Cuba 15 (23 page)

37

When I came downstairs in my dress, Mom, Mark, Abuela, and Abuelo were waiting.

“
Ay, qué
bonita
,” said Abuelo, kissing my cheeks.

“¡Magnífica!”
Abuela exclaimed.

Mom took my hands and held me at arm’s length. “It’s you, dear,” she said softly.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Why don’t you run back upstairs and see what’s keeping him?”

I flew on my purple-dyed ballet slippers and planted a knock on Dad’s bedroom door. “Dad?”

No answer.

“Dad?”

He opened the door in his white tuxedo pants and a T-shirt, a mournful expression on his face. “I can’t go on,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t go onstage and dance with you.”

“If it’s about last week . . .”

“No.” He pushed the door open and gestured me in, looking like he was about to cry. “I came out of the shower to . . . to—this.” He pointed at the bed, where his tuxedo shirt and jacket were laid out.

There, alongside the rented clothing, stretched Chucho’s colorless, hairy mass. The industrious poodle took no notice of either of us as he methodically finished picking off and swallowing down the last of the row of shiny black tuxedo buttons.

Dad stood, beaten, frozen to the carpet. I had to think fast.

“No te preocupes,”
I told him. “Here’s what we’ll do . . .”

When we were all packed into Mom’s minivan, I remembered something at the last second.

“My tiara!”

I ran back inside to get the velvet bag. On the way out, I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror. It was like one of those moments when you see your reflection in a store window, and not realizing it’s you, say to yourself, She’s looking good! And then you go, Hey, that’s me!

I’d scrutinized myself earlier, getting my hair and makeup right, tugging my gown on straight. Making sure I wore matching socks—just kidding. But all of a sudden, here was this stranger’s view of me. And you know what? I looked pretty darn good.

It wasn’t just looks, though. If I wasn’t mistaken, for a moment there you might say I had a certain . . . presence. I smiled at myself in the mirror.

“Who’s on first,” I murmured.

Dad honked impatiently outside.

At last, I sat alone backstage, out of sight, waiting for the guests to arrive and sign in. Leda and Janell were busy greeting people at the door while my family held court at our table. Señora Flora was off helping the caterers prepare.

“Violet? Are you in there?” My aunt Luz slipped behind the curtain. “Vi, you look beautiful!” Luz looked pretty sexy herself in a long black evening gown scattered with delicate red flowers. She wore a few gold bangles on her bare arms, and her black hair hung to her waist in refined curls.

I got up and hugged her. “Thanks for being here, Tía Luci. I am
so
nervous.”

“A little bit nervous is good,” Tía counseled. “I just want to say happy fifteen,
chica
. I hope it’s everything you dreamed of.”

“Nope. It’s better. You never get to eat as much cake as you want in your dreams.”

“Maybe not in
your
dreams,” she teased. “Well, I hope you like the music. I’m going to make a live recording.”

“Awesome,” I said, feeling the spark of readiness.

She air-kissed my cheek. “Break a leg, kiddo,” she said, and slipped back out.

I went over and did something I’d always wanted to do, peeked through the curtain at the gathering house. It looked like the setting for a big production. My relatives on both sides—the Chicago-area Cubans and the Philly contingent—were dressed to the nines. It was great to see Grandma and Grandpa Shavlovsky laughing with Abuela and Abuelo, and odd to see my piano teacher, Mrs. Lowenstein, swathed in a shiny blue cocktail dress. She gravitated over to Luz’s sound board, and they fell deep in conversation.

I was surprised to see Mark quietly chatting with a cousin, until I recognized her as Celina, Eva’s little sister with the fashion-model face and the beginnings of a figure that hinted at greatness. Mark looked different in his tux. Maybe even
elegante
. My worm of a brother seemed to have a modicum of taste; maybe he wouldn’t grow up to be too much like Dad.

The Lundquists and Williamses and Janell’s mom all sat together, talking as though they’d known each other forever. And Clarence looked Fine, with a capital
F
, in a tan suit and new buzz cut. Seeing the other faces I didn’t know as well was a little scary—I had to make these people laugh, after all. But then I remembered that most of them had invested money in this affair, so they must have held a reasonable expectation of getting some return on their dollar. If they didn’t like my routine, they could always ask Dad for their money back. They were used to him making change.

