CASA de Cuba

With an unusual force I plopped onto the scratched, blue subway seat, and flinched slightly when the seat yelped back with a loud pop. Apparently someone pulled it, loosing the screws, and my rough sitting loudly shoved it back in place. I know the entire car heard it, and reacted just as I did, blindly ignoring the fart/fatass-sitting-breaking-the-seat sound.

"Please stand clear of the closing doors."

We were off to Spring. Usually, at this point, I zone out completely on the train because it really goes by faster that way (something about anticipation making it seem longer to get there than to come back). I stared directly in front of myself, which happened to be exactly where a pole was standing. I'm always so confused as to where to look on the train because we're all supposed to be acting like we're alone and gazing nonchalantly around the cart, but my eyes are trained to point out, stare at, and examine anything that comes into view. Luckily today it was just a silver pole and not that hobo-chic girl who caught me memorizing the angles of her large, crooked nose. On the opposite wall my face was reflected in the tinted glass, only cut sharply in half by the pole. I leaned to the right, so my full face was in view, then I leaned back and saw myself divided.

How easy it was, in one quick move, to be so incomplete then suddenly awaken a connection to each part: left and right.

Past and present. I smiled in the cart, reflecting on this new-found discovery. It was like when I attended CASA, Cuban American Student Association, tonight. I was surrounded by other Cuban-Americans like myself and felt for the first time an intimate connection with a stranger. The way Rogelio slung his words in his mouth, the accents he placed, the way he said Patricia, sounded like home. I've never before in my entire life connected with someone based on heritage, other than family. I was leaning the right and seeing my whole self reflected in these people.

I wanted so deeply to belong to this. I wanted to share secrets of our culture and our language, though I knew I had none to give. Growing up in San Antonio I bloomed completely without the colors of my Cuban ancestry. Sure, I aqcuired the general traits from my mom, but I never really felt Cuban.

I want to feel Cuban. At this club, I still felt like an outsider. Probably that's because I don't know any Spanish, I don't know Cuba's history, I don't know my family's history, and I don't know any Cuban Arts. But I want to belong.

It seems silly, I guess. Maybe it's similar to Alana joining that sorority. I just want to put myself in a circle of people I know nothing about and create new friends. Period.