Pamela, No Hables. Pamela, don’t speak.

Pamela, no hables. Pamela, don’t speak. This was the great metaphor for my life and persona in Cuba.

Pamela, No Hables. Pamela, don’t speak.

This was the great metaphor for my life and persona in Cuba. I looked the part. If I dressed right and said little, I could pass for Cuban. I could walk the streets with my Cuban friends without attracting attention of the police, immigration, or other undesirable characters, and not get myself or anyone else in trouble. I could save money and pay in Cuban pesos instead of tourist CUC or dollars, and thus be able to cover the bill for everyone. I could have anything I wanted, as long as I did not speak.

My first trip to Cuba, staying in Havana with the family of a boyfriend in New York, I learned how to take the collective taxis. In a machina, those old vintage cars tourists get excited about taking photos of, meant only for Cubans, from the residential Playa neighborhood to Vedado or the Capitolio, I could pay 20 pesos, about one dollar, for a shared ride downtown, versus $20 for a tourist taxi I could not afford, as long as I said little. Tourists can rent out the shiny and restored old cars for large sums of foreign cash, but the raggedy jalopies from the 1950s on their 5th engine, with wooden boards covering holes in the floor, are exclusively for locals, to be inherited only, part of the Patrimony Nacional, to be neither bought nor sold. They have no AC or heat, sometimes the windows do not work, and the exhaust frequently seeps inside the car. Foreigners gaze at the old cars like one might gaze at an old photo of a first love, but if Cubans had their way, they would be driving a nice brand-new reliable Honda, not an old Chevrolet with the seats splitting open.

My Spanish was good, but my accent, while not laden with pitiful gringo English pronunciation, was muddled, evidencing the mixed influences on my pronunciation and vocabulary. It belied my first Castilian teachers in junior high school, the years spent in Los Angeles living in a Mexican neighborhood in East Hollywood and studying in Mexico, the trips to Argentina to improve my tango when a flight attendant college friend could get me there cheaply nearly anytime I wanted, and the strong Nuyorican and Dominican influence where I now lived in New York. Eres Brasileira? confused listeners would finally query, after hearing me speak for a few minutes. Are you Brazilian? was the best explanation they could come up with for my cadence.

I practiced with my boyfriend’s family, saying over and over, with command and confidence, Capitolio, until I got it right. CapitoLio. Capitolio. CapitOlio. Sí, