Our Savannah is growing up

 Dressed up in her Easter outfit

TO CELEBRATE HER LIFE…NOT TO MOURN HER PASSING – ELOINA VALIENTE VIUDA DE RODRIGUEZ, SEPTEMBER 28, 1915 – JANUARY 31ST 2013

When she was learning to walk men were learning to fly, when she was learning to talk, men stopped talking to each other altogether and started World War I.

With great trepidation and foreboding I write this about my mom. Yes, she’s gone and I will miss her and her smile which was rare due to her cantankerous nature; but just because it wasn’t frequent it was just what made it so special, I will miss having become the parent and her the child.

La Gran Dama Eloi, which inspired me to write a book and then make it into a blog; telling her story, compiling her account of events and her experiences during her very long life. Mom made it to see her 97^th birthday and somehow I had the feeling it was her last as she blew the 9 and 7 candles on the cake my partner’s mother baked for her. 

My mom (right) and her sister Nina (left)

My mom traveled often to her birthplace in Cuba; sometimes even more than twice a year and even before it was legal to do so prior to the U.S. Government allowing Cuban-Americans permission to visit relatives.

 She had a brother 17 years younger whom she raised and who she regaled the status of son. There was also the only other surviving Valiente sibling: my aunt Nina, ten years younger and in poor health. My mom was so attached to these two that she managed to get my aunt out of Cuba and have her go to the Dominican Republic where she cared for her until just a couple of years ago when she became very sick and returned to Cuba for free medical care.

After my aunt’s passing I brought her to live with me and my partner’s extended family and all seven of us lived harmoniously with a sprinkle of drama provided by mom who was by all accounts the epitome of the Cuban drama queen.

During one of my mom’s earlier visit to Cuba, at the time the Cuban government was more than happy to have the exiles visit and bring American dollars…but there was a catch: they had to take a “tour” where they were shown the supposedly great accomplishments of the Revolution. My mom arrived in Cuba just about the time the funeral procession for her sister was departing for the cemetery, the eldest of the Valiente family died and mom did not get to see her as she was only able to witness the closed casket as it was lowered into the family vault.

Our hometown – Bejucal – town center

But mom’s grief made her forget everything and in the process skipped the “tour” offered by the Cuban government which was supposed to be “voluntary” but as she was departing on her return to America she was questioned about not taking the “tour” and she told the first Cuban Immigration official that she almost missed her sister’s funeral; then one very arrogant Cuban Immigration official said to her: “Señora, I see here that you didn’t take advantage of the generosity of our great revolution in the offering of a free tour to show you traitor exiles how we have progressed and made such great accomplishments” 

The street where we lived,

taken from the front porch

My mom responded to him with a litany of profanities and insults to which the poor man was so humiliated that the only reaction he could muster was to slap her in the face and threaten her to not allowing her to get on the plane until she took the tour. Somehow, there was a supervisor who may have overheard the man’s arrogance and allowed my mom to board the plane and when she did, the flight that was being delayed because of her incident…all the passengers applauded when they saw her come in the door.

I think that is the one incident that defined my mom best: a fighter, a progressive liberal, who voted not for Democrats but against any and all Republicans, one who loved her adopted country – America with the great passion and patriotism as she did her native land. She was a combative and antagonistic person who was unflappable and not easily silenced; after all, she had to be that and more to be able to have been married to my father for more than 55 years.

My mom, just like most Cuban women employed the guilt technique on family and friends and if the Jewish moms are said to use this to the hilt; I think my mom would give them a run for their money. Once such incident I found amusing was when she gave me two shirts for my birthday. I of course had to say I liked them and thanked her and then wore one for the first time. She saw me, looked at the shirt and said: “I see you’re wearing the shirt I gave you as a gift for your birthday…what’s the matter, you didn’t like the other one?”

My mom’s cigar table may have 

looked like this after a day’s labor

My mom started working making cigars in our hometown tobacco factory when she was 11 and never stopped working even after she retired at age 89 and did so only because she went to take care of her sister in Santo Domingo; to her work was not a burden but a pleasure and one of the few people I have known who actually looked forward to the next day in order to go to work…even when the work she did was strenuous or demeaning…she did it all, from making cigars to supervising the Cuban Lottery’s weekly drawings, from domestic servant to factory work. She also returned to trade school in her fifties and learned to sew and that provided her with a skill to secure a loftier better paying job as a seamstress which is what she did until she retired.

She is survived by me, the only son and two grand-daughters: Diurys Olivia Murphy and Darlyn Odette Rodriguez-Hayes both of Seattle, Washington.

