two men in santa clara

Lizette Chaparro '12

i ne museums in Cuba seldom impressed me. They just met my expectations. Most were a collection of relics meant to immortalize the revolution. They sat on faded green cloths and were framed in some kind of plastic that was too opaque to be plexiglass. There stood the last bowl that Che

Guevara touched, the shoes of a woman who escaped from torture, and the uniforms of soldiers with 50-year-old bloodstains. This was important to many Cubans. Or, to the government, at least.These relics were a way to reinforce the fact that the revolution was bold; that many suffered to achieve equality. So, wherever we went, if there was a museum, we went to it.

The one in Santa Clara commemorated a battle by lining up three rusty train cars and potting rifles, clothing, and pictures inside of them. We were supposed to step in and out of them to gain some kind of appreciation or understanding. I suspect it was my exceptional cynicism that allowed me to finish first. I walked on the grass, away from the train cars, and closer to the sidewalk I took out my camera and contemplated the view: a few closed storefronts and an empty

atorsIdrawncT ^ by °n "Hey, psst."

them.0t th'S Shit aga'n - 1 'gnored

"Tomanos una foto."

shook my head I haTf but ginning. bephotograph strangers £* I thought. So I could h What' friends back home? No.This'c^ torn seemed to objectify Objectify. What a liberal intellectual

I had become. These men didn't care about my guilt though. They insisted. "Psst, una foto." I smiled again. "No gracias,"and began to walk away, back towards the train cars. My steps were slow, almost apologetic. I wished they could understand my reasoning.

And then,"Oye, gorda!"

My step hesitated for a moment. One of the guys in our group looked up and I bowed my head in embarrassment. I had been defeated; the phrase lingered, threateningly, in my head.

As everyone else got out of the train cars, the men remained on the street, behind our bus, watching us board. I avoided looking at them and stood behind my friend Dan. I grabbed his arm as if that could offend the men. Dan turned his head and noticed the men watching us.

We settled into our seats and

I tried to tell Dan what happened, but before I could get a single word out, he said: "They got their asses capped." I did not understand what he was trying to tell me. Was he trying to console me? Had someone, maybe the tour guide, seen what happened, and in my defense, told off the men? "Who, those guys?" I asked.

He looked at the trains on the bright green field. "Yeah. I guess the winners get to write history." I raised my eyebrow and shrugged. As I sank into my seat I felt irrelevant. I remained silent and looked out the window until we reached the next town, the next museum.