A History of Violets

I was born in Cuba. I left Cuba at the age of 5, a decision my parents made for many reasons, but they endured ridicule from family members, years of forced labor, my mom worked in a marble factory, and my dad worked in the cane fields for a pittance, 3 weeks out of the month in Camaguey, hours away in train from my house. For the first 3 years of my life, I didn't know my dad much at all, he was Papa Julio to me, which I couldn't say, so I shortened it to Pipo.

We lived in Havana, in a small house in a suburb nearbye, famed charanga singer Beny More lived around the corner, or so I've been told where he staggered drunkenly out of his Cadillac, barely able to walk although he had driven home in style and panache, and when we left for Miami when I was 5, I was left with the memory of my cousin Carlos, the cigarette butt that I tasted on a dare, the homebuilt kites for my birthday, the cart races down the hill behind my house, and the dance lessons from our neighbor, black shoe prints on the floor, all would be lost to me if we hadn't left my grandfather. When the rest of us left that morning on November 15, 1971, his papers mysteriously needed reauthorization, he stayed behind more as a punishment for his outspoken criticism of the government. I was 5 the next day. He came a month later, but every blade of grass and every palm tree were ingrained in my mind. I can't remember high school, but I remember Cuba from 30 years ago.

My grandfather's name is Pancho Lopez, nobody called him Francisco, he wouldn't let them, and it was his pleasure to make your life easier for having met him. He wasn't a saint, no one is in this life, but he is the greatest man I have ever known. He couldn't teach me to throw a baseball, he couldn't help me with my homework, but he taught me to drive, he taught me that life was better in the service of your family. He taught me to be skeptical, that learning never stopped even if you're bed ridden an covered in sores, your memory fleating from the Alzheimer's that had taken away his anchor, and that his heart though failing itself, wouldn't let him forget my name.

I know this sounds like a eulogy, and one day soon I might need to read this again when it happens, but I'd rather write this now when I can still hold his hand and thank him. To me my Grandpa will always be Papi.