I remember that for years she held dual membership in the Union of Young Communists (UJC) and the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC), although she enjoyed listening to banned broadcasts and wearing clothes brought from the USA, though she would cut off the tags to hide their origin. At her workplace she held the financial post at the Union Section, and with the funds she would meet the needs of her house and the moment they were deposited she would run run run, looking for the number.
She spent months waiting to be told if she was surplus and would be downsized, and they already told Lolita… get your things, your place is gone.
“But if I do the work of two for the same salary, I cover reception in emergencies and I go to the bank every day. How could I be laid off?”
“Yes, the Revolution needs it and it’s time to face the challenges.”
“And my needs, who is going to cover them? I don’t understand anything…”
She stammered as she sobbed and got ready to leave the place where she’d worked eleven years without a break, and I didn’t know where to look because I was embarrassed.
Recounting the unfortunate diatribe of the leaders of the Cuban Revolution, and so many “vivas” shouted and today they tell her she’s without work and without food.
“This is the price of subservience, and now I’m more fucked than I’ve been in 45 years, may the communists and their reforms go to hell and not drag me with them,” she finishes telling me with despair.
January 13 2011