Dad. I half expected to see him winding through the crowd with his coin pouch, handing out dimes and cigars. I picked him out of the knot of people standing around our table. I had never seen him looking so stylish as in the well-cut tuxedo suit. He had unnecessarily shined the white patent leather shoes the night before, and ironed his white socks and T-shirt twice. He was the picture of fashion coordination, from the white bow tie, which Mom had tied, to the white buttonless coat and creased pants. Except for one minor detail.

In place of the de rigueur pleated white tuxedo shirt, which Chucho had divested of its buttons, Dad wore his favorite sunshine-yellow long-sleeved good-luck shirt with the multicolored monkeys printed on it. Improvisation, I called it.

I skimmed over my lines. “The story you are about to hear is true. . . . The story you are about to hear is true. . . .”

Now Leda and Janell came jostling through the curtain.

“Three minutes,” whispered Janell.

“Remind me again why we have to do this?” Leda said, suddenly all nerves.

I rolled my eyes at her and shrugged helplessly.

“Here,” said Janell, “let me help you put your crown on.” She pulled the jeweled tiara from its velvet bag and set it on my head, adjusting it a few times.

“Perfect,” Leda pronounced.

I reached into my purse for a sugar cube, and something rustled. I drew out a narrow sheet of paper alive with crinkles that somebody had done their best to smooth out. My permission slip for the trip—and it was signed.

Dad! He’d signed his full name in formal-looking script in blue ink:

Alberto Ricardo Paz

I drew a sharp breath, turning the flattened page over in my hand. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he’d ironed it!

I smiled.

As Luz set the tone with a recorded fanfare of trumpets, the house lights dimmed.

“Let’s go, Violet,” whispered Leda, dragging me stage right to the wings. “This is it!”

Out front, Señora Flora quieted the guests. “
Bienvenidos,
everybody, and welcome to the
quinceañero
for a girl who is very near and dear to your hearts. Please give a big hand to a young woman who has learned in her fifteen years what took Guillermo Shakespeare nearly a lifetime to know: that all the world’s a stage.”

I popped the sugar cube in my mouth.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your very own . . . Violet Paz!”

The curtain parted magically.

I hesitated, one beat, two. I hesitated just long enough to make my
damas
worry, so that together they gave me a strong push from the wings.

I let out a siren wail and zigzagged across the stage like I was being chased by the Spanish Inquisition. My tiara started to slip, but I righted it. Then I hit my mark and froze, making eye contact with the roomful of friends and family. A single spotlight illuminated me.

The audience looked back, speechless, riveted—faces I knew, faces I didn’t know . . . here, for me. Funny how so much in life can swirl around you, I thought, whole traditions and civilizations you know nothing about until someone points them out.

The sugar cube let me zip ahead of my thoughts, collect myself, even recall the lines I’d rehearsed so many times.

I took a deep breath, opened my mouth, and let the truth come out.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. Violet says that in her family “Spanish was currency. Currency I didn’t have”. What does she mean by this? What else is “currency” in the Paz family? What is currency in your family?

2. Señora Flora asks Violet, “How do you see yourself?”. How does Violet reply? In what ways do you think Violet’s definition of herself changes between the beginning and the end of the book?

3. Violet describes herself as having “a lot of half talents” that she’d like to make full talents. What are your half talents? How would you choose some to focus on and develop? Do you see yourself as having one great passion or endeavor in life, or a lot of little ones?

4. The
quinceañero
marks the transition from childhood to adulthood. How do you see Violet making that transition in the course of the book? Is there any event or experience (it doesn’t have to be a fancy ceremony) in your life that marks this transition as the
quinceañero
does?

5. In your eyes, what does it mean to become an adult? Consider the roles of your parents and friends; your education, religion, government, and culture; and your feelings in determining when you are an adult. Do you ever get mixed messages from these sources about what it takes to be considered an independent adult?

6. Some of Violet’s adult relatives have their own reasons for wanting her to have the
quinceañero
. Why is Abuela, for example, so insistent? Have you ever felt that adults in your life wanted to experience something they’d never encountered in their youth—or relive an experience they
had
had—through you?

