By Maria de las Mercedes Rodriguez Puzo
“You can live many lives. Each one is a different life.” Perhaps that phrase sounds familiar to you. It belongs to Tokyo, a character from the Spanish series “La Casa de Papel,” known on English-language Netflix as “Money Heist.” Since I heard it, in the wonderful performance by Ursula Corbero, it has stayed with me.
Today, I am 36 years old and I feel like an old soul, like someone who has experienced different realities, different lives. I suppose no one escapes the dialectic: “Everything is in constant change, in constant motion.”
In November 2017, Robyn Ochs offered me the opportunity to write in this space for the first time. My article was titled “Around the World: Media Silence About Bisexual Women in Cuba.” At that time, I lived in Santiago de Cuba, a musical, bustling, and hot city in eastern Cuba. That Maria dreamed of transforming everything that was wrong around her. “Be the change you want to see in the world,” I would repeat to myself, not knowing whether Mahatma Gandhi actually said it, or not.
For me, Cuba is completely dysfunctional: economically, politically, and socially. The country is an abyss, a dark place where Vecna reigns, only this Vecna has been in power for more than 65 years under the guise of free education and healthcare. This abyss is called the Cuban Revolution, the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC), the dictatorship of the Castro Ruz family and their puppet Díaz-Canel. The system oppresses everyone in one way or another; even those who defend and support it suffer. All power is centralized under the PCC, and public services are completely subsidized by the state, which manages an unproductive and depressed economy.
The Cuban reality can be summarized as: a lack of freedoms, the absence of the rule of law, as censorship, shortages, lack of basic necessities such as soap and shampoo, low wages and exorbitant market prices, power outages lasting more than 12 hours a day, dilapidated hospitals and schools, professionals abandoning their careers to work in restaurants and hotels, and mass migration to other countries.
Living there, I felt completely oppressed. I had studied journalism, but my degree was invalidated in 2021, and I couldn’t practice my profession. In Cuba, the mass media belongs to the State and is controlled by the Ideological Department of the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC). I was seen as an opponent, I was under constant surveillance, and I suffered threats from Rober Noa Frómeta, a PCC official.
I was also affected by a social ill: the intrusion of others into one’s personal life. Observing others and spreading gossip is a common practice among many Cubans. This problem probably originates in politics, when the dictator Fidel Castro Ruz created the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDRs) on September 28, 1960. “We are going to establish a system of collective vigilance, we are going to establish a system of collective revolutionary vigilance…so that everyone knows what their neighbor thinks, what their neighbor does,” Fidel declared, and the crowd supported him.
One day I was relaxing at home, watching the video of the song, “Take Me to Church” by Hozier. A neighbor came to use my phone, stood behind me, and watched the video. Then they insulted me, starting to yell insults at me for watching a video of two men kissing. Other neighbors would come into the house and criticize me for wearing my hair in a natural afro style, saying I didn’t comb my hair. Not even in my own home did I have the right to be myself.
Most members of the LGBTQ+ community in Cuba have experienced similar situations; there is constant social criticism and judgment of sexual behavior. Bisexual women, in particular, face collective ridicule, a subtle form of bullying disguised as jokes and humorous phrases: “It’s all the same to her whether she plays or sits on the bench,” “Today bread with bread, and tomorrow bread with sausage,” among others. These words are seemingly harmless, but deeply hurtful. Fortunately, since 2016, with the expansion of the internet and mass emigration, a more open-minded attitude has emerged, especially among younger generations.
Despite my circumstances, I remained committed to non-violent activism. I became involved in projects that sought change from within civil society: the Las Isabelas Women’s Group, the Christian Student Movement, the Ecumenical Faith for Cuba Network, the Loyola Center of Santiago de Cuba, and the Lavastida Center. From 2012 to 2019, during all the natural disasters that struck the island, I was there, supporting the victims with donations, music, and community activities. I led workshops on LGBTQ+ awareness and visibility, gender-based violence, and women’s and community empowerment; I participated in marches against homophobia.
I also made my voice heard academically: I dedicated my master’s thesis to researching representations of the LGBTQ+ community on Santiago de Cuba radio. I found censorship, communication gaps, and vague studies, and I exposed them in several publications. At that time, I felt the need to speak out, to act, to raise my voice. I resisted as long as I could until the time came to choose between my life and freedom, or Cuba. The United States of America allowed me to enter and apply for asylum in July 2019.
I was reborn here; I’ve been here for almost seven years, and the culture shock has been so strong that it still affects me. I’m still discovering new things about the system and I’m pleasantly surprised. For example, I recently had a wonderful experience: I visited Dress for Success, an organization that helps women seeking employment by offering professional clothing and job empowerment courses. When I arrived, the saleswomen were elegant and kind white American women. They helped me choose the best clothes according to my style and personality. They brought me several options and diligently searched for my size. I went home with eight fine pieces of clothing and a new pair of shoes, all free. On top of that, they gave me a beautiful card with $20 for transportation expenses. So I ask the Cuban Communist Party: why did you make me believe for 30 years that I would be hated in the United States?
Since my arrival, I have lived in Houston, Texas, a multicultural city with a large Latino population. I have never felt discriminated against for being of African descent, Latina, or because of my sexual orientation. Am I free? Yes, completely. I can choose whether I like cow’s milk, oat milk, soy milk, almond milk, or rice milk. I can choose to wear my hair naturally or get a keratin treatment. I can choose the car brand to buy, according to my financial means; if I want more, I have to work more. I can marry a man, a woman, or even myself. As long as I pay T-Mobile, I have unlimited internet access. I can choose to be a Republican or a Democrat, a vegan or a carnivore, an environmentalist or a wasteful consumer of electricity. I can stand and protest in front of the White House against the President. I can write to a Senator to complain, I can write to the newspapers, I can express my ideology on social media. I can travel within and outside the country.
My neighbors are super friendly; we exchange polite greetings when we see each other on the street, and none of them meddle in my life. They probably don’t even know my name, and I LOVE IT. At work, no one has ever asked me if I have a husband or if I’m married. Here, people respect privacy and personal space. Everyone minds their own business. I’ve been working as a social worker for almost four years now—without a North American university degree. I help immigrants with their social integration, and I always tell them that arriving here is like being reborn. “Patience: the baby first crawls, then takes small steps, walks steadily, and finally runs; it’s one step at a time.”
The United States of America means freedom to me, but unfortunately incidents like the homicide of the Ukrainian refugee Iryna Zarutska and the current targeting of black and brown people by ICE, are transforming the meaning of freedom, safety, and democracy. In my neighborhood, we are all Latin, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Afghani. I cross the city every day and I have never seen any ICE operation. So, personally I can’t say I have been directly impacted.
I do know several people in the Latino community who have been detained and deported to Cuba, Honduras, and Peru without the right to a fair process. None of them have criminal records, and all have open asylum cases with EOIR and USCIS. They were doing everything according to the law. They were hard- working people. Also, there are many people coming back to our home countries by their own decision. They made enough money to return and open a business. Returning to Cuba, in my case, is not an option.
Strangely, Cuban politics and reality no longer affect me as much. I’ve discovered that no one can live in two countries or two time periods at once. I could live in the past and wear myself out fighting a battle I no longer belong to, or I can focus on my present, on my bills to pay, and the dreams this new country allows me to have. I choose this different life, but it’s mine. Which life do you choose?
Maria de las Mercedes Rodriguez Puzo is a Cuban ex-journalist and current social worker. She is Houstonian through adoption.