“She’s one of us,” says a woman at the Callejón de Hamel (Hamel’s Alley) located in the Havana neighborhood of Cayo Hueso. Her smile suggests an open invitation to explore. Amid the block’s worth of hand-painted murals depicting various Santería orishas, the fact that I have dark skin is more meaningful than my nationality. The Callejón is a public space routinely used for the expression of Afro-Cuban culture through art, religion, music and dance. “You should come back and visit us this Sunday; there will be live rumba” adds a man who has begun to give me a tour of the alley. It seems like my being a professional stranger doesn’t matter, and I immediately feel that this is a place to which I would like to return. As he begins to explain the significance of the grey Elegguá head stone adorned with cowrie shells that is traditionally kept behind the front door to keep watch over one’s home, I feel myself getting lost in the diction. I ask for clarification. The man, speaking to the woman that was so welcoming to me, contends that because I do not understand the language, that I am not one of them. My connection to the people has been diminished and the door to an Afro-Cuban community is slammed in my face as Elegguá looks on. Immediately, I am a stranger, a tourist and a potential patron who would much prefer to buy a refresco (soda) and experience the Callejón from the sitting area near the entrance.
Not having fully developed my Spanish speaking skills is one of the things that make it so difficult for me to interact with Cuban people.
The words hit my ear like rapid fire but still manage to be “muy suave” as s’s and r’s are casually omitted.
My years of Spanish language instruction seem insufficient when I consider how little I was required to engage in conversation; it was more important that I learn to listen, write, and repeat.
The closest I got to speaking was reciting the date at the beginning of each class “Hoy es lunes….”
Now that I am forced to speak Spanish in a living society of native speakers, it feels a bit uncomfortable.
I have to conjugate verbs in the right tense all the while keeping in mind to address elders with the correct degree of formality.
Aside from speaking Spanish there are other things like my daily routine that distance me from Cuban people. At the student residence where I am living during my semester abroad program in Havana, I am provided with two meals a day. A dinner prepared by María, our house mother, of white rice, boniato (white sweet potato), baked chicken, col (cabbage), tomatoes and homemade jugo de piña (pineapple juice) is far more luxurious than what the average Cuban would eat. In addition, I use the national currency, the peso, and the tourist currency, CUC. Access to both currencies permits easy access to various activities, restaurants and events that could easily amount to the average monthly Cuban salary of 20 CUC. In so many ways, I am experiencing the dual nature of Cuban society.
I went into this experience thinking that if I tried hard enough I could find a way to connect with the people of Cuba. In only a short time, I have realized that this is quite a difficult task. I find myself in an awkward position not knowing exactly how I should conduct myself. The professional part of me wants to scribble a few words in my notebook or take a picture whenever I see something I feel is worth documenting, but the stranger in me is hesitant because I do not want my position as an outsider to be so apparent. How do I navigate between the two? How do I get over the fact that I might have a greater sense of belonging if only I could speak the language fluently? Professional strangers face the challenge of purposely inserting themselves into some portion of society with the hope that they will be accepted. I am still looking for that opening through which I can be accepted--a place where it is okay for me to be “one of them,” if only in a limited sense.
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