My Brigadista Year

by Katherine Paterson

  At the time, I thought I remembered seeing him in Varadero. We were probably there at the same time for training, weren’t we? Maybe I had seen him among the many thousands there. Both Maria and Juan swore we’d been at the same camp. Juan even said he’d spoken to him once. I found out much later that Manuel had been at the training camp at an entirely different time. By now I have seen so many pictures of him that it’s hard to believe I never saw him in the flesh. Who knows? Maybe I saw him once in Havana before we both joined the campaign. His home was not so far from my old neighborhood. I’d like to think I saw him once. Is that peculiar? Don’t we all want to feel we have touched greatness?

  After Manuel Ascunce’s death, none of us would admit to wanting to go home. He had given his life for the campaign. We had to finish the year in his honor. By early December, everyone in my group except Joaquin and Dunia had finished his or her final exams, including the required letter to Castro. I missed having Nancy and Daniel in class, but they were at home taking care of little José. They named him after our national hero from the war of independence from Spain. But José Martí, as I tried to explain earlier, is not just our George Washington, who fought for independence, or our Abraham Lincoln, who fought for freedom and against slavery. Martí was also, as you know, a great poet and a philosopher.

  When Luis passed his final exam, I gave him my book of José Martí’s poems. They were precious to me, but I knew that when I got back to Havana, I could buy another copy. I often wondered if Manuel Ascunce thought of “The White Rose” when he was dying. Here is my English translation of the poem I love so much:

  I grow a white rose,

  In July as well as January,

  To give to my true friend

  Who offers me his honest hand.

  And for the one whose cruel blows

  Break the heart that gives me life,

  I cultivate neither thistle nor thorn:

  I grow a white rose.

  I could not think of the poem without at the same time thinking of Norma. Did she still love José Martí? Or was she now enamored with North American poets? Was it easier for her to be a black American than it had been to be a black Cuban? Would I ever see her again in this lifetime? My grief for Manuel Ascunce was mixed up with my mourning for my lost friend.

  Luis knew how distressed all the brigadistas in the area were, so he made a special trip to the nearest church where there was still a priest and begged him to come soon so that little José could be baptized and we could have a joyful celebration as an antidote to our sadness.

  Dunia, with Veronica’s help, prepared a great feast with as much food as they had made for my birthday. The other host families in the area were invited to celebrate with us at the Acostas’ farm, so they brought food as well. Our whole squad was there, and there was some comfort for us that night in little José’s presence. You cannot look at a tiny baby and feel entirely hopeless. We passed him from one uniformed set of arms to another. Even the most macho of the boys wanted a turn.

  I saw that night why poor Maria was so in love with Enrico. I had never seen a boy look at a baby with such a tender, loving gaze. I was so happy to see Maria smiling when her turn came to hold baby José. I think it was the first time many of us had smiled since we’d heard the news of Manuel’s death.

  “But if you really want to see Lora smile her beautiful smile,” Luis said to Joaquin and Dunia, “you have to pass your final exams, and write your letter to Fidel before she leaves.”

  We were slated to leave on December 20. It was now the second week of December. Dunia was almost ready, but she would insist on repeating a lesson even when I felt sure she was ready to move on. She sensed that I was losing patience with her. I didn’t mean to, but I so needed her to pass, and I was sure she could if she tried hard enough. One night when Joaquin and Luis were noisily at work, she whispered in my ear. “I must wait. Old men, they feel the loss of their machismo, don’t you see?” I could only sigh and nod.

  So I cheered heartily when on December 15, Luis declared that Joaquin was at last ready to take his final exam. The old man passed, not brilliantly like his daughter-in-law or almost perfectly like his son, but he passed and was set to work writing the long-awaited letter to our country’s leader.

  December 15, 1961

  Dr. Fidel Castro

  City of Havana

  Comrade Fidel:

  I can read and write, even the big words and the squiggle on en-ye. But why must I write my name like the old Spanish oppressors? We won independence. We won the revolution. We have won the war against illiteracy. Now we must free our spelling.

