Learning to Die in Miami

by Carlos Eire

  Louis XVI hadn’t told me about that last part. And that was the best thing of all. The right to vandalize, guaranteed by law.

  “You know, you’re a little too old to go out on Halloween,” said Norma one day, close to the magical date.

  “Am I?”

  “Almost, but not quite. I think it’s all right if you go out trick-or-treating, but this will be your last chance. Next year you’ll be too old for that.”

  All the more reason to enjoy this as much as possible, I told myself. This will be one total blowout. I could barely contain myself as the day approached.

  I couldn’t even bother to pay attention to the Cuban Missile Crisis, which unfolded in the week just before Halloween. Nuclear warfare? No, it can’t happen, at least before Halloween. No way. Khrushchev, Kennedy, and Fidel will work all of this out. What’s the big deal? Those missiles have been there for such a long time already. So what if the geniuses at the Pentagon finally convinced John Kennedy of the threat that Cubans have known about for so long?

  Finally, the magic day arrived, as I’d predicted, without a nuclear holocaust. I didn’t have a costume, so Norma helped me improvise. I went out as a hobo, with black crayon smudges on my face and a flannel shirt untucked. Back then no one dared not to tuck their shirt into their pants. Just enough of a disheveled look to let people know that I was wearing something close to a costume. Freddy ended up with more or less the same disguise. We didn’t care what we looked like. We just wanted to collect candy and destroy the neighborhood, like all American kids.

  “You know,” Freddy told me, “if no one comes to the door, or if they have nothing to give you, then you’re entitled to wreck their house any way you want.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You bet.”

  So, armed with paper shopping bags we ventured out into the tropical night. It was even better than I’d expected. Most of the houses were decorated with Halloween stuff, and all of their lights were on. The pumpkins were all angels in disguise, I was sure. Seraphim or archangels, to boot, not some lackeys from the lower ranks of the celestial hierarchy. We went from door to door and scored big everywhere. I couldn’t believe this was really happening. It felt as if I’d gone inside a movie screen and become part of a movie—part of that world that was even more real than the United States itself—or that I was simply having the best dream I’d ever had.

  “Trick or treat.”

  The ritual was sublime. I think the incantation that came out of my mouth wasn’t pronounced correctly, but it didn’t matter. All the grownups who came to the door knew why Freddy and I were there.

  “Let me guess what you are,” a few of the talkative ones would ask.

  “We’re in disguise,” I’d say. It probably sounded more like “diss-guy,” but no one seemed to care. That night, it didn’t matter to anyone that Freddy and I were Cubans.

  On Halloween all children magically turn into goblins, and no one cares if Goblinland is American or not.

  Candy bars. Whole candy bars. Good God in heaven. Hershey’s, Nestlé, 3 Musketeers, Almond Joy, Mars, Mounds, Baby Ruth. You name it, we got some. Bags of M&M’s. Peanuts. Jordan almonds. Licorice. Junior Mints. Hershey’s Kisses. Chewing gum, lots of it. One guy gave us donuts. Donuts, imagine that. Then there were the sorry-ass houses where they gave you apples, or where all they had was this cruel hoax called candy corn, which was awful but still counted as candy and therefore didn’t allow you to vandalize the hell out of the place.

  “Are you sure that this crap counts as a treat?” I asked Freddy.

  “Sadly, yes.” Es una lastima. “It’s a pity,” said the expert.

  We did hit a few houses where no one was home. Hooo Weeee. Trick time. We exacted vengeance, as required by law, in all sorts of creative ways. I can’t divulge most of our reprisals, not knowing what the statute of limitations might be on the crimes we committed. Just let it go at this: We were very creative. Sticking chewing gum into keyholes was our least imaginative effort.

  The thrill of making life miserable for someone else was unbearably exhilarating. Nothing had ever felt so right, so virtuous. We attacked the skinflints and scrooges with all the zeal of Crusaders, certain that ours was a holy venture.

  Doing wrong can feel so right, so very right, and so totally fulfilling. Yes.