I want to thank each and everyone who has been so gracious and kind by offering me support and get well wishes. 

Cuentos de la Tía Eloi - http://cuentostiaeloi.blogspot.com/

My mom as a 20 year old, her nickname 

was “El Merenguito” (the cream puff)

Por Raúl Rodríguez Valiente Copyright 2008, 1-94170031 Estos cuentos cubren un periodo de aproximadamente 100 años, visto tras los grises ojos de Eloina Valiente, nonagenaria dama que nos relata y obsequia con una ojeada a la Cuba de ayer al igual que las observaciones de Eloi de sucesos y temas contemporáneos. Es una tajada de la cultura, del pueblo, la historia de Cuba y en especial el pueblito de Bejucal.

UPDATE ON MY MOM’S HOPEFUL RECOVERY

La Gran Dama Eloi is one tough customer

Yesterday, even though her heart beat was extremely high and they can’t stabilize it…she was in good spirits and coherent. I tell you, the woman even looked radiant. I don’t know how she manages but for a 97 year old she has less wrinkles than I do.

She survived the hip operation which kills most people twenty years younger.

The physical therapist got her out of bed yesterday morning and was able to make her stand and take a few steps albeit with a bit of pain which she will not show. She is such a trooper.

Thanks everyone for your concern and your get well wishes.

POETA CUBANO-AMERICANO GAY RECITA SU POEMA EN LA TOMA DE POSESION DEL PRESIDENTE OBAMA

Y pasará a la historia como uno de los más eruditos poetas que jamás haya recitado en dicha función.

ONE TODAY

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,

peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces

of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth

across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.

One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story

told by our silent gestures moving across windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning's mirrors,

each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:

pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,

fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges, arrayed like rainbows,

begging our praise. Silver trucks, heavy with oil or paper --

bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us,

on our way to clean tables, read ledgers, or save lives --

to teach geometry or ring up groceries as my mother did

for 20 years, so I could write this poem for all of us today.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,

the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day,

equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,

the "I have a dream" we all keep dreaming,

or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won't explain

the empty desks of 20 children marked absent

today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light

breathing color into stained glass windows,

life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth

onto the steps of our museums and park benches

as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk

of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat

and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills

in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands

digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands

as worn as my father's cutting sugarcane

so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains

mingled by one wind -- our breath. Breathe. Hear it

through the day's gorgeous din of honking cabs,

buses launching down avenues, the symphony

of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,

the unexpected songbird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,

or whispers across cafe tables. Hear the doors we open

each day for each other, saying: hello, shalom,

buon giorno, howdy, namaste; or buenos dias

in the language my mother taught me -- in every language

spoken into one wind carrying our lives

without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed

their majesty and the Mississippi and Colorado worked

their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:

weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report

for the boss on time, stitching another wound

or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,

or the last floor on the Freedom Tower

jutting into the sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes

tired from work: some days guessing at the weather

of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love

that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother

who knew how to give or forgiving a father

who couldn't give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight

of snow or the plum blush of dusk, but always -- home,

always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon

like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop

and every window of one country -- all of us --

facing the stars

hope -- a new constellation

waiting for us to map it,

waiting for us to name it -- together.