  Your comrade,

  Joaquin Acosta

  “That’s a wonderful letter, Joaquin,” I said.

  “I’ll write a better one next year, when I know more big words,” he said. “That will surprise him, won’t it?”

  “I’m sure it will,” I said, eager to get back to my final student.

  Dunia waited a discreet three days before she agreed to try her exam. We never told anyone that her grade was higher than her husband’s.

  Too soon, it was the 20th of December. Nancy and Daniel did not go to see me off because of little José as well as farm duties, and Veronica stayed home because she said it would be a long day and someone had to look after the animals. She hugged me tight and kissed me, then turned away so I wouldn’t see her tears. “Lorita, you must thank your kind papi and mama for lending us their wonderful daughter for this year,” she said. Which made me burst into tears. She was so beautiful, my sister Veronica, as lovely as any statue of the Madonna in the cathedral.

  She waved good-bye as the rest of the family and I went on to the Acostas’, so that I could say good-bye to Daniel and Nancy and the baby I almost thought of as my own.

  “Bonita insists on coming, too,” said Joaquin as he and Dunia mounted the big saddle on the mare’s back. We already made quite a little parade to the base camp, where we met our squad and most of their host families. There the parade swelled into a small army making its way through the trees and vegetation that crowded both sides of the path.

  Rafael ran and skipped ahead with some of the other boys, but often threaded the crowd to come back to check on me and his family. Soon Isabel begged for a ride on her father’s shoulders, but Emilia, with an air of importance, took my hand as though I needed her to guide my way. Together we made the trek through the forest to the place at the end of the track where the departure truck was already waiting for us.

  When she spotted the truck, Isabel climbed down from her father’s shoulders and ran to me, clinging to my right leg. Emilia tightened her tiny grip on the hand she had held for the whole journey, as though holding me tight would keep me from leaving.

  When the driver said we must go, I was crying again. Both girls saw my tears and began to wail. I knelt down beside them. “This is not good-bye forever,” I said. “I’ll come back to see you — I promise.”

  They wiped their hands across their wet faces and tried to smile. “Soon?”

  “As soon as I can,” I said. “But I have to go back to see my other family in Havana. I have been gone a long time. I don’t want them to forget me.”

  Emilia giggled.

  But Isabel was distressed. “Will they forget?”

  “Well, maybe my naughty brothers will.”

  “If those bad boys forget you, you come right back here!”

  “Okay,” I said. “But I still have to go to school. And Fidel Castro has promised that soon there will be a school here for you to go to. Then you can write me letters.”

  Emilia’s eyes went wide. “Would you write me a letter?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I don’t want you to forget me.”

  “I will never forget you,” she said. “Isabel might. She’s little.”

  “No, I won’t.” Isabel shook her head vigorously.

  “I’ll write you, too,” I said, and kissed her first and then her sister.

  Rafael w
as standing by his father, watching us and pretending to be grown up.

  I got up and went to him. “I’m afraid I’m just a crybaby, Rafael. Not brave like you.”

  He blinked and wiped his sleeve across his face, then quickly straightened up. He stretched out his hand in a very manly fashion and shook mine. “Vaya con Dios, Lora,” he said — go with God — and then added in a whisper, “Will you write me a letter, too?”

  “Of course,” I said. “We’re a team.”

  I made my way through the crowd to where the Acostas and Bonita had found a spot to wait. They dismounted and embraced me and told me I must come back again. Perhaps I might live in their house the next time. I hugged them and stroked old Bonita’s nose.

  “Be sure to keep studying,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Joaquin. “I am going to write many more letters to Fidel. He will be amazed at my progress.”

  Luis waited until all those good-byes had been said, and then he came and kissed me on both cheeks. “You have given us a new life, Maestra,” he said. “I will thank you every time I write my name.”

