Gao Is Calling
- Isabella Romeu
- Dec 22, 2022
- 9 min read
Para mi familia, Rosa María Payá, y mi Cuba bella
White Wicker Chair
When you are alone in your gao, you sit atop the white wicker chair in la sala. You swing your legs over the left armrest, nestle yourself in the corner of your seat, and stare mindlessly out the window. Today it is raining. Tap. Tap. Tap. You watch. You listen. You observe for a while as your tired body sinks into the white wicker chair in la sala. The chipped cane webbing grabs your skin, clings onto it, and does not let go. It is a comforting sensation.
You are alone.
The rain plinks against the windowpane. You look out at the sodden earth as you begin to doze off. You close your eyes to be met with nothing. You like this feeling, yes. As you throw your head back, blood flows to the top. You become lightheaded. You like this feeling, yes. You stop thinking. There is nothing to think about. You like this feeling, yes.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
You jolt your head up. It hurts. You hold your phone in your right hand. Your free hand brushes through your hair. An inherited habit. You see a red bubble encasing the number three, WhatsApp notifications. You hesitantly open the app and swipe to the unread conversation from +53 XXX-XXX-XXXX.
You read.
Tenemos hambre.
Manda dinero, plis.
Te extranamos mas todo los dias.
The rain continues its pitter-patter. You rock yourself in the white wicker chair in la sala. The emptiness of your gao surrounds you.
You are no longer alone.
Unexpected Company
You feel trapped in this godforsaken bedroom. In their godforsaken bedroom. In Mami and Papi’s godforsaken bedroom. Except it was not godforsaken when they laid in the same bed you lay in at this very moment. You run your fingers through your tousled hair. When you reach the end of the section, you rub the strands together. It is painfully quiet. The usual hum of the air conditioner has ceased. You turned it off like you always do when dawn turns to dusk because you do not dare push the limits of such an old electric machine. You know purchasing a new one is out of your budget.
You sprawl your limbs in an attempt to cover as much of the mattress’s surface area as possible. And while physically it appears fuller, it is still as empty as it was before you assumed the starfish position. The voice in your head tries to keep you company.
“Do not absorb the world,” she advises.
“Do not carry what does not belong to you,” she adds.
The whispers of the wind break the night’s silence. It travels through the palm trees, circles around their bark, and crawls across their fronds, even the dead ones. The pale crescent moon reveals a crevice in your window.
You have become so disconcerted with life that you do not feel the wind tickling your ear. Your nightshirt ripples at the sensation of cool air blowing down your spine. The wind bundles you in a brisk blanket, and you snuggle into it. You have not felt this close to something, someone, in so long. You shiver. It is your way of saying thank you.
The wind spoons your body as your breathing slows down. Your lips part, and drool begins to drip down to your chin. Except it is not drool. It is Santa Clara’s water that Reinaldo has just splashed at you. He shakily raises his pointer finger, laughing at how ridiculous you look when drenched. You scrunch your nose at him, signaling that you are not amused.
But you are.
Maybe then you were not. But now you are. You only begin to appreciate these moments now that they are gone.
Ping.
¡Hasta mañana! No te quiero presionar, pero necesitamos medicina. Pipo está enfermo. Lo llevamos al médico, pero lo que le prescribieron no lo hay aquí en Cuba. Se llama Guizazo de Caballo y Chancapiedra. Mira ver si lo tienen en esa Farmacia Bellamar que tú mencionaste el otro día. Te quiero mucho. Que duermas bien.
You will.
Necessary Spendings
CHECKING …4280
$264.10
Available balance
Overview
Recent transactions
Posting Date
11/07
WESTERN UNION $100.00
ZELLE TO VEGA GALINDO ON 11/07 REF #RP9QFTH8LP4 $40.00
PURCHASE FARMACIA BELLAMAR $11.38
See all transactions
Alive
You drag your overworked body inside. With each passing day, the resentment you hold toward your unfulfilling job increases exponentially. You long for nothing more than to never again be encased in an off-white cubicle. But this job pays well, and you need the money. They need the money.