UN HOY

Un sol sobre nosotros hoy, encendió encima de nuestras costas,
mira a escondidas sobre los Smokies, saludando a las caras
de los Grandes Lagos, la difusión de una simple verdad
a través de las Grandes Llanuras, entonces embistiendo a través de las Montañas Rocosas.
Una luz, despertando tejados, debajo de cada uno, una historia
contada por nuestros gestos silenciosos que se desplazan a través de las ventanas.
Mi cara, tu cara, millones de caras en los espejos mañaneros,
cada uno bostezando a la vida, un crescendo a nuestros días:
autobúses escolares coloreados de un amarillo del color de lápices, el ritmo de las luces de tráfico,
puestos de frutas: manzanas, limas y naranjas, agrupados como un arco iris,
pidiendo nuestra alabanza. Camiones pesados  plateados, con combustible o papel -
ladrillos o leche, enchidos sobre las carreteras junto a nosotros,
en nuestra forma de limpiar las mesas, leer libros, o salvar vidas -
para enseñar geometría o servir de cajera como hizo mi madre
durante 20 años, para que yo pudiera escribir este poema para todos nosotros hoy.
Todos nosotros tan vital como la única luz a través de la cual nos movemos.
la misma luz en las pizarras con lecciones para el día,
ecuaciones a resolver, o la pregunta de historia, o átomos imaginados,
el "Yo tengo un sueño" para todos seguir soñando,
o el vocabulario imposible de tristeza que no voy a explicar
los pupitres vacíos de 20 niños ausentes
hoy y para siempre. Muchas plegarias, solo una luz
dando aliento de color en las vidrieras,
vida en los rostros de las estatuas de bronce, calor
sobre los escalones de los museos y los bancos de parques
como las madres ven deslizar por canales sus hijos a díario.
Un suelo. Nuestra tierra, arraigando a nosotros cada tallo
de maíz, todas las cabezas de trigo sembrado por el sudor
y las manos, las manos de carbón espigando molinos de viento sembrados
en los desiertos y colinas que nos proveen calor, manos
en la excavación de zanjas, tuberías y cables de enrutamiento, las manos
que cortan la caña de azúcar como lo hizo mi padre
para que mi hermano y yo pudiéramos tener libros y zapatos.
El polvo de las granjas y los desiertos, ciudades y llanuras
mezclado por un solo viento - la respiración. Aspira. Escúchalo
a través del estruendoso día de taxis tocando sus bocinas,
autobuses desplegándose por avenidas, la sinfonía
de pasos, guitarras, el chilldo de los trenes subterráneos,
o el inesperado pájaro cantor en una línea de ropa.
Oír: columpios chirriantes en un parque infantil, el rugido de trenes,
o el susurro en las mesas de de cafés. Escucha las puertas que se abren
cada día por los demás, diciendonos: hola, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, o buenos dias
en el idioma que mi madre me enseñó - en todos los idiomas
hablado en un viento que lleva nuestra vida
sin perjuicio, ya que estas palabras salen de mis labios.
Un cielo: desde los Montes Apalachos y los cerros reclaman
su majestad y el Mississippi y Colorado forjaron
su camino hacia el mar. Gracias a la obra de nuestras manos:
tejiendo en acero los puentes, terminando a tiempo un informe más
para el jefe, cosiendo puntos en otra herida
o uniforme, la primera pincelada en un retrato,
o el último piso de la Torre de la Libertad
se adentra en el cielo que nos da nuestra resistencia.
Un cielo, hacia el cual a veces levantamos nuestros ojos
cansados del trabajo: algunos días para adivinar el estado del tiempo
de nuestras vidas, algunos días dando gracias por un amor
que te quiere de vuelta, a veces alabar a una madre
que supo dar o perdonar a un padre
que no podía darle lo que quería.
Nos dirigimos a casa: a través del brillo de la lluvia o el peso
de la nieve o el rubor de ciruela de la oscuridad, pero siempre - el hogar,
siempre bajo el mismo cielo, nuestro cielo. Y siempre una luna
como un golpeteo de tambor silencioso en todos los techos
y todas las ventanas de un país - todos nosotros -
frente a las estrellas
la esperanza - una nueva constelación
esperando por nosotros para que dibujemos el mapa,
esperando que sea – nosotros juntos.

THE BEST HEALTH CARE THAT MONEY CAN BUY – MONEY WE DON’T HAVE

And thanks to Medicare, my mom is getting it.

 

My mom fell and fractured her hip last week, she was operated on and for a 97 year old she is making a remarkable recovery.

She was taken to Memorial Regional Hospital in Hollywood, Florida where she has received the best care that money can buy. I have nothing but praise for the hospital and its staff; not only are they competent and attentive but they have offered my mom some very tender and loving care.

But I am still questioning how in the world we would have been able to afford such high quality care if Medicare had not been there for her. Surely I would have had to pay for it with money I don’t have…borrowing from credit cards that I will not be able to pay, taking a second mortgage on my house and eventually losing it. Basically what that entails is redistribution of wealth…my money…which I don’t have will go to the ones who already have too much.

And the Republicans want to do away with Medicare? And they want to eliminate Social Security, and Medicaid, public education, the post office…are they insane?

PHOTO SOURCE: http://www.yelp.com/biz/memorial-regional-hospital-hollywood-3

PAINTING OF MY MOM BY MAURICE PEGASI

DESEANDOLES A TODOS UNAS FELICES PASCUAS Y UN PROSPERO AÑO 2013

Vean lo que el famoso artista Maurice Ronet me ha obsequiado

Nada más y nada menos que unas pinturas de mi madre la Gran Dama Eloi y de Savannah

 

Y el mundo sigue y sigue