I Was Never the First Lady

A Novel

Wendy Guerra, Alicia "Achy" Obejas

• Publisher: HarperVia
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9780062990761
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Littérature générale

" I Was Never The First Lady stitches together threads of island and identity until they became one and the same…Guerra's own unpredictable book is haunting, complicated, [and] linguistically beautiful." -- The New York Times

A lush, sensuous, and original tale of family, love, and history, set against the backdrop of the Cuban Revolution and its aftermath.

Nadia Guerra's mother, Albis Torres, left when Nadia was just ten years old. Growing up, the proponents of revolution promised a better future. Now that she's an adult, Nadia finds that life in Havana hasn't quite matched its promise; instead it has stifled her rebellious and artistic desires. Each night she DJs a radio show government censors block from broadcasting. Frustrated, Nadia finds hope and a way out when she wins a scholarship to study in Russia.

Leaving Cuba offers her the chance to find her long lost mother and her real father. But as she embarks on a journey east, Nadia soon begins to question everything she thought she knew and understood about her past.

As Nadia discovers more about her family, her fate becomes entwined with that of Celia Sanchez, an icon of the Cuban Revolution—a resistance fighter, ingenious spy, and the rumored lover of Fidel Castro. A tale of revolutionary ideals and promise, Celia's story interweaves with Nadia's search for meaning, and eventually reveals secrets Nadia could never have dreamed.

Translated from the Spanish by Achy Obejas

Part I

Daybreak with No One

My country is that singular instant taking place right now everywhere, the shoreline, places I don’t know how to get to, that I can’t get to, and yet where I alight.

—ALBIS TORRES

Everyone’s child here, reporting from a country of no one.

This is Nadia Guerra, and for the first time, sitting at an open mic, I’m going to tell you what I think, what I’ve felt every morning of my life and during all these years when I saluted the flag and sang the national anthem. I’m going to say everything I haven’t dared to say until this very moment. Listen to what I’m about to tell you here, on my radio show, live, while I take refuge in the half-light of my hermetically sealed sound booth.

I belong to that intimate place that makes me human and not divine. I’m an artist and not a contemporary heroine. I hate that lack of proportion—I don’t want there to be expectations I can’t meet. I don’t owe the martyrs any more than I owe my parents, than I owe my own resistance, than I owe my personal history, anchored here in a simple Cuban life.

I can’t keep on trying to be like Che, to inherit Camilo’s purity, Maceo’s courage, Agramonte’s fearlessness, Mariana Grajales’s fury, Martí’s nomadic and creative spirit, Celia Sánchez’s stoic silence. My most heroic acts are simple: to survive on this island, to avoid suicide, to deal with the guilt provoked by my obligations, to accept my good fortune of being alive, and to definitively disengage from the insistence of war and peace.

I don’t want to be the martyrs’ martyr, with their sagas and great epics. Standing before the heroes’ statues, I’ve thought my death should be simple, meticulous, sober, discreet.

My true heroes are my parents, victims of their own survival, settled, drawn out, painful. Expelled from an adoring and disillusioned sect, they lost their minds.

When they looked beyond the seawall—now crumbling—they saw the sea as their only patrimony. The dark and starry bay or the luminous everyday Caribbean. But nothing could save them. They put aside their personal projects to devote themselves to collective work.

The leaders in the foreground and my parents out of focus, lost in the depth of field, far, far from the protagonists. They were endearing extras, doubles devoted to the great work, the sacred script and its complicated staging.

There were days when I felt orphaned or—I’ll say it in a more conciliatory fashion—like a Child of the Nation. I saw my parents for brief periods. It wasn’t personal; several friends found themselves in the same situation.

Where’s your father, they’d ask.

Somewhere in Cuba, you had to say.

On how many rainy afternoons did I see grandparents from more or less normal families standing at the school door, with raincoats and umbrellas, calmly waiting. Grandfathers and grandmothers—I’d raise a monument to them myself.

I remember my parents swallowing banned words and names while smiling for black-and-white photos. Maybe they wanted to surrender to the giant flag of lies they told—a black-and-white flag, but still a flag.

After a time, they were ambushed by their invisible enemies.

My parents weren’t a part of the Revolution’s triumph, because they were too young; nor did they arrive in time to enjoy the freedoms that came with such an ideal. Distressed, because they’d had no part in making the Revolution, they supported it. They held up the new society, their bodies the scaffolding. They were almost happy to take part, to be a voice in the great choir, part of the resistance. When they found themselves at the very center of that isolated generation, they were trapped; they couldn’t find a way out.

But, well, my dear listeners, let’s listen to some music and take a break from everything I want to confess today. Let’s listen to Carlos Varela as he sings his composition “Family Portrait (Foto de familia).”

Behind all that nostalgia,

all those lies and betrayals . . .

And now, speaking about family and parents: the weight of the celebrity dead was so much greater than the lives they lived in anonymity. That’s how they slowly resigned themselves to the idea that we’d be better off over there, in the humanist paradise, in that other life. How many times did we hear them say, in the middle of a meeting or in our living room or while standing in line: “It won’t benefit me, no, but my daughter will have a better life.”

My dears, I have news for you. I also hope for something better for my children.

