Say Hi Back, Even in Cuba

(Spontaneous Series Post 1)

Along the colorful streets of Havana, a young American in his mid-twenties, found himself wide-eyed and amazed. He had traveled a bit over the years, this one by far with the most to learn.

He couldn’t help but take in every sight, in awe of the incredible Cuban-Spanish architecture, preserved classic cars, and Cuban beauty that could only be observed through common day story telling until just a few months ago.

The American, wandering alone, unlit cigar in mouth, was set to meet up with his travel companions at the only restaurant in Havana that would air an American football game. As he made his way towards a smoggy, crowded intersection, eager to get to his friends, he was stopped. A native Cuban, somewhere in his mid-forties, with skin darker than his own, a smile seemingly more genuine than most, surprised the American with an extended arm and a friendly “Happy New Year” in a choppy English dialect.

The American cautiously shook the man’s hand and wished him a Happy New Year back in return. He continued about his way, seemingly in the same direction as the Cuban. As the two continued to walk and talk, the Cuban began to ask him exploratory questions — of where he came from, why he was in Cuba and about his apparent interest in cigars. Carefully analyzing each question, the American responded with caution, wary of this stranger’s intention.

As the two men continued to head east — the American eager to meet his friend — the Cuban eager to have a conversation — asked to share a drink with the young adult. The America, having lived in a foreign country as a child, knew these types of foreign interactions in third-world countries were common, and almost always led to bad situations.

But already three days into his trip, the kid was astonished over how preserved the beauty of Havana had been kept — but he was having trouble wrapping his head around it all. How was it so poverty-stricken yet still so beautiful? Why wasn’t Cuba dangerous like he had expected it to be? What’s happened over the last half of a century. Questions that could only be answered by the same group of people who called it home.

Nervous, cautious, and torn, he knew he should respectfully decline and walk away. But he also knew this one guiding principle:

We’re all strangers in this world, and it’s that same concept that guides us through life. Our lives are predicated and dependent on meeting strangers. We’re all strangers until we’re not. Everyone. Your best friend, you’re significant other (they may be the same person), and even your family. We’re born alone, without friends or followers.

It only takes one magnetic moment to flip the switch from stranger to friend. The act of physically meeting someone, reading their facial and bodily expressions, and listening to them speak offers us riches. It’s what makes us learn, understand, and fall in love with each other. Something otherwise unobtainable if we keep our heads down and continue moving.

Back to the story. After persistence by the Cuban, he had to agreed to buy him a beer, under the condition that the aged Cuban tell him more about the Cuba he knew — a Cuba seen through his eyes, walked through his feet. The friends he was set to meet, he knew. He’s spoken to them hundreds of times. He knew their stories. The American settled a semi-crowded bar on a busy street and began the people to people exchange.

Here’s his story.

The man lived about an hour outside of Havana. He didn’t own a car, so he took the overly crowded bus in and out every day. His family never had enough food, and never enough money. He was a father of one. At 42, his job as a security guard for a local school in central Havana earned him the equivalent of a mere $12 a month. Only twelve dollars to support his family month by month, accompanied by government food allocations that left his family hungry.

In his story, Cuba was wrinkled in poverty and corruption. This man told a story of a communist establishment of Cuba that was a hoax, a front for politicians and officials to stay rich. The man spoke of a poverty line guarded heavily by government officials. He spoke of an equality that didn’t exist, of hungry stomachs and of broken dreams. He described for the American what was certainly a black market for jobs, where Cubans could actual purchase jobs from employers, from Cuban Nobility or simply just being light skinned. Yes, in his eyes jobs were administered on the color of one’s skin. Positions at big, classy hotels were each carefully hand-selected (merit of individual candidates disregarded.) It all seemed backward. It didn’t encourage hard work and nothing he described sounded like the communist, totalitarian beliefs of the late Fidel Castro.

And the law of poverty driven economics told us that with poverty comes corruption, generally followed by crime. Right?

Wrong. Since they arrived, the American and his friends found the streets of Havana safe enough to wander around at any time of the night, under any condition, through any lighting.

And although they made sure to take precautions to avoid any possibility of trouble, they were avoided something that didn’t exist. Sometimes they felt safer in Cuba than they did back home.

So the safety. What was the mans favorite quality of Cuba, was equally it’s downside (keep reading). If a Cuban is found in possession of a firearm, he or she could be sentenced to the death penalty. If a Cuban wrongfully interacts with a tourist in any way, he or she could be sent to jail. Regardless of the reason, regardless of whether any wrongful doing, and regardless if it was in an act of defense. Laws were made to defend and protect tourists. Tourists were considered sacred; tourists were more important to the government than it’s own citizens.

He felt that they devalued the freedom and trust of your own people to enrich the experience of outsiders.

It wasn’t a one way Q&A. The Cuban wanted to learn from the American too. The man was, to his surprise, deeply curious about Malcolm X, 1960s America, segregation and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. As a dark skinned male in Cuba, he felt that his rights were partial. He feels that racism in present-day Cuba is just as prevalent as it was pre-Civil Rights movement in America. Cuba having been a Spanish colony for roughly 400 years and a port for the African Slave Trade, light-skinned Cubans were very common, and therefore, favored and valued over the darker-skinned.

From this grew a national racial divide. He showed a deep admiration for “the Big Six” and hoped that Cuba would one day follow in the same footsteps. He dreamed of an equal Cuba, and to be given a fair chance.