  I began to cry in earnest then, but the driver called to all of us who were lingering to get on the truck, that it was leaving. Pronto!

  Hands came down to help me up onto the crowded truck bed, but I didn’t try to sit down. Even if they could not see me, I wanted to wave to my beloved family until the truck turned the first bend in the track and they would no longer be able to see my hand in the air.

  On the long bumpy ride to the train station, we were mostly quiet. We could never have dreamed in April how sad we would be in December.

  The truck took us all the way to Cienfuegos, where we climbed up into open train cars for the last leg of our journey home. While most of us had sat silent on the truck, a few of us still in tears, no one even wanting to whisper, the scene on the train was a different story.

  The warm December sun was shining down on us as we clacked along, and we soon began to turn our hearts toward home. Girls who had makeup dug it out of their rucksacks and began to put on lipstick and maybe a little eyeliner. I took out my comb and pulled it through my tangled hair. We were laughing at ourselves. Inside we felt so utterly transformed, so changed from the children we had been nine months before, but somehow we wanted to look as good as we could on the outside when we met our families. I knew that my mother would be appalled at my skin, now as brown as a coconut. I feared she would never escape the old-school prejudice that prized fair skin in a woman. I looked at my rough, calloused hands and asked anxiously if anyone had any hand cream, but no one did.

  As we got close to Havana, the air became electric with excitement. The word was being passed around that the new slogan — the banner we would carry in the parade on December 22 — was Vencimos. We have conquered. We have prevailed.

  When the train pulled into Havana, I was only one of the thousands of brigadistas pouring out of the train cars and into the street crowded with families. I wondered if I would ever be able to find the ones I was searching for. But my clever brothers had made a large sign, WELCOME HOME, LORA DÍAZ LLERA, and put it on a long pole. I spotted it before long and wriggled my way through hundreds of uniformed bodies to throw my arms around them. My entire family, including Abuela, who hardly ever left our house, had come to the train station. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone what I looked like. I was safely home. My mother didn’t even mention the condition or color of my skin for two weeks, and by then the deep tan had begun to fade, anyway.

  On the shortlist of the best days of my life was the Vencimos parade, culminating in the gathering in the Plaza of the Revolution. There we gathered, more than one hundred thousand strong, looking up at the memorial to José Martí. A few of us were waving banners picturing an open book and proclaiming ¡Vencimos! The rest of us were carrying pencils, huge pencils, almost as tall as we were. I was delighted that my assignment was to carry one of the pencils. I only wish I could have sent my giant pencil to Rafael as a memento.

  We were like an army of sharpened pencils marching into the center of the capital among our flags and banners. Around our necks we wore red scarves, across which were printed the words Territorio libre de analfabetismo — Illiteracy-free territory. We were the first country in the Western Hemisphere that could make that boast.

  We had done it. We had overcome our own fears as well as the illiteracy of our fellow Cubans. How could any of us ever forget that day?

  This is the song we sang as we marched to the Plaza of the Revolution:

  We did it, we did it, we did it!

  We triumphed, we triumphed, we triumphed!

  Cuba told the world we would

  And we accomplished it.

  Forward the people of America,

  Forward with socialism.

  Cuba in only one year

  Conquered illiteracy.

  Fidel, Fidel,

  Tell us what else we should do.

  Fidel, Fidel,

  We’ll always do our duty.

  We did it, we did it, we did it!

  We triumphed, we triumphed, we triumphed!

  Cuba told the world we would

  And we accomplished it.

  My brigadista year was the year that changed my life. This was true not only for me but, I daresay, for all of us who left our safe, loving homes to become brigadistas for literacy. I learned what I could be and do. I was no longer an isolated, spoiled little girl of the city. I was a member of a campesino family who loved me and taught me more than I could ever teach them.

