia también, de varias maneras.
Una es en el valiente ensayo que sigue a continuación, "Esta es
la hora de la generación del cincuentenario" escrito por mi
padre Rubén Darío Rumbaut días después del golpe de estado y
publicado en la revista Bohemia, en La Habana, el 13 de abril de 1952, justamente
entre ese golpe de estado de Batista y el cincuentenario de la instauración de
la república, el 20 de mayo de 1952. Mi padre tenía entonces sólo
29 años de edad cuando lo escribió. Estaba casado con tres hijos en ese
entonces. En sus propias palabras fue “escritor, poeta, médico”.
También se graduó con el mejor expediente de la Escuela Profesional de
Periodismo “Manuel Márquez Sterling” de La Habana.
Vivió toda su vida pensando en Cuba, escribiendo sobre Cuba, amando a
Cuba… aún en la “cercana lejanía”.
Rubén
G. Rumbaut
Esta es la hora de la generación del cincuentenario
Revista Bohemia, 13 de abril de 1952
Rubén Darío Rumbaut
La primera reacción que tuve cuando supe del golpe de estado fue de indignación
incontenible. ¡Al borde del cincuentenario, en paz y alegría, el gobierno
de la República había sido conquistado por un caudillo militar cuyo deporte
favorito es, según parece, hacer y deshacer la historia! Volví los ojos
atrás, y…
La segunda reacción, en los días inmediato al 10 de marzo, fue de desaliento
profundo. Me asomé al fondo de la vida nacional, y salí de su
contemplación asqueado, anonado, entristecido…
Mi tercera reacción, una semana después de los hechos, con más y mejores elementos
de juicio, y tejida de serenidad y objetividad, no deja de tener en cuenta las
dos actitudes anteriores, pero las encauza y supera. El hecho consumado
no puede defenderse sólo por ser hecho consumado ni el fin justifica jamás los
medios, como veladamente han pretendido decir o hacer algunos. Ahora
bien: también es absurdo esconder la cabeza en la arena… Hay que tomar
una actitud con sentido realista de las cosas, la más digna al par que la más
lógica, en fin, la mejor para Cuba.
Esta es la hora de la generación del cincuentenario… La juventud que se alza
hoy en un magnífico Baraguá de rebeldías cuando el
Consejo de Ancianos ha caído en el Zanjón… debe tomar la responsabilidad de la
historia de Cuba de ahora en adelante… ¡Aprovechemos
de este terremoto inesperado la caída de las viejas estructuras… Los que
formamos la generación del cincuentenario debemos dar un paso al frente sin
vacilaciones: las agujas del tiempo están señalando sólo para nosotros.
El dilema para el gobierno de facto y para el pueblo es el mismo: o se abre
ahora un período se sangre y terror, o se orienta todo, lo más rápidamente
posible, hacia la constitucionalidad, la tranquilidad pública y las elecciones
libres… Todos, absolutamente todos los cubanos, tendremos nuestra parte en la
decisión del camino que se escoja…
No se olvide que el Directorio Estudiantil Universitario del treinta fue la
única organización de aquel entonces que se comprometió a no utilizar el
terrorismo, y sin embargo, fue asimismo la única asociación de civiles que en
realidad triunfó al caer Machado, y de la cual surgió andando el tiempo el
gigantesco Partido Auténtico…
Estas soluciones un poco a lo Ghandi (también
vencedor en la India mientras vivió -- aún después de muerto) que no son
espectaculares, y que aparentemente resultan más lentas, quizás no satisfagan a
los espíritus impacientes, demoledores y coléricos. Se equivocan, sin
embargo, si creen que es más heroico el terrorismo.
No predico una actitud de cobardía, o de omisión,
sino de valentía y de acción… Nada de armas y nada de silencio; nada de sangre
y nada de claudicación. Decía Unamuno que no le gustaba Anatole France porque no sabía indignarse. Es cierto:
quienes no saben indignarse no pueden salvar a su Patria. Ahora bien:
quienes sólo saben indignarse no pueden salvarla tampoco…
La violencia engendra la violencia: quien primero la use se hará reo de una
reacción en cadena que, como las explosiones atómicas, sembrará la muerte y la
desolación en ciudades y campos… necesitamos de la libertad para vivir
como del aire para respirar, y esta necesidad no puede quedar a merced del
capricho de nadie...