  And it’s even more satisfying to be a cretin when you get to go home with a bag that’s about to rip open because of the weight of the treats in it. I had enough candy at the end of that blessed night to keep me going for the next two months. Of course, it was all gone in less than a week.

  Finally, I’m wholly and truly American, I told myself. Forget the accent and all the harassment at school. I don’t care. Now that I’ve done this, I’m the real thing. Hooo Weeee. It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven. I’m living out the life I’ve always wanted to have. I’m just like those superior American children I saw on Quinta Avenida back in Havana, years ago, who were headed for certain disappointment in my inferior homeland. Heck, I’m better off than they were, for I’m here, where there’s a real Halloween.

  Now all I need to become a really real American is to become Jewish and have a Bar Mitzvah.

  It’s what I thought was normal. What else could I think, living with a Jewish family? All around me, boys my age were preparing for their entry into manhood, and I was just floundering, pedaling my bike to St. Brendan’s on Sunday.

  I’d gone to a couple of Bar Mitzvahs already. It seemed like such a reasonable religion, and so un-scary. Yeah, the Hebrew was a drag, but then again, so was Latin. Well, maybe Latin was a little less extreme. But going through a ritual that turned you into a man seemed like a great thing to me, worth even having to learn that strange tongue. Baruch this, baruch that, and Adonai to you too. And Eloheinu while you’re at it, and melech ha-olam on top of that.

  Yeah. Why not? Dominus vobiscum. Et cum spiritu tuo. Oremus. What’s the difference?

  Jesus was a Jew, after all. And he had a Bar Mitzvah. I knew that. The Virgin Mary was Jewish too, and St. Joseph, and every single one of the twelve apostles, including St. Peter, the first Pope, who now guards the gates of heaven. Jews, all of them. And we prayed to them. Ora pro nobis, yes, please. Chosen People, all of them. Chosen, like my foster parents and Tony’s. Exiles, since day one. Always on the move. Always chased out, always stripped of everything they’ve worked for. Always ridiculed. Always vandalized and threatened. Always chosen as scapegoats for this and that. Sacrificial offerings.

  Refugees of the highest order. I don’t even come close, nor do my people.

  My twelfth birthday is approaching, less than a month after Halloween. I know I won’t get a Bar Mitzvah, but I’d sure like to have one about a year from now.

  That would make everything all right, even if I have to wear one of those stupid little caps that refuse to stay put on the back of your head. This ritual might even cure me of my accent, and give me one more chance to go out on Halloween. Next year, at this time, I won’t be a man yet. No.

  I’ll still be a boy, barely, but a boy nonetheless, with three weeks to spare.

  A very lucky boy, mambo lips and all, with no bones through his nose, who can teach curious American kids how to cuss incorrectly in Spanish as he pines for fjords and Bar Mitzvahs, with no concern whatsoever for the pain that comes with circumcision or with finding your front door keyhole has been carefully jammed up with Bazooka bubble gum.

  “Hey, Charles, what’s the bad word of the day? Give me a really bad one this time. Really, really bad.”

  “Berenjenas.” Eggplants.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a very nasty way of saying breasts.”

  “Yeow. How about one more?”

  “Me encantaría saborear tu flema.” I’d love to savor your phlegm.

  “That sounds even worse. What is it?”

  “It’s a very bad way of saying ‘I’d love to kiss you all over.’”

  “Thanks, Charles.
You Cubans have such dirty minds. Thanks.”

  “You bet. It’s eassssy for us. It’s all we can do in our grass huts, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Vete al carajo, cabrón.” Go to hell, you bastard.

  “Say what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  I know that I’ve just bought myself an entry ticket to hell, especially since I’ve stopped going to confession, but I don’t give a damn. Hell, I don’t give a flying remolacha. Somehow, in some half-assed way, I’ve figured out that heaven and hell intersect all the time here in Miami.

  Coño, que mierda.

  Ten

  You’d better take a look at this,” says Norma as she hands me The Miami Herald.

  I know something must be wrong, not just because of the look on her face, but also because she’s never ordered me to read the newspaper before.