7. Why do you think Violet’s father resists telling her about Cuba? Have you ever had to go around your parents or other authority figures to learn about something and form your own opinion? Are there issues about which you’ve taken your parents’ opinion as your own without really thinking about it?

8. Abuela asserts that it is the woman, not the man, “who carries the tradition forward”. What does she mean? Can you think of an example—from your own family or culture or a different one—that supports her claim, and an example that refutes it? What are the traditions in your life, and who makes sure they are carried forward?

9. What would be the theme of your
quinceañero
? What would you include in the ceremony to make it reflect your personality (or just for fun)?

A CONVERSATION WITH NANCY OSA

Q. Readers—and aspiring writers—are often curious about what inspires a story and from where authors get their ideas. How did
Cuba 15
originate? Did you draw from experiences with your own family and adolescence?

A.
Like Violet, I had to actively learn about my Cuban side. While my American Cuban family may have eaten turkey and
frijoles negros
on Thanksgiving, we were more “apple pie” than “flan.” When I started researching Cuban culture in order to write a novel, I was thunderstruck to find that I had never heard of the
quinceañero
tradition. I never celebrated Sweet Sixteen, either. Not exactly a social superstar, I wondered how I would have reacted if I had been faced with a
quince
party to plan. That’s where Violet came in. I think she handled it all fabulously. That’s where we differ— she’s stronger, and funnier, than I am. But I gave her a lot of help. Yes, there are some reflections of my family in the Pazes . . . although I never met my Cuban grandparents.

Q. Violet experiences a lot of anxiety regarding her role in the
quinceañero
and her performances for speech class. Do you ever experience writer’s anxiety, or moments of doubt regarding your work?

A.
A writer’s life is so filled with doubt and risk on the business side that it leaves no room for creative doubt. The phrase “finding one’s voice” means that a writer gains the knowledge needed to arrive at a style that works for her. All she can do is write with all the honesty and trust she can muster. Obviously, it’s not a scientific process, so of course I make many false starts. But whether a work is published or not, everything I write becomes part of my pool of creative resources, to which I can return at any time. When I am unsure of which direction to go with a story, I use my time-tested remedy: Think about it.
Then
write. I also find that discussing work in progress is vital. Early readers keep a writer honest and on track. Belonging to a fantastic writers’ group keeps me down to earth
and
propels me to higher heights than I could ever scale alone. And it feels great when I can make them laugh.

Q. On that note, do you ever get up onstage and perform as Violet does?

A.
Hmm. I wrote, directed, and starred in my first play when I was in third grade. In grade school classes and Girl Scouts, I reigned as the queen of skits. Puppet shows, horse shows, piano recitals . . . yep, I guess I am and always have been a performer. I enjoyed mild success in Original Comedy and Reader’s Theater on my high school speech team, and now I enjoy performing slices of
Cuba 15
for readers at book events, complete with all the voices, drama, and humor involved. When I write, it’s like performing for myself, inside my mind. Though sometimes I find myself laughing or crying out loud!

Q. Violet has keen comic perception. Where do you get your sense of humor? Ever think of becoming a stand-up comic?

A.
Cubans have a unique sense of humor, and some of it seems to have flared up in me. I use humor in my writing because it puts the reader at ease and makes learning—a wonderful side effect of reading—more fun. I have always loved stand-up comedy; George Carlin and Steve Martin are my idols. But there wasn’t much of a comedy scene for women until I had already become interested in writing fiction. Some of my comic chops were cut in a college play-writing class; my professor passed on a good instinct for slapstick.
Pa-dum-pum!

Q. How did you become interested in the politics and history of Cuba? How can the average kid become informed and involved in foreign policy issues like this?

A.
I have family in Cuba whom I have never met, and this is a direct effect of U.S. foreign policy. When I began corresponding with my Cuban relatives as an adult, I faced many legal and cultural hurdles. Suddenly I needed to know why ordinary citizens—family members—in both countries were still being kept apart. As an American born between the 1959 Cuban revolution and the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis (which posed a direct threat to the United States), I had only a hazy notion of the bad blood between the two countries. When I tried to send pens and paper to my cousins in Cuba, to ensure that they could answer my letters, I was refused. The postal clerk told me small packages were not allowed, and told me to “say hi to Castro.” Dealing with postal regulations and ignorant remarks brought the whole international affair down to a personal level.