You step out of your worn shoes. Kick them to the side. Release your pent-up stress on those beat New Balances. No, don’t do that. Damaging them any further won’t do you any good. Pick them up and gently place them on the metal shoe rack. Yes, do that.
Did.
You cautiously walk to the staircase and grasp the wooden banister. You are afraid your thin socks will turn against you, letting you slip and fall on the hard tile. You lightly tread up the flight, pidiéndole permiso a un pie para mover el otro, as Mami used to say.
The staircase only has 20 steps, and yet it seems like an impossible feat for the present you. Past you would climb these stairs with ease, and perhaps future you will once more feel the joy that used to come from scaling such a flight. But for the time being, you detest the steepness of this staircase. You sigh. A sign of life. It is the most agonizing sound you have heard all day. But at least you are alive.
What does it mean to be alive?
Sure, your lungs are contracting, and your heart is pumping blood through your veins.
But are you really alive?
You contemplate this for a while
Memorabilia
It is Sunday.
Cleaning day. You grab the half-empty bottle of Windex and douse Papi’s portrait in the solution. The blue liquid drips onto his face; he looks like he is crying. He is not. Papi was a strong man. You miss him. You feel yourself starting to smile.
Stop that.
Coge fuerza. Agarra el trapo. Limpia la foto. No la mires. Cierra los ojos.
The portrait is an emblem of what is lost. Papi lost. You start to remember him brushing through your hair. Your eyes swell, and a headache begins to form at your temples.
Ping.
¿Estás allí?
You are not. You are someplace else. You are running through Varadero with Papi, his hand clasping yours. The air is humid, your sweat sticks to your skin, and your breath is hot. The wind blows sand grains at you as you wade through the warm water. Papi brushes through your hair. It hurts. His fingers get caught in the tangles. But you like it. You like your memory. It is a beautiful place. You were there.
The headache fades into nothingness, and the tears never properly form. You take el trapo and gently rub it against the glass that protects Papi’s face. You miss him. You feel yourself starting to smile.
Do not stop that.
Ping.
¿Aló? ¿Cogisteis mis mensajes? Estamos en crisis.
Yes, you did. Yes, you know.
Purse Essentials
Hand Sanitizer
Blue pen
Aspirin
Lip gloss
Tampons
Pack of gum
Wallet
Roll-on perfume
Band-Aids
Passport
Where are you planning to go?
Gao?
No. Esto es el gao.
Gao is an interesting word.
It is a noun. You know that much. But is it a place or an idea?
You miss picking mangoes from Mima and Pipo’s backyard in Pinar del Río. You miss Mami and Papi picking you up from ballet class in La Habana, pointe shoes still wrapped tightly around your ankles. You miss finding caracoles with Reinaldo.
Gao is an idea you conclude for today.
Three Unread Texts
Ping.
Hola, mi querida hermana. ¿Cómo estás? Te hemos escrito, pero no has respondido. ¿Todo está bien por allá? Las cosas se están poniendo dura aquí en la isla. No tenemos recursos médicos. No hay comida. Hay gente muriendo y el gobierno no le importa. El pueblo está cansado de estar aguantando. Nuestra gente está protestando. ¿Lo viste en la tele?
Ping.
Manda dinero, por favor. El refrigerador está vacío. Escríbame pronto plis. No me queda mucha data en el teléfono.
Ping.
Te quiero mucho.
Save Our Souls
You lower your body onto the white wicker chair, café con leche in hand, and allow its cane webbing to hug you again. You sit there for a moment and gaze out the window before turning on la tele. It is sunny today. The remote is heavy in your empty hand. You struggle to click through the channels. Snippets of each show present themselves. That is all you allow. Snippets. You do not care about them. You continue to browse.
Channel 10.
S.O.S. Cuba: Cuban citizens take to the streets after government fails to protect its people from pandemic-related issues.
You lean forward in your white wicker chair, the detached cane webbing prodding at your skin. The sun’s heat scrapes your cheek. But this does not bother you. The Cuban government bothers you. You continue to listen.
Channel 10.
Hundreds of Cubans have been placed in detention centers awaiting trial due to their involvement in the November 11th protests. Despite this, the islanders have planned another protest on November 15th to call on their government to hear their aspirations for a better future.
You think about the text message your brother sent you a few days ago. As you rock yourself in the white wicker chair, you take a sip of your café con leche. It is bitter today. Today is bitter.
Channel 10.
Miami protest planned for November 15th.
You make a mental note.
Take to the Streets
In the AM
You tap your left foot as you wait to be called by the desk attendant. It is cold in Publix. You pull your cardigan over your chest and snuggly wrap the knitted piece of cloth around your torso. You have never been to this Publix branch of the Western Union. Your usual one had too many customers.
Adelante.
Hola, quiero mandar dinero a Cuba.
¿Cuánto?
Trescientos dólares.
¿Y para quién es?
Reinaldo Isaías.
¿Teléfono?
+53 XXX-XXX-XXXX.
Lista.
Your transaction is complete. You make your way to the coffee aisle and pick up a pack of Café la Llave. The cashier hands you your receipt once you checkout.
Keep the Receipt
Publix
Flagler Park Plaza
8341 W Flagler St
Miami, FL 33144
Café la Llave 3.19
Subtotal 3.19
Sales Tax: 0.22
Grand Total: 3.41
Thank you for choosing Publix, where shopping is a pleasure.
8:38 AM
11/15/21
Collision
Bodies collide, and your clothes collect their sweat. You hold your sign up as high as you possibly can. Can he she they see it? I hope he she they you see it. The group moves in synchronicity down I-95, chanting Patria y Vida down the faded road. Cars beep at us in anger; their drivers are late to work. We do not care.
We are surrounded by cameras, microphones, and inquisitive journalists who prod at our souls and sorrows for the sake of their story. You are overwhelmed. It is beginning to feel hot. Your clothes cannot hold your sweat. It can barely hold the sweat of others. You fan yourself with your right hand. You brush through your greasy hair with your free one, and suddenly, you feel better.
A young man approaches you, pen and paper clutched to his chest as if he is embarrassed.
What brings you here today, ma’am?
You freeze. You look him up and down until you reach his eyes. He is hungry for a story. You feed one to him.
It is my duty to be here. The Cuban regime is the Berlin wall of our hemisphere. If my people are on the streets, I am too. Together, we are taking steps to tear down that wall.
Thank you, ma’am.
You nod your head. You did not tell the man about your upcoming flight. Too dangerous.
Window Seat
You board the plane.
Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Rodriguez, and on behalf of myself and the entire crew, welcome aboard American Airlines flight 787. We will be flying non-stop from Miami to Havana.
Aisle 26, seat A. After squeezing past your fellow passengers, you slip into your seat. You squirm as you allow your body to adjust to the chair’s cloth. It is rough; it scratches against your skin. You think about the white wicker chair in your sala as you let out a sigh. Sighing will get you through the flight, yes. You prop your right arm up on the armrest. Your free hand brushes through your hair. It will be okay.
Flight attendants prepare for takeoff.
You sigh again.
The plane ride is awkward. It is only forty-five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. You bounce your leg up and down. One rubs against the leg of the person next to you. They look you up and down, but you avoid eye contact. You cannot hold their gaze. You are too occupied in what lies beyond the circular window. White, fluffy clouds cover the sky like a crocheted blanket. There is no rain to drown out your thoughts, no wind to hold you tight, no portrait of Papi or café con leche to calm your anxiety.
Exile.
Castro.
Patria o Muerte. No. Patria y vida.
You bounce your leg faster.
Arrival
Aterrizamos.
You rise from your seat to stretch. You want to pass the time. It is a long wait to get off the plane. You hear the shuffling of feet, the flopping of gusanos, and frantic breathing. There is no sighing.
You patiently wait for your turn.
How To Help:
For more information relating to Cuban immigration in the United States, below are resources to look into:
Works Cited
Gámez Torres, Nora. “Exiles March in Solidarity in Miami as Crackdown Intensifies Ahead of Monday Protest in Cuba.” Miami Herald, 14 Nov. 2021, https://amp.miamiherald.com/news/nation-world/world/americas/cuba/article255811301.html.
“Rosa María Payá.” The Geneva Summit for Human Rights and Democracy, 8 Apr. 2022, https://genevasummit.org/speaker/rosa-maria-paya/.
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