Sobre todo, que ninguno se desaliente, por muchos motivos de desaliento que le
parezca tener en estos días. Que ninguno dispare, ni se calle, ni se
esconda, ni se venda, ni se vaya. Enarbole la generación del
cincuentenario un estandarte alto y enhiesto como las palmas, firme y
desafiante como las ceibas, con aquella frase magnífica de Martí: “Levanten el
ánimo los que lo tienen cobarde. Con treinta hombres se puede hacer un
pueblo.” En ella confiemos. La Cuba de hoy tiene mucho más de
treinta hombres capaces, al final de este paréntesis oscuro, de rehacer
definitivamente a nuestro pueblo.
Sugar Land, July 16th, 1986.
My dear six children:
In the past I used to write, once in a while, a collective
letter to all of you. By now the members of the original "gang of six"
have dispersed and resettled, perhaps multiplied. My natural tendency would be
to write in Spanish, but thinking about you and your respective spouses I
decided to write in English (and to type: I can hear now the collective sigh of
relief). The American political tradition expects the president of the country
to give every year a "State of the Union" report to the nation:
taking a distant hint from that tradition I believe that Carmen and I can give
you, too, a sort of state of the union (our union, that is) report to the
family, if not every year, at least every 25 years.
Today, as you know, is the 26th anniversary of our arrival to
the USA (except for Michelle). In reality, though, we stayed during our first
year in the "Cuban" city of Miami, and I spoke and wrote more then in Spanish than probably at any other time in my life.
Only after the episode of the Bay of Pigs (April 17th, 1961) and its long
aftermath I became convinced that our exile was not going to be a short one,
but a very long one indeed. In consequence I began in earnest to learn English
and to review exhaustively all of Medicine; to prepare myself for the
"Educational Council of Foreign Medical Graduate's Examination"; for
the possibility of leaving Miami, finding a medical job and relocation outside
Florida; and for really "entering the American way of life". In other
words: by July 16th, 1961, Carmen and I knew that if and when I passed the
ECFMG exam, I was going to seek immediately a job as a physician and to
relocate and by doing so our life in this nation will genuinely start.
I took that test by the end of october
1961 (it was given only twice a year) in the company of about 300 of my Cuban
colleagues -including the dean of my school of medicine- all gathered in the
amphitheater of the so-called "Parque de las Palomas" in front of the
bay. By the end of November I got the envelope: I had passed both the English
proficiency test and the medical test. I had to contain myself not to kiss the
mailman.
By early December I had accepted a position as Acting Chief of
the Mental Hygiene Clinic of the V.A. Hospital in Albuquerque, N.M., and our
trip was finally arranged for the week after Christmas: we arrived in
Albuquerque on the 29th of December, 1961, and I signed for my new job, at last!
that very evening. It was a feeling of relief, of
security, of joy; after all, we had arrived in Miami a year and a half before
with no English, no job, no American connections, no
license to practice Medicine in this country, five small children, six hundred
dollars in total, and several bags of clothing. (No jewels,
either, among other reasons because we did not have any).
As some of you remember, we stayed in Albuquerque four and a
half years. We were still classified as "refugees" until we got our
papers as official "residents" in 1963, through the American
Consulate in El Paso. Many picturesque, scary, bittersweet and funny things
happened to us during those two days. That same year Tavito
died; Carucha and her husband came to live in our
home for a while; Michelle was born; President Kennedy was assassinated.
I was then told by the American Board of Psychiatry that, if I
wanted to be a Board certified psychiatrist in the USA, I had to go through
training in this country (in my case, retraining, because I was already a
psychiatrist in Cuba) in an approved School of Psychiatry. To make a long story
short, I had first to take two tests to acquire a medical license "in one
state of the U.S." (I chose Texas over New Mexico). I passed the final
test in December 1964, in Dallas. And then the Menninger School of Psychiatry
accepted me for three years of training to begin in July 1966. We lived in Topeka, however, for five whole years because my contract
required that I remain for two years at the Topeka V.A. Hospital after my
graduation.
During our stay in Topeka Carlos and Miryam
graduated from High School while Rubén, Luis and Carlos started and finished
college.
IN June 1971 we moved to Houston. I had been a federal employee
through the V.A. since 1961, so I got myself transferred to the Houston V.A.
Hospital, but besides I got affiliated with the Baylor College of Medicine
(BCM). We lived in Houston until November 1978, when we moved to Sugar Land.