In learning more about the longstanding embargo that restricts trade and travel between the U.S. and Cuba, I was impressed by the efforts of IFCO/Pastors for Peace. This organization [IFCO stands for Interreligious Foundation for Community Organization] has been challenging the embargo and promoting cultural exchange and peace with Cuba since 1992. Local Cuba groups across the country work with Pastors for Peace to change the laws and circumstances that divide rather than unite neighbors and families. Kids fit right in with such humanitarian efforts. They’re in the process of discovering their places in society and are natural bridge builders. But the simple act of learning more about a “forbidden” culture is a first step in reconciliation.

Q. Señora Flora asks Violet, “How do you see yourself?” Violet defines herself by what she is and what she isn’t. How would you define yourself in these terms? Do you have any “half talents” you’re still growing?

A.
How do I see myself? Well, first of all, I’m not the
quince
type. I don’t wear dresses or high heels—you’re more apt to find me in jodhpurs and boots. I would generally rather be alone at my desk or on horseback than onstage in front of an audience. But I am at home in a lot of environments. I like to get lost in the crowd on a downtown city street as well as lost in thought in the woods. I’ll also strike up a conversation with just about anyone, to share a little bit of life or get a fresh insight. “Half talents” are my specialty, and they make for lifelong learning: That’s why I’m glad my Spanish, my horseback riding, and my cooking can really use some work! As a writer, my half talent is exploring human nature, for I can never truly comprehend all its subtleties. But I can keep trying.

Q. Abuela asserts that it is women who carry tradition forward and see that it lives on. Do you agree with her? If so, why do you think this role often falls to women?

A.
I was thinking about food and holiday events, which are most often women’s domain. Even though my mother is not Cuban, she learned to cook my father’s favorite Cuban dishes. So when I was growing up, a lot of Cuban culture was served up in the form of
congrís, arroz con pollo,
and
lechon asado
. Visiting a cousin’s house in Miami one year, I encountered the Cuban tradition of eating twelve grapes at midnight on New Year’s. Most of my Cuban traditions came to me through food, as part of a gustatory collective unconscious. Who makes the Thanksgiving turkey or Christmas ham in your house? Who plans the get-togethers? Maybe Dad, but in years past the women stayed home and made these tasks part of their day, while the men went out and earned a living for their families. So perpetuating tradition through food and family gatherings was what women did. Nowadays, this type of traditional learning is probably fading away. Who spends two days marinating and slow-cooking a roast when they can microwave a fajita? (Answer: the author.)

Q. Do you recall an experience or a moment of realization in your young life that made you feel you had grown up?

A.
No. I didn’t have an
aha!
realization until I was thirty-seven, and, you know, that was right for me. Coming-of-age ceremonies were probably begun as a practical means of keeping young girls from becoming mothers too early. While the focus was on honoring the girl, the event may also have been a social tool for restraint aimed at men, in much the same way that other social taboos work. Violet’s
quinceañero
is not grounded in this tradition but does embrace the goal of moving a young woman toward her next phase in life. For Violet, all that process really takes is some thought and action: considering who she’d like to be, and then trying to effect that. Some people can do that at fifteen. It took me a while longer.

Q. Are you good at dominoes? What are the highest stakes you’ve ever played for?

A
. When it comes to poker, backgammon, and dominoes, luck is my friend, strategy a stranger. The highest stakes I’ve ever played for? My good image and ten cents. I probably lost on both counts.

Q. What would be the theme of your quinceañero? What would you include in the ceremony to make it reflect your personality (or just for fun)?

A.
My theme would be “Let the Good Times Roll.” I would enjoy blending all the elements of my roots—there would be Cuban music, Chicago blues, and food from both ends of that spectrum. Instead of a planned agenda, guests would encounter roving entertainers—an improv troupe, fire jugglers, Latin dancers—and have fun with a giant maze, an arts-and-crafts station, and a go-cart track. And, of course, before the cake was cut, there would probably be some sort of a performance by the
quince
-babe herself . . . dressed in her jodhpurs and boots.