  “Here, read this article.” She points to it.

  So, I take the paper and, in an instant, the world starts spinning in the opposite direction.

  Whoa.

  The article in question says that due to the missile crisis, Castrolandia has shut the door on all emigration, indefinitely. I read the article several times, to make sure I have all the details straight. Unfortunately, it’s not that hard to get to the bottom of it all: No one can leave Castrolandia. No one.

  My mother was holding an exit permit for mid-November, just before my birthday. She was all set to go.

  Now she can’t leave.

  Norma looks very upset. I guess I do too, but I try not to show it.

  I feel the Void snarling, feel it tensing up, getting ready to pounce.

  Halloween still has me all pumped up, however, so I’m able to put my nearly superhuman powers of denial to work.

  “Oh,” I say to Norma, “this is just temporary; it will change soon.”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replies. She looks really, really upset.

  Just a little bit of fallout from the nuclear holocaust that never took place. Fidel Castro is pissed as all hell because Nikita Khrushchev wouldn’t let him vaporize New York, Miami, and Washington, D.C., so he slams shut all doors that lead out of the island for Cubans.

  “You’re stuck here, with me,” he says to my mom and to the parents of more than ten thousand airlifted children, and millions of other Cubans. “Nobody gets to leave now.”

  Having been exposed to the world as a mere puppet of Moscow, Fidel throws a fit unlike any he’d thrown before. His rage knows no bounds. He had so, so desperately wanted to be seen as a major world leader, one of the few able to push a button and kill tens of millions of human beings. He’d actually told Nikita that he was ready to nuke New York, and Nikita had reminded Fidel that this would mean the end of Cuba. “You’ll be wiped off the map,” said the Russian. But Cuba’s annihilation didn’t bother Fidel. He was itching to press the button, regardless of the consequences, and he told Nikita to mind his own business. And this is what made Nikita blink in his face-off with John F. Kennedy. Knowing that he was dealing with a maniac changed the game completely for Nikita.

  The missiles are withdrawn from Cuba by the Soviets, or so they say. I see images of the Soviet ships on television, loaded with “missiles” on their way back to the U.S.S.R. In exchange, President Kennedy assures Nikita and Fidel that the United States will keep a close eye on all Cuban exiles and never again let them lift so much as a finger against Castrolandia.

  Now that everyone knows that the button was never his to push, Fidel has to find an outlet for his frustration. I’ve seen my cats act in exactly the same way, many times. If they’re frustrated about anything, they’ll attack one of the other cats in the house, especially those that are just lying there, sleeping or minding their own business.

  So now Fidel will show the world who’s really in charge of Cuba. Yeah.

  It takes a few days for me to hear from my mom, but when I finally get a letter it confirms all of my worst suspicions, and those of Norma and Lou: The door has been shut tightly and there is no way out for any Cuban. No way whatsoever. Somewhere, in one of his many mansions, Fidel pats himself on the back.

  “So sorry,” says Marie Antoinette. “So, so sorry. I can’t leave. But I’ll find some way out, I promise. I’ll dig a tunnel under the Florida Straits if I have to.” Of course, she has no way of knowing it will take her another three years to find a way out, and that digging that tunnel might have been faster than trying to fly out. No one knows what to expect at that point.

  Except for Norma and Lou. They know that the boy they’d taken in for just a few months has suddenly turned into a boy who might be with them indefinitely, maybe forever.

  What the hell are they supposed to do now?

  Of course, at that time, all I can think of is myself. Poor me. It never crosses my mind that this is a much, much larger problem than I can imagine.

  Fortunately, my powers of denial have increased dramatically, and this sudden surge of willful blindness is fueled by the crisis itself. It’s a strikingly beautiful vicious cycle. As the pain ratchets up, so does my ability to deny it. I’m cooler than a dead fish that’s been frozen for twelve years. And my eyes probably look just about the same as those of any such fish.

  I just can’t notice when I look in the mirror. I refuse to notice it.

