A Private Family Matter: A Memoir - Softcover

The multitude of palm trees of various forms, the highest and most beautiful I have ever met with, and an infinity of great and green trees; the birds in rich plumage and the verdure of the fields; render this country, most serene princes, of such marvellous beauty that it surpasses all others in charms and graces as the day doth the night in lustre. I have been so overwhelmed at the sight of so much beauty that I have not known how to relate it.

-- Christopher Columbus, on Cuba,

to King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, 1492

Olga Angelica Lopez Ibarra was born prematurely on September 21, 1929, at 3 P.M. in a hospital in Havana. She was the size of a small Coca-Cola bottle, all of four pounds. With no neonatal units or incubators to nurture her into life, she began her existence much as she would live it -- in struggle.

My mother, to me, was the embodiment of Cuba. She was a natural beauty, dark, exotic, proud, intelligent, opinionated, ironic with a sense of tragicomedy, but unspoiled; then later, like our island itself, conquered, exploited, oppressed. My father did his best to obliterate her; he broke her into many pieces, but she refused to be completely vanquished. She had native and Spaniard coloring but was a mix of other ethnicities, like Cuba, my homeland. Many of her memories and experiences were passed on in my cells, my DNA, or were told in fragments over the years, usually with her back to me as she bent over our various kitchen counters preparing countless numbers of meals, often, if Papi wasn't around, while her beloved Cuban music played on scratchy records or obscure radio stations.

In public, my mother danced with an abandon and joy -- whether slow or fast, son or mambo -- that seemed to belong to someone else, but at home she wasn't allowed to dance, as though it might rouse her to counterrevolution against Papi. But music or not, she moved with a sensual grace to some internal Cuban beat, its core from African culture, with the rhythm of the claves -- two thick wooden sticks about a foot long -- keeping time.

My mother had another distinctive quality that she kept secret. She had the gift of sight. She could read omens and feel the presence of ghosts. Her energy produced heat and caused still water left in drinking glasses to bubble up as in a boiling cauldron. She had innate healing powers that, had she been free to direct her own destiny, might have led her to become a licensed medical professional. These powers may have been strengthened in her earliest days when she struggled between life and death, "all eyes and hair" as her parents described her at birth.

Pero con el ayudo de Dios -- but with the help of God (Mami's favorite phrase) -- baby Olga survived and was soon allowed to go home. Her father, a handsome, stern policeman by the name of Jose Manuel Lopez -- known as Manolo -- carried his firstborn out of the hospital in one of the oversized pockets of his suit jacket. In their modest home, her mother, Eladia Ibarra, a pretty young seamstress, sewed garments smaller than doll clothes to fit tiny Olga.

Other struggles ensued. Less than a month after she was born, the Wall Street crash plummeted Cuba into its worst economic crisis up until that time. Four years later, a second child, Carmita, was born to the Lopez family, just as the country teetered on civil war. In the atmosphere of uncertainty, President Gerardo Machado resigned before boarding a plane to Miami, and a youthful army sergeant named Fulgencio Batista took control of the island nation.

Despite her family's relative poverty and the national instability, love and protection were in abundance at home, such that Olga remembered her childhood as simple and quiet. She never thought of herself as a great beauty, she would say, but admitted later, "I had a certain look and knew how to win people over." Was she too modest? "Well, they used to tell me that I was friendly and funny. Perhaps, due to my good nature, I was showered with happy moments."

That charm, that positive, attractive energy drew her many suitors. After her diminutive start in life, she grew surprisingly tall -- five foot six, taller than most Cuban girls of her generation; and with her milk-chocolate-colored eyes, thick long lashes, and a mane of wavy black hair, Olga Lopez, struggles notwithstanding, had the sparkle of one fated to be lucky in love. But then, through an unlucky series of circumstances, she met Antonio Rivas. Her gift of sight apparently fled her. For the rest of her days, Olga could not for the life of her recall what she had seen in him.

Nor could she fathom why she had recently broken off her engagement to Artemio, the true love of her life. Maybe it was partly because she had been only twelve years old when they met on the Havana city bus that she took to school (where her adored English teacher was Miss Amelie, who, as it so happened, went on to have a son named Andres, later to become famous as the actor Andy Garcia).