Very early during our stay in Houston Miryam returned
to Topeka and began studies at Washburn University, but soon she and Jerry
became engaged and decided to eventually move out of Topeka, so she dropped
college and began working full-time in Topeka and later in Tulsa. In the
meantime Carmen, MariCarmen, Michelle and I remained
in Houston. In 1972 our first grandchild, Sasha Maria, was born in Austin.
In 1973 (in July) Carmen started working at the Texas Commerce
Bank. MariCarmen graduated from High School, went to
Austin and got not only a bachelor degree at UT, but a Master in Social Work. I
myself had to take two more final examinations, this time for the Board of
Psychiatry. According to the rules, one had to wait two years after graduation
from training before being allowed to take the double tests. The first one,
written, took place in Dallas in 1972. The second one, oral and
"live", took place in Boston in 1973. There we visited with Rubén,
who was studying at Brandeis University.
During the final chapter of this complicated story, the Sugar
Land chapter, many other things happened. Michelle finished High School and,
like Carmen, went to college (in San Marcos) and then moved to San Antonio to
get a Masters degree in Health Administration (from Trinity University) and
finally to a hospital in Seguin for a year of training. I got promoted
periodically at BCM from assistant, to associate, to full professor (in 1980);
I retired from the V.A. system in July 1984, and since then have been working
full time in the BCM Department of Psychiatry to date. In the meantime Carmen
decided to retire from the bank (October '85).
While all those things were happening in Houston and in Sugar
Land, Rubén, Luis and Carlos were also moving, graduating, working, getting
settled down and the like. As we all know, Rubén is now teaching Sociology at
San Diego State University, Luis is a lawyer at Washington D.C., and Carlos is
a computer programmer in Austin. Susie, Nicki and
Ryan in their San Diego home, Marilyn and Sasha in Austin, Jazmín
in Washington, complete their families and ours. In Tulsa Jessica and Joshua
keep Miryam and Jerry busy at all times. (We just got
together in Topeka and had a very interesting time visiting significant places
and reminiscing). And let me add that in Miramar, Carucha,
Rafael, Estela Rosa and Mabú are doing fine, too.
The last addition to the family, Dugan, is a budding
entrepreneur, a counterpart in Seguin of what Jerry has been doing for years in
Tulsa and lately in several other cities and states. I look from here, I listen
from here, and I see and hear all of you busy with projects, activities,
aspirations, changes. Not too long ago Marilyn got a new, better and more
satisfying job; same recently with Carlos. Rubén's change of university and
concomitant promotion happened only a few months ago. Luis got a better job in
his department, as he told us in our visit to Washington. Susie is doing
something that she likes to do, but looking for better pastures. The process of
studying, going forward and doing more is still going on. Miryam
is a medical technician, but she is not practicing as such; however, she knows
more by now about construction business, children's schools, sports and PTAs,
management of Crohn's Disease and several other
assorted subjects that she deserves a bachelor's diploma on "Life in the
USA", and is still restless about work and learning. MariCarmen
is seriously considering further and challenging professional studies. And I,
myself, am considering a possible retirement from BCM, too, with a tentative date
sometime in 1988; after that... to write or not to write: that is the question.
As for the representatives of the third generation, they all are growing and
developing at a vertiginous pace.
Last year, when we took a cruise through the Caribbean Sea and
stopped at the Virgin Island, there was a moment (exactly on this very day) in
which I sat down, alone, in front of waves, to remember, reflect and meditate
about those long twenty-five years, so full of life events, rich experiences,
scary predicaments, profound changes, painful episodes, achievements,
stalemates, triumphs and failures. I thought about Cuba, about our life there,
about Felisa and Mariíta
and Memela and so many, many others... I remembered
my parents, and the death of my father in Havana in 1977. I thought of my
sister, now happily married anew, and of Estela Rosa (who was with us in that
cruise, by the way) and of María Aurora, born in
Albuquerque in the same hospital (and only a few weeks later) in which Michelle
was born. I remembered all my relatives still in Cuba, and all my other
relatives in the US (in Miami, in Fort Lauderdale, in New York, in North
Carolina, in Atlanta, and of forth and so on). I reminisced about the
vicissitudes of my life since I arrived to these shores... It was quite an
intense experience, combining remembering, thinking and feeling.