  One thought and one thought alone keeps bouncing off my protective force field: “I will never, ever see my parents again.” I notice it, of course, the way one does a neighbor’s barking dog, but I’m able to dismiss it.

  Who cares? My birthday is coming up, and so is another great American holiday: Thanksgiving. And we’re in the thick of football season and I’m all fired up about this new game—the ultimate in violence—that I’m learning to play. I envision monster bruises, maybe a broken bone or two. Lou has promised to take me to a Hurricanes game at the Orange Bowl.

  I don’t care at all that Thanksgiving meals involve turkeys. Norma and I have an agreement. I can pass up on the big disgusting bird, and so can Tony.

  Tony and I have birthdays that are only two days apart, on the twenty-third and twenty-fifth of November. So the Chaits and the Rubins decide to celebrate both of our birthdays on Thanksgiving Day, at the Rubins’ house.

  Damn. I’ll forget most of what happened at this event and hit a blank spot every time I try to recall it. Except for one weird thing. One of my gifts is a football, something I’ve been hankering for. I stare at this beautiful oval brown thing, and its perfect white laces. I admire the texture of the pigskin, and run my fingers over it. I pick it up and feel its perfect heft. I smell it. Sweet vapors, almost as perfect as DDT or bus exhaust. Maybe even better.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. What the hell is wrong with me?

  Why am I sobbing like a girl? Where the hell did these sobs come from? I’m not doing this. No. No way, no how. Not again. These sobs aren’t mine, and neither are these white-hot tears, streaming down my cheeks. What kind of moron am I? Why am I feeling the presence of my parents so much? Or is it their absence I feel? Crap.

  Black out.

  Years later I’m told by several people who were there on November 22, 1962, that Sid Rubin put his hand on the back of my head and pushed my face into the birthday cake at that point. I’m also told that this was all captured on eight-millimeter film, and that many people have seen this silent family movie over the years.

  I have no reason to doubt these reports. But, much like someone who’s been knocked out by anesthesia for surgery, or someone who’s been shot in the head, I have no memory of any of this, whatsoever.

  I’m also told that everyone started laughing and that I, too, emerged from the cake laughing, my face smeared with frosting, like one of the Three Stooges.

  Some day, I’d love to see this film, taken with the same kind of camera that Abraham Zapruder would use exactly one year later, on November 22, 1963, to capture images of President John Kennedy’s brains being blown out in Dallas by an assassin’s perfectly aimed bullet.
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  Eight millimeter film is so reliable, so godlike. And the whirr of the projector is so comforting, such perfectly sacred background music.

  All the more reason to wish that the Chaits would have filmed the next three weeks, every single goddamned minute, in living color. I remember next to nothing, save for the most exquisite pain, and a very sudden transformation, much more surprising than the one Tony and I had undergone when we’d boarded our KLM flight in Havana seven months earlier.

  It was the burning silence again, the awesome transfiguration that reduces you to nothing, even less than nothing. The sweet flame, again, now slightly familiar, reminiscent of eternity, and of nothingness, all at once.

  Sweet death.

  This time around it took us longer to die. In Havana, it had taken only a few minutes, inside that airplane, and we’d hardly been aware of what was happening. This time, it took about three weeks. And we noticed.

  It felt the same, exactly, despite its greater slowness. Normally, three weeks can seem like a long time. Not so in this case. I remember this immolation as instantaneous, and thus only have three images left in my memory of the three weeks that followed my birthday, all fragments. Tiny, twisted shards, each a highly polished mirror full of identical, surreal images.

  I don’t remember who broke the news to me, or where, or when, but shortly after that Thanksgiving birthday party—maybe even the next day—I learn that Tony and I must leave our foster homes immediately. The long-range plan is to send us to our uncle Amado, up in Illinois, but for now, while our uncle is getting his bearings up north, we’re being moved to another foster home in Miami, run by a childless Cuban couple. It’s a way station, I’m told, a temporary arrangement.

  I bury the information deep inside, right away, and deny that this can really be happening. I don’t want to leave home. Not again.