This is the sound from when our parents were young, when Silvio Rodríguez and Pablo Milanés were working with the group Experimentación Sonora del ICAIC. Now let’s listen to the Columna Juvenil del Centenario song, which goes like this:

When the sun splits in two at noon from the horror

when slogans and goals beg to be killed off . . .

It’s true, no school has been named after my mother, but if I’m standing here it’s because she had the nerve to write, to speak whenever she had to, and then later, when she was no longer recognized, she knew how to cry quietly, locked in a closet, smoking in the shadows between the moth-eaten coats so I wouldn’t see her doubting, so she wouldn’t have to lie to me with an explanation that was only more or less true about our inexplicable reality. My parents reconstructed a country within a country, just for me.

They called me Nadia, in honor of Lenin’s wife. In Russian: Нaдeждa. My name and I mean “hope.”

Papá and Mamá delighted in constructing a nonexistent world, perhaps hoping to create a template for me. They made over whatever was ugly, multiplied what little we had so we could share, blurred whatever was horrible, and changed the subject so they wouldn’t be cornered without a way out. That was my recurrent nightmare: that I’d be trapped in one of those popular underground tunnels, where I’d end up suffocating.

I grew up in my parents’ country. By the time I arrived, its inviolable borders were already drawn. Today I’m not so sure we all live in the same Free Territory of the Americas for which they struggled, but the country in their heads was a marvelous place. We rocked ourselves in a floating ideal, a non-place, a utopia at the very center of the Caribbean.

My mother’s hands untangled unforgivable entanglements, repeated mistakes, the losses her mind couldn’t conceive. She’d drown in an angry sob, fall ashamed on the battlefield, whenever she was surprised by her own lies. She was tormented because she couldn’t come up with better arguments and would cough, intoxicated by nicotine and disillusionment, smearing her empty hands with salty tears. My mother ran because someone or something was stalking her. What we call the enemy was, for her, a reminder of her demons.

My dear listeners, my mother is a martyr. My father, a hero. Enough of feeling guilty over what was bestowed on us. Those we saluted from the foot of the pedestal were riddled with doubts, were prey to panic. Weren’t they? Those people doubted, stepped back, disobeyed, were unfaithful or miserable; they were wrong. They divorced; they fell in love. Men and women made love standing up, with their boots on.

My parents went mute when I asked for an explanation. The heroes turned to marble when we needed them to be human. Speak, damn it! The testimony to their existence is their wives, their children and grandchildren who moved among us in school, in crowds, at summer camp, when their faces told us more about their misgivings and detachment than any speech. Together we cultivated the art of the “necessary loss.” But are losses necessary?

Resignation makes it so we think it’s natural to see your father’s face on a huge billboard or on a political poster. Do the people share your pain, or do you share the people’s pain? Do we all cry over the death of a loved one?

The children of those martyrs who grew up with me don’t remember their parents either. They remember the heroes, yes, but not their parents. With their parents protected, their doubts camouflaged, it made it so I never knew much about my parents. In my more fanciful moments, I presumed I knew what they would be like in a normal state: at home, playing dominoes, sharing games.

Since we never managed to experience our parents’ naiveté, since we could never be like them, who can possibly ask us—all of us—to be like the martyrs?

Every morning I pledged what I couldn’t achieve: Pioneers for communism, we would be like Che. I didn’t even have the nerve to just stay quiet, like my mother. I spoke and gave myself away. I expressed myself and collapsed from the guilt of not being what I was raised to be or, better, designed to be.

Maybe everything was a metaphor and not guilt. Did I ever know my parents? Did I ever know if they said yes when they wanted to say no? Will I ever know?

I continue with a campaign of pretense. I defend myself because they want to wrench something from me, to take it from me—that much I know.

Enough of this devotion to saints. I don’t owe the heroes a thing. I can’t swear loyalty with my hand to my forehead for even one more day of existence, because I won’t be able to keep my word. Since I was a girl, I’ve repeated their names like an automaton: a little slogan machine dressed up like a soldier, unable to pick up even a quarter from the floor. Not arguing with the unarguable, there goes my hand, up, stiff, to my forehead. Not asking questions, because “you don’t ask about what you know.”

I throw flowers into the sea as I dry tears unfathomable for my age. What will Camilo think of me, given this poor bouquet? The water is carpeted with flowers, and I have brought him ten wilted carnations.

I’m dressed in someone else’s clothes, olive green, patched and clean. Another Guerra uniform. I’ve learned to aim at an abstract target. What will be my real bull’s-eye?

Do we owe everything to those heroes? Mamá and Papá, wherever you are, it looks like it was true: “Homeland or death” meant there was a chance we could die. Fall, collapse, faint. It was no metaphor, no. That we will triumph is a broad promise, marvelous and much bigger than us.

The audio engineer—I’m not going to say his name—opens his eyes and nods. He always sleeps during these hours . . .

Thank you for being with me. Even though we might not get a single call, we’re here.

We’ve started the show today like a burst of machine-gun fire. Like certain American movies broadcast on Saturdays at midnight that set our nerves on edge. I’m the last Pioneer still awake, and I’m spending these wee hours with you. Where’s your family? (Silence on the other side o...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Part I: Daybreak with No One
• Part II: Pain and Forgiveness
• Part III: My Mother’s Unfinished Book
• Part IV: I Was Never the First Lady
• Translator’s Note
• About the Author
• Copyright
• About the Publisher