Sunday 20 September 2009

Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

My maternal grandmother had rough hands. She had big, calloused hands that knew all about hard labour and vicissitudes. From an early age her wrists, fingers and thumbs learnt how to tame the arid land in her native Guanajay, formerly in the Pinar del Rio province, nowadays Havana.

My grandma's hands were broad with thick fingers, that's why people used to say she had 'manos de isleña' (islander's hands), a reference to those immigrants who arrived in Cuba from the Canary Islands at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth. In her case, this claim was more than justified; her own grandfather on her father's side was one of those fortune-seekers who had crossed the Atlantic looking for a better future.

My grandma's hands changed function shortly before Fidel and his troops toppled the Batista's regime in 1959. She moved to Havana with two of her daughters and began to work as a maid. No more would she be tilling the land, planting potatoes, digging her hardened hands into the soil. She would be now serving coffee in delicate china, dusting furniture brought from countries whose name she could hardly pronounce and cleaning floors until they shined.

My grandma's coarse hands' DNA was transferred to both my mother and one of my aunties. The third one would always poke fun at her sisters for having hands like a farmer. Until my mother and auntie ganged up on her. That was one of the stories my mum used to tell me when I was little. And my grandma, sitting nearby, would rub her ancient hands and give us her broad smile.

When I was five, I was diagnosed with stomach ulcer and gastritis. That was the time when my fits started. The pain would half-nelson me to the ground, and I would be kicking and screaming in agony. Not even doctors would attempt to touch me and on a few occasions I had to be restrained and anaesthesised. If I was home, my grandma would approach the bed where I was writhing in distress, and start reading me the 'Oración a Santa Bárbara' (Prayer to Santa Barbara)[1]: 'Gloriosa Santa Bárbara, a ti que puedes interceder para alcanzar la ayuda de Jesucristo, te ruego que protejas a mi nieto, y que lo ayudes para no vivir y morir separado de la gracia de Dios y de los sacramentos...' All the time, one of her chapped hands would travel around my tummy in a circular motion, smoothing the pain. With tears in my eyes, I would clasp her other hand with mine until my stomachache subsided.

My grandma was the epitome of Cuba and Cubans odd relation to religion. She had been raised a Catholic but had a shrine to the African gods in our flat. She worshipped openly except for when my auntie and her daughter, my cousin, had visitors in our house. My auntie was a member of the Communist Party whilst my cousin belonged to the Youth Communist League. One Sunday a strange man came to our house for lunch. After eating, he sat down with my auntie, my mother and my grandma to talk. Slowly he fell asleep. After a while he woke up as if he was in a trance or sleep-walking and started to speak in a weird language. My grandma, however, understood what he said and replied in his lingo. They both formed a chain with their hands and arms and since our flat was very small, the space was reduced. I got up to go to the toilet and on trying to jump over their nexus, they said that, no! no!, I had to break through it. I did so and when I returned from the bathroom the man had come out of his stupor. My grandma caressed my face with her broad hands and told me not to worry; the evil spirits would not harm me anymore. At that moment many of the reservations I had harboured for years finally found an answer: the reason for her wearing sackclothes on the 17th of each month and her disappearance from our house every 17th December[2]; the large coconut in the bottom of one of the bedside-tables in my mum and dad's bedroom - a fetish much derided by my father and located in the only dormitory in our flat - and her passion for medicinal herbs. The babalawo returned a few more times at my grandmother and later my auntie's request and he struck up a good relationship with my family.

Whenever I complained about a problem, my grandmother would say: 'Don't worry, more was lost in the war'. When I asked her to which war she was referring, her reply was short and simple: 'Any. They're all the same'.

One day my grandma happened to pass in front of our telly whilst a speech by Fidel Castro Ruz was being broadcast. She raised her two hands in fury, closing them into two tight fists: 'You're to blame', she bellowed, 'It's your bloody fault that this country is falling apart!'. My cousin admonished her severely and later that evening we all concluded that the first signs of senile dementia had appeared. Or maybe only those who are non compos mentis dare speak the truth without any fear of reprisal.

When my grandmother died in November 2000, my best friend in Cuba sent me an e-mail with the sad news. I remember printing his message off and retiring to the toilet at the far end of the corridor, away from the operations department. I recall clearly how I locked the door behind me and as I read the e-missive again, I began to slide down the wall slowly. One tear made its way across my cheeks and dampened my upper lip whilst my other eye withheld its outpouring of grief for just another second before giving in to the might of my lacrimal glands. I re-read the message many times until the language made sense no more. I cried silently first and in big sobs afterwards. I cried in the way Oliverio Girondo describes weeping in his immortal poem 'Llorar a Lagrima Viva': 'Llorar a lágrima viva. Llorar a chorros. Llorar la digestión. Llorar el sueño. Llorar ante las puertas y los puertos. Llorar de amabilidad y de amarillo. Abrir las canillas, las compuertas del llanto. Empaparnos el alma, la camiseta. Inundar las veredas y los paseos, y salvarnos, a nado, de nuestro llanto...' I cried because I had made my grandmother's life very difficult in her last years. I could not understand her illness, or rather I chose not to. And now, I could not turn back the big and unforgiving wheel of Time. I cried because I would miss her hearty laugh, the one she displayed everytime my family came to visit and asked to be served her speciality, "pollo arrebata'o"(fried chicken in a rush). But above all, I cried, because I would not be able to feel the soft touch of my grandma's rough hands again.