The Cuban pulled a cell phone from a sock in his satchel– no fancy smartphone, just a simple cell phone that Americans would consider archaic in this digital age. He showed the American a picture of his 16-year-old daughter, and pictures of his girlfriends. Yes… girlfriends. He explained that it was common in Cuba for a man to have multiple girlfriends. An obvious disparity in culture.

Funny enough. He asked the American if he had a spare micro-memory card. What seemed like a ridiculous request (cellular memory cards were a thing of the past, right?), was something that meant the Cuban could store more pictures on his phone. We obviously take advantage the thousands of memories we can store on demand.

The two continued conversing for nearly two hours — about anything and everything. They spoke about their love lives, their careers and their life experiences. They shared interests such as squash and baseball. His favorite beer, Miller Lite.

They had mirroring viewpoints on violence and education, and what it meant to work hard — something the American felt Cubans didn’t do. The restaurant service was beyond terrible and the food was worse. The man simply stated that Cubans have no reason to work hard. No reward for hard work, so most people don’t bother.

What the unlikely pairing loved about each other was that neither one held back. The conversation was filled with candid honesty. And to think, just earlier they were strangers.

Two hours later, well into what was probably the fourth quarter of the game, assuming his friends were a bit worried about him at this point, the American asked a final question before he decided to head on his way.

“If you can have any job in the world, any career, what would it be?”

“A translator. Ciento por ciento.” he replied without skipping a beat

“You can have HAVE ANY JOB IN THE WORLD?”

“I speak Spanish, English, French and Italian. Self-taught. Being a linguist, knowing multiple languages, I can talk to people and bring people together. I find each word, every language, each accent unique. There’s nothing else I’d want to do… nothing would make me happier.”

The American stared, perplexed at the man’s answer. He would’ve thought professional baseball player or singer/actor would be the vogue.

“To me, America is freedom. That’s where I want to live, and it’s where I can be who I want.” the Cuban continued.

“I’m not free here. I’m not sure I’ll ever be. But in America, I can be whoever I want to be. I have some relatives who live there — in Seattle, Kansas City, New York, Texas, Philadelphia. They’re not famous, and they’re not rich, but they’re successful. They’re teachers, janitors, bakers. They worked hard for that life and they couldn’t be happier being middle class.”

as he put his hand somewhere between high and low.

“Here, in Cuba, I’ll never be a translator”

For what felt like the first time in his life, the American found himself speechless. He thought about his own life — the man he had become and the career path he was taking. He had a high-paying salary for his age, he was quickly rising the corporate ladder and a comfortable apartment overlooking New York City. He was comfortable, and to many successful. But how he would respond should he have been asked the same question. Would it be what he’s currently doing.

He was miles away from the simple Cuban he had shared the evening with. He found himself spending an average of eleven dollars on breakfast, maybe eighty dollars on a pair of Nordstrom Rack jeans and sometimes as much as two hundred dollars on a night out in Manhattan. The Cuban made only twelve dollars a month. With simple math, the American spent more money in a night out than the Cuban would make in a year. The trip to Cuba alone cost about 10 years of labor to the Cuban.

When the Cuban had originally first stopped him on the street, he wanted to sell him a cigar he had been keeping in his gym bag, hoping the American would buy it from him so that he could buy meat for his family’s New Year’s Eve dinner.

The cuban cigar, although priceless to many, was worthless to the American — but this stranger gave him much more than what the cigar cost. He gave him perspective and the gift of opening his eyes to a much more meaningful side of life. A story worth more than any Ernest Hemingway book.

A handful of dollars, a pair of beers, and a story later, the two walked their separate directions.

Knowing their paths would never cross again, the American walked away with something he had never expected — something more valuable than he had ever imagined he would from a simple conversation with a strange Cuban who had stopped him on the street, and because he said hi back.

He learned a couple of lessons that day.

He learned a little bit about the word free. To make the choice to be who you want to be. To understand that more likely than not, nothing is stopping you but yourself

He learned to continuous ask himself the same question he asked the Cuban “If I could have any job in the world, what would it be?” Am I doing that right now? What’s stopping me? And is it really stopping me or am I just making excuses

He learned that sometimes it’s okay to stop and talk to a stranger. It’s okay to share a conversation with a person you’ve never met (Maybe don’t always share drinks with strangers, but you know what we mean).

He learned it’s okay to say hi back.

He learned a bit about Cuba.

He learned to be grateful for everything he had, and everything he didn’t.

He learned that two hundred dollars is a lot of money to spend gallivanting with friends

He learned that you’re not better than the person you don’t know.

He learned that he now had a friend in Cuba

But most importantly, he learned the true importance of conversation. That there are 8 billion humans in the world — 8 billion unique stories. Each story has its own complexities. Each with it’s unique plot, it’s climax, protagonists and antagonists, ups and down, twists and turns. But in these stories the table of contents are categorized by each chapter of your life. The chapters are written by your actions, every single day

Each story has something to offer. It’s how you pick the stories you read, how you interpret their words, the moral lessons you extract that can define you. You can’t read every story, but I’m sure you can grasp a hold of thousands if you try.

But most importantly, when you do read them, you have to decide how to analyze each word and what lessons you take from it. Each one you read adds to your own, creating an interconnected narrative far beyond any you could ever imagine.

Remember that you write your own story with every passing second — with every choice you make. Don’t be afraid to let others read your story

The Cuban’s story left an impact in that of the young American’s life. It shook the plot and set the tone for the chapters to follow.

And as I finished typing this story, accompanied by my unlit cigar, I remembered how on December 31st, 2016, a stranger on an intersection stopped me and changed my life, and all because I said hi back.

Bia