  I think it is best summed up in the words of a friend and fellow brigadista who said, “I taught the campesinos how to read and write, and they taught me how to be a person.”

  As I had dreamed that day of José’s birth, I became, in time, a doctor. My husband, who had also been a brigadista, is a professor of Latin American literature, and he has always supported my ambitions and my career. He learned in 1961 not to underestimate us girls. We have three lovely children, all grown now, and are looking forward to grandchildren.

  I try to go back every year to see the Santanas. Within two years, the government built a school on Luis’s old tobacco patch and the children had their own maestro. Rafael graduated from the Agricultural University in Havana and went home to help his father and other campesinos be more productive farmers. Emilia became an engineer, and little Isabel is a mathematics professor, if you can believe it. Luis and Veronica completed the educational program that the government established to follow up on the campaign of 1961. The only thing they ever want me to bring them from Havana is a new book.

  And little José, you ask, what became of him? He taught for a while in Santiago de Cuba, but after the old folks died, and as his parents were aging, he brought his family back to the mountains. He is the local maestro in the school on the Santanas’ land, and Rafael Santana is his best friend.

  Are you wondering why, after all these years, I wanted to share my diary of what happened to me in 1961? It was not to prove to you that my country is perfect. Not all the promises of the revolution have been fulfilled. We have yet to embody the ideal of liberty that José Martí dreamed of.

  My country is not perfect, but, then, is yours? Perhaps, however, someone reading my story will better understand both me and the country I love. No, we are not perfect, but we do have a literate, educated population. We do have doctors.

  There are not so many doctors in West Africa, and as I write this, many of those amazing doctors and nurses are dying as they care for victims of the dreaded Ebola virus.

  Once again my government has called for volunteers — not to teach this time, but to heal. Even though I have never become a hero, do you understand why I choose to go?

  When my friend Mary Leahy heard that I was planning a second trip to Cuba, she told me how envious she was. Her brother, Senator Patrick Leahy, had been there several times, seeking to mend relations between our two countries, but she herself had never been. Mary had a special re
ason for wanting to go. For many years she had been the director of Central Vermont Adult Basic Education. Early in her experience with CVABE, Mary told me, she had learned of the amazingly successful 1961 literacy campaign that turned Cuba into an illiteracy-free country. Although Mary was in Vermont, and not in revolutionary Cuba, she tried in a number of ways to incorporate ideas from the Cuban model, including enlisting volunteer teachers with the humility to know that they would be learning alongside their students.

  Mary’s words sent me on a quest to learn about the campaign in which volunteers who could read and write went into the factories and countryside to teach their fellow Cubans what they knew. Although the statistics vary from source to source, it is clear that more than 250,000 Cubans volunteered, and more than half of these were women and girls, who up until this time had lived quite limited, sheltered lives. Of the volunteer force, more than 100,000 were between the ages of ten and nineteen. The youngest volunteer was actually a seven-year-old girl who was assigned to teach an elderly neighbor. The oldest student was a woman who was 106 years old.

  The campaign was announced by Fidel Castro in a speech he made at the United Nations in 1960. It was officially opened on January 28, 1961, and concluded on December 22 of that year. During that time, more than 700,000 Cubans learned to read and write. Representatives from the United Nations, who came to Cuba to consult with the educational leadership and observe the carrying out of the campaign, declared, at the end of 1961, that Cuba had achieved “universal literacy.”

  One of the most inspiring resources I encountered in my quest was the 2012 documentary Maestra, produced and directed by Catherine Murphy, which tells about the campaign through the stories of women who were Conrado Benítez Brigadistas as teenagers. All the women Murphy interviewed, now accomplished professionals in various fields, look back on the campaign of 1961 as the defining event of their lives. The companion book to the film, A Year Without Sundays, is a gold mine of detailed information, including quotations from many of the participants, the makeup of the campaign brigades, and even the words of the songs they sang. Many of the stories from the film and the book served as inspiration for Lora’s story.