Copyright 2009

[1] Santa Bárbara is one of the most worshipped saints in Cuba. It is commonly found in most houses, together with its Yoruba counterpart, Shango. It is celebrated on 4th December when most followers dress in red and white or just plain red, the colours that symbolise this Catholic/Yoruba deity/orisha.

[2] St Lazarus is another saint widely worshipped in Cuba. Its Yoruba equivalent is Babalu Aye and both the Catholic deity and the African orisha are usually depicted on crutches and with one or two dogs licking his wounds. On 17th December every year, followers of this deity/orisha make a pilgrimage to its sanctuary, El Rincón, outside Havana, wearing sackclothes.

Next Post: 'What Makes a Goood Writer?', to be published on Tuesday 22nd September at 11:59pm (GMT)

35 comments:

  1. Hi Mr C

    This is a wonderful recollection of your childhood and your beloved Grandmother - with the rough hands... I was hooked on every word...and all the while I imagined the hands of my M in L who loved hard work, gardening and caring for others, and who's hands were broad and masculine in shape until the day I saw her at peace in her coffin and those hands had become the hands of an angel...

    Thank you for this moving and educational tale from your past...

    Happy days

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  2. Si, Bill Whiters é l'artista perfetto per una domenica mattina. E questo song mi piace molto! Anche se il preferito tra i suoi brani per mé é sempre Ain't no Sunshine!

    Saluti da Colonia,
    Salva :)

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  3. M'ijo, you left me in tears. I could feel your pain when you received that e-mail about your dear abuela, especially after learning more about the kind of woman she was and what she meant to you. (I love the part where she caressed your face and told you the evil spirits wouldn't bother you anymore.)

    She was a lot like my grandmother, only mine's santo was St. Lazarus. She always had a (smoking) tabaco and a shot of rum at his feet.

    Your story depicts the Cuban culture beautifully. Thank you for sharing it.

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  4. oh my, i held my breath as i read on and when i heard the song ,it made it even more powerful-i do hope you are pursuing, as i have said before, your own book ....i believe it would be a gift to many to share in your memories! have a super day!salut du midi

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  5. I am starting to look forward to these Sunday morning music videos. The make blogging most interesting and I do enjoy them.

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  6. Thanks for yor kind comments. My grandma was a warrior. She had the misfortune to see one of her daughhters die of cancer and that probably accelerated her senile dementia. She also had two of her nephews in Angola, fighting that unnecessary war. When she talked about war she never smiled. She hated it.

    Just a reminder of Aziza Mustafa Zadeh's concert tonight at Cadogan Hall, 5 Sloane Terrace, London, SWEX 9DQ. If you're in the British capital this is a must-see gig.

    Hope to catch some of you there tonight.

    Greetings from London.

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  7. Your words and grandmother - beautiful and strong. I am so touched by your story of her, so many parallels to my own grandmother. The earthiness, the magic... we are so lucky to have experienced this old world. Don't forget it, we can't, we are who we are because of them. My grandmother's family came to the U.S. by ship from Spain, around the horn to Hawaii, then CA. worked the fields and canned - went where the work was...and her hands, by the end of her life were gnarled... I stopped breathing when I was a baby and she breathed life back into me. This is why I connect with your story too ...

    ... and the song - just right.

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  8. I have just come across your delightful blog and the story of your much loved Grandma, stirred my heart. I loved the reference to her hard-worked hands, knowing only to well how hands once pretty, can age so easily with hard work. Still as a kind man insisted once to me, "they may not be the prettiest hands but for sure they are capable. Your Grandma with her wonderful hands soothed your tummy and eased your mind - I know what I would always choose. Pretty hands do not last, but the memory of her will. I wonder what she would think of this lovely piece-that is now on the world-wide web-about her! I shall love to visit here again. Thank you.

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  9. Hola Cuban,
    A nice recollection to make a marvelous sunday reading.a beautiful recollection, it reminds me of my own grandma.
    Greetings from Tanzania

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  10. Well, the others have all said it, but I'll say it again ... thanks for a beautiful and well-written account that weaves family history together with national culture. I now feel a tiny, a very tiny bit educated about Cuba.

    And the big question ... did the ritual work to stop your stomache pain?

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  11. And was the language the man spoke an African language, or a "secret" or ritual language?

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  12. What a beautiful homage to this great lady. Thank you.

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  13. What a touching story. So glad I discovered your blog!
    I read the story with a pang of jealousy because I never had a grandmother to comfort me.
    The music brought tears to my eyes...

