Hi, you’re receiving this free weekly newsletter. If you love it, consider supporting it financially. For $5/mo, you’ll gain access to exclusive posts, film and book recommendations, an upcoming podcast and more.
Children belong to The Revolution, first. That’s why one Friday morning our teacher took the entire class on a field trip to a television studio and didn’t ask for a single parent’s permission. Transportation in Cuba is a luxury, let alone for 25 fourth-graders, so we walked the more than 5 miles it took to get to the studio.
We were led, single file, by our teacher, a Communist version of the Pied Piper of Hamelin. There was no flute, instead there was a sinister slogan that we were encouraged to chant with every step we took, “Cuba Si, Yanquis No!”
Yes to Cuba, no to the Yanquis, or the Americans. The irony is that even as we chanted those words in unison, wearing our red and white uniforms and our blue pañoletas across our necks, most of us secretly dreamed of joining the imperialists. Two years later I would leave Cuba once and for all, but I had no way of knowing that as I walked with my classmates and friends that warm, Havana morning.
There was a famous kids show called “Dando Vueltas” and we were going to participate in a taping. In one part of the show, students from different schools would compete against each other in subjects like math, history and grammar. I don’t know why our class was selected, if our teacher knew someone in the production, but whatever the case, we were very excited to be on TV.
The five miles flew by on foot. I had neve been in a television studio before. There were lights and huge cameras and people everywhere. Those magical scenes I had seen on TV lost a bit of their shine that day. There were just people in costumes and others holding puppets, the same ones that made me chuckle on Saturday mornings. On some level I had always known that, that it was all make-believe, but it was a different experience to actually see it and know it in a different way. I took a peak behind the curtain and took a good look at the wizard.
Minutes after arriving at the studio, a producer from the show approached me.
“What’s your name?”
“Israel,” I said, shyly.
He smiled and then told me where to sit down so that the camera would capture me best. This was unusual because he didn’t approach anyone else from my class. I sat in the front row, next to Yanet, a girl I had a crush on, but never had the courage to say anything to her. She was way out of my 9-year-old league.
The segment we were there for, the one where rival schools faced each other in history trivia (of the Revolution of course), spelling, science and math came up. We were absolutely horrible. There were a few things we got right, but overall, the other school was obliterating us. If I had to use a score as to where things were at this point, I’d say it was 20 to 1.
The next challenge was a spelling one. Yanet was really smart and really good at spelling. When the show hosts asked for a volunteer to go to the board and spell a word, she cheerfully raised her hand. This could have been the beginning of a come back four our school. She was ready. Except that something unexpected happened. The same producer who had spoken to me earlier starting chanting my name.
“Israel! Israel! Israel!”
He raised his hands and asked the entire studio to join him. Soon, my class, the opposing school, the host and even the puppets were chanting my name.
“Israel! Israel! Israel!”
I didn’t want to go up. I was really introverted back then. The last thing I wanted was attention, but the clamor was relentless.
Yanet glared at me. “Don’t mess this up,” she said.
I slowly got up and walked over to the chalkboard with three cameras pointed at me. People were still chanting my name, but I could barely hear them. Their sounds were muffled, as if I was listening to them through a conch shell.
I got up to the board and the host gave me the word to spell. I panicked. I knew this word, but the pressure, the lights, the camera, it was all too much. I knew the word had an accent or tilde, but where? I didn’t know anymore so I guessed.
I spelled: Óceano.
I looked back at Yanet. She put her hands over her face in disgust.
“Sorry, but that’s wrong,” the host said. “It’s Océano, with the accent on the e.”
The entire studio got quiet. I went back to my seat, shoulders hunched, defeated. Yanet spoked to me for the last time ever, “That was such an easy word. I knew that word! You’re so dumb!”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what to say. The show was over a few minutes after that. My teacher was embarrassed. Our school did really poorly. I felt like I let everyone down. Moments after it was all over, that same producer walked over to me again.
“What’s your mom’s name?”
“Bertha,” I answered, looking at my feet.
“Oh, never mind. I thought you were someone else,” he said and walked away.
The walk back to school was one of nearly absolute silence. My best friend Kenny tried to cheer me up. “I would have panicked too if people starting calling my name. You’re really smart. I know you knew that word.” Of course I knew how to spell the word ocean, but at that moment with all the cameras pointed at me and all the cheering of my name, I was hoping that the Atlantic would swallow me whole.
I told my mom about the whole thing. She comforted me and told me that it was okay, that it wasn’t a big deal. She was also weirded out by the studio producer and assured me that she didn’t know anyone on television.
Before we left the studio, they told us that the show would air that Saturday morning. It never did. Despite it all, I wanted to see myself on TV. I wanted to see myself on my favorite show with my favorite characters, but that episode never aired.
My mom theorized that if our school had really done that bad, then the censors would not allow for that episode to air. Such a dismal performance would tarnish the Revolution, especially since education is one of its highly touted value propositions. The Revolution had to keep its façade, so that episode was wiped from existence, as if it had never happened. Unfortunately, I didn’t have that luxury and that memory remained seared in my brain, even to this day.
However, I did learn the truth about the Revolution for myself; it was a all a lie, an act, smoke and mirrors, a wizard behind the curtain. The messy and uncomfortable parts were erased or hidden, the history books manipulated and the children used as props. So, in a sense and now with some distance, I’m glad that I failed. At least that way I wasn’t part of the propaganda machine. My unintentional failure served as an act of defiance.
Hope you had a nice life, Yanet.
Want to treat me to a ☕️ and support Constantly Curious?
Venmo: @Israel-Sanchez-148
If you’re reading this and haven’t subscribed yet, please click the button below.