Two months and a half after that cruise your mother retire, and
it was for me another important occasion to meditate alone. I had seen her when
she began looking for work in July 1973, with her spoken English -as mine-
flawed by an accent and by a lack of precision and assurance. I heard her
doubting her ability to work in a bank, with absolutely no previous banking
experience, afraid of being "rusty" in a modern office. We both knew
that she had no diplomas or education in this country, and only a High School
diploma in Cuba. I remember her telling me that she was already 50 years old,
with no job history in the U.S. and that she was depressed about the immanency
of the "empty nest" and the many financial hardships we had gone
through, and how she had been offered only a junior clerk position, at $500 a
month. And yet she accepted that initial position, and took the required math
test at the Personnel Division. The next day she learned she was the only
person in the history of the bank who had finished the whole test in the
allotted time with no errors. From then on she worked had, with dedication,
speed (soon she was known at the International Department as "speedy
Rumbaut") and enthusiasm. Promotions began to fall in place periodically:
senior clerk; international representative; officer; assistant vice-president;
vice-president, and eventually in change of a section, created by her, in which
there were and still are ten employees, all women, all bilingual, all young,
one of the most efficient sections in the whole bank (which, by the way, is the
best and largest in Houston, and one of the "first twenty-five" in
the whole country). She had to drive, for all practical purposes, an hour each
way, Monday through Friday, from Sugar Land to the Houston downtown, and she
had to assume an extraordinary responsibility by handling millions of dollars
every month. In twelve years and three months she never lost or misplaced the
money entrusted to her section, and never made an error worthy of note. It was
an outstanding performance; I am proud of it, and I believe you all can be,
too. She retired because, as Marian Anderson put it more or less at that time,
"it is better when people as why I have retired that when people ask why I
have not retired". I have known very few human beings with the vitality
that your mother has had all her life. She reminds me of what Ulysses Grant
said of himself: "I think I am a verb". And she did what she did mainly
on account of the satisfaction of mastering a task, of succeeding in what she
was doing and creating, of getting along so well with all the young women who
were working for her, and with so many clients who were her friends, and not so
much for the money. I do not want to imply that we did not value or needed the
money, but banks, on the one hand, are notorious for not paying high salaries
to their employees, and on the other hand even less to women, especially if,
like Carmen, they started at the very bottom of the totem pole. For instance:
even at her highest peak, just before retirement, Carmen's yearly income was
about half of mine. In my estimation, what she did for the bank and for her
clients was worth much more than she was ever paid... but that is a fact of
life. Sometimes I believe some of you have the fantasy that handling money for
an institution is tantamount and proportional to receiving money from an
institution, but no such luck.
From another point of view, nevertheless, in only a relative
short period of time she was able to: secure an early retirement; receive a
lump sum with which (in addition to trading in her old car) she bought a brand
new Thunderbird and paid for it in cash; an early Social Security pension; and
some assorted fringe benefits. The total sum of all of the above is not a bad
harvest, isn't it?
With Carmen's job before, and now with her retirement plus her
Social Security; with my successive promotions at BCM, my federal retirement
since July 1984, and my present full-time salary from the Department of
Psychiatry at Baylor, together we have been able to: first, stop accumulating
debts and asking for loans; second, start paying back the loans and the debts;
third, eliminate all loans and debts; and finally (and only rather recently)
save monthly part of our income. We "own" (owe) the house, and of
course have to pay the customary combination of capital and interest for it,
but we do not have to pay anything for our respective cars, because I did with
my "lump sum" from the V.A. the same thing that Carmen did later with
hers: I paid for my new car in cash. It goes without saying that there are many
expenses every month, but it is a good feeling (albeit it came for us rather
late in our life) not to have debts, save a little, and being protected by the
necessary insurances, while having all our basic needs covered.
Your mother has also done an excellent job in administrating our
respective incomes, expenses and savings. This gives us the opportunity, in
this "Silver Anniversary" to give all of you what we could not in
past times, but can at this moment: a present in cash, still not as large as we
would like, but enough to celebrate conjointly the family ties.
During those twenty-five years since we left Miami the six of you
have studied and worked hard, and have face adversities and obstacles of many
kinds with a tenacity and an endurance that deserve nothing but praise. You all
have been independently-minded, with a will and a soul of your own. Whatever we
are sending you now (even if, as the saying goes, "too little and too
late") you more than deserve it. So take it with ease, enjoy it, make good
use of it, and wait for the next installment on July 16th, 2011.
Vayan por la sombrita.
Muchos cariños
para todos de
Papi