Borderlands

When I remember Cuba, I think of escape.

This morning I read a poetry prompt about place. The reader is invited to think of a place where something happened.

I thought of listening to Wyclef Jean on the roof of my semester-long home in Havana.

During that semester, the students in my study abroad program and I converted a University Hotel in the Vedado section of La Habana to a dorm. The second story was our haven from the incessant hisses and invitations endemic to walking the streets of La Habana. Though I think many of my classmates were less troubled by the quick intimacy of Cuban relationships than myself.

I was hiding.

I spent hours in my room watching CNN. The first month of our semester abroad the World Trade Centers dropped after the plane crashes. I saw the footage looped from my urban tropical dorm room. When I truly drove my roommate nuts, I went up to the roof. Three stories above our neighbors playing dominoes on over-turned milk crates. Three blocks uphill from El Malecon, the crumbling wall holding the Caribbean Sea at bay.

One night, my roommate and I wandered down to the always populated Malecon. We stood on the lip of the wall. It was one am, which I guess must have been high tide. The waves crashed against the wall and steamed the tops of our heads. My roommate, Kieu, was from LA. She was used to late night visits with big water.

During the day I sometimes took runs along El Malecon. I put headphones on to try to deter the inevitable friendships of walking the streets of La Habana. It rarely worked. I would try to out-run those who wanted to talk to me.

Back home, a family I didn't know how to be a part of, a relationship that had been long-dead. The embargo kept so much at bay.

I walked up to the roof at night, felt balmy sea breezes, watched life lived stories below, and listened to my walkman.

I guess the thing that happened was I became accustomed to life without them. The whole world changed that semester. When I landed in Newark that winter, American flags dangled from every conceivable surface. Patriotism hung in the air in equal parts fearful and aggressive.

Soon after my arrival, we both conceded the relationship was long gone. We made our peace while I was out of range for phone calls and emails. When I got back to the States I moved out, left college, and cut ties.

On the rooftop in Havana, I made peace with life on my own terms.