Aside from the fact that Artemio was nine years older and worked as a bus driver, he had qualities Olga liked. He was dark-haired, six feet tall, with a stylish thick mustache and a wonderful smile. Even though she was too young for suitors, he was a gentleman and very persistent, eventually earning her parents' permission to take her on chaperoned dates. They made a striking couple, everyone agreed. With her gentle but hawk-eyed mother at their side, Olga and her beau experienced the glittering, glamorous Havana nightlife of the late 1940s. Though she was only the daughter of a civil servant, and he was but a humble bus driver, they were the most popular couple on the dance floor. With his rich singing voice, Artemio also made her feel special when, on occasion, he was asked to join the orchestra to sing and dedicated his crooning to her.

The plan was for them to be married once Olga completed the teaching program in which she enrolled after graduating from high school with honors. This career path was not entirely of her choosing. When she had told Manolo that she intended to become a nurse, her father had said, "Absolutely not." A good man and a protective father, he was of the old-fashioned mind-set that nursing was not a respectable profession for an unmarried young lady. Why? "Because," he insisted, "doctors carry on affairs with their nurses, ruining their reputations."

Engaged to marry Artemio, in accordance with Manolo's wishes, she pursued her teaching curriculum, but without her father's knowledge and consent, she enrolled in nursing school at the same time. For three years, on top of her demanding studies to become a teacher, Olga secretly worked as a nurse's aide at a local hospital that treated police officers.

In her circle of friends, there was a general attitude that fine, educated young ladies ought to seek marriage above their station in life. At first, this did nothing to mar her feelings for Artemio, who had patiently, attentively watched her blossom from adolescence to womanhood, remaining respectful of her innocence all the while. Olga's friends agreed he was handsome and polite, but pointed out other concerns. Money and social status mattered, as did a prospective groom's family name, despite what the love songs said. In fact, in America front-page headlines blamed the escalating divorce rate on crooners who made romantic love seem so simple, when, as everyone with any sense knew, marriage was work, hard work.

Olga couldn't keep these notions out of her head. With what looked to be a life full of promise ahead of her, she broke off her engagement. The towels had already been monogrammed.

Only later did she come to regret ending her relationship with Artemio as the second worst decision of her life.

Meanwhile, after graduating with her teaching degree, Olga was preoccupied by an unexpected set of adventures and challenges that had come her way. Though she had assumed her first assignment would be in a school in Havana, she was instructed to pack her bags, as her job would be taking her out to classrooms across Cuba, in the underserved countryside. Almost like a young missionary, sometimes traveling on her own, she subsequently saw her island as few did, visiting every province of the land that lay beyond Havana -- Baracoa, Santiago, Bayamo, Camagüey, Trinidad, and Sancti Spíritus. No doubt this turn of events worried her father, but she assured him that wherever she went, she was well treated.

Senorita Lopez taught students from all walks of life -- from the families of wealthy ranchers and from the poorest of peasant families. She marveled at those who had little or nothing but managed to be very generous with whatever they did have. As she taught, she was also learning -- picking up, for example, some of the folk medicine and healing rituals of Santeria, the white magic that combined African and native Caribbean spiritual beliefs, in addition to food recipes from the different regions.

Manolo had been a mess chef in the military and had taught both of his daughters to cook at an early age. By the time she was nine years old, Olga had been cooking most meals for her family. Now added to her repertoire were recipes she collected as she traveled across the countryside, yielding her versions of traditional Cuban dishes like arroz con pollo and lechón that were arguably among the best ever tasted, and eclectic creations without rival -- like her Cuban fried rice, inspired by descendants of the Chinese traders who had once come to the island expecting to pass through but could never bring themselves to leave.

For a young woman who had been so sheltered, Olga Lopez became unusually independent -- traveling in various modes of transportation not limited to boats, trains, and buses, but sometimes by coche (horse-drawn buggy) or even on the backs of horses and mules. She had many occasions to be fearful but managed to survive the ordeals of travel, until one of her assignments took her out into the countryside at night and she was ca...