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  14. Beautiful connections between your grandmother, the history and healing. Thanks you so much for telling me about Eleggua and sharing that connection too.
    So interesting that he(?) too was a healer.
    Happy International Peace Day!

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  15. Many thanks for your kind comments. Jen, the ritual did not stop the pain but my grandma's caresses did. Sometimes it's the best medicine is love and affection. The secret language was Yoruba, which is rather spoken by milliosn across the African diaspora. In Cuba we have been influenced greatly by the Yorubas, the Bantus, the Ewes and the Efik and Efok peoples.

    Greetings from London.

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  16. What a lovely and touching tribute...and walk down your family memory lanes.

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  17. This brought tears to my eyes. I love Bill Withers and this post. I was also very close to my grandmother. I'll always miss her presence although she makes herself known whenever I do something that she strongly disapproves of, but that's another story. I didn't know that Yoruba was still spoken in Cuba. I know Yoruba rituals and customs remain strong. I will go see Alex Cuba next week. He has so many Santeria songs on his CD that I can't always listen, the energy is so strong. He even has an image of his elekes (Eleugga) on the back of his CD.

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  18. Que lindo, como me as tocado el corazon.

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  19. I can not help but think of my Russian Grandmother, how can it be that she was so like your Grandma? A healer also. Broad hands too, I wear her wedding band, way too large, guard it from falling off with my own band. Hers is for my good luck. Perfect piece, my friend..and the music too...

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  20. You write beautifully. Thank goodness for the sweet memories left behind by our loved ones. Also, thank you for your kind words. Hope you will visit me again soon.

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  21. What a story !! My english is not "strong" enough to explain to you how I find your words... familiar - in an other part of the world I grex up with similar facts in my family... With a grandma with rough hands and another grandma who was a fortune teller... I think you are fine now !

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  22. what a lovely well crafted piece of writing... I love the way the hands are woven throughout shaping the whole piece... my grandmother was initially a servant too, and then during the war she worked at the Woolwich Arsenal munitions factory making bombs and weapons for war... her hands tell a story too... greetings from Mexico...

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  23. Hello londoner, I wanted to congratulate you for you beautifull text, I like a lot how you talk about your mother, I feel kind of identified, maybe becasue I am a latin person as well. But anyway the text it is excelent, is really nice to be read.

    Thanks
    M

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  24. Some fascinating pages of family history there, which you have wonderfully brought to life, a quite fabulous read.

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  25. Many thanks to you all for your kind words.

    Fly Girl, the Yoruba spoken chiefly in Cuba, Brazil, Puerto Rico, Venezuela and Colombia was the one passed down from generation to generation orally in West Africa, mainly in Nigeria and Benin. That was before the Brits colonised Nigeria and Yoruba adopted its modern form.

    Greetings from London.

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  26. So beautiful and deeply moving my brother,

    There is something profound in touch which can never be understood by the noise of our world...

    We need to rediscover its power... To return to the home of our Grandmothers embrace.

    Peace and love to you my friend, my brother.

    M

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  27. Sometimes the most touching stories are the ones we lived. Thank you for sharing!

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  28. I so loved reading this, dear Cuban...wow...oh yes your grandma was indeed a warrior and a beautiful and grand lady!
    thank you for sharing something so personal...
    a big hug to you

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  29. Dear Cuban,
    I connect to the story from the very beginning. I have a special grandma too, who taught me how to dance when I was just a child. Every time my grandma felt that I was a little sad or felling down, she would put the music on and she would dance with me. Remedio santo!

    Saludos,

    Maylin

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  30. Mi abuela sigue en la Habana Cuban,
    pero ya víctima del alzheimer, lo último coherente que me dijo fue, "mira a luna, que yo la estoy mirando".
    Aquello lo recuerdo siempre, como olvidarlo si es que la única muerte que existe es la del olvido.
    Un abrazo de tu brother tony

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  31. Cuban, chama, apretaste! Me has dejado llorando por anticipacion. Tu abuela es casi el retrato de la mia. Mi viejuca aun esta viva pero tiene 81. Sobrevio al cancer de tiroides hace mas de 20 y también a la muerte de su amadisimo hijo menor a causa de un cancer. Como a la tuya, eso nos la mato en vida. Con eso de leer mensajes que nos traen en la distancia esa clase de noticias también tengo amargas experiencias en este exilio de terciopelo. Debe ser por lo que pone Tony aqui arriba sobre el olvido que yo siento tan cerca de mi a los que ya no estan... Gracias por compartir estas memorias. Abrazo.

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  32. Many thanks, muchas gracias, for your kind feedback.

    Greetings from London.

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  33. One of the things I missed most (from my blog break) was reading your writing.

    This piece resonates.

    Simply beautiful.

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  34. Many thanks, diva. It's nice to have you back.

    Greetings from London.

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  35. Piel sensible.
    Love expressed through coarsened skin.
    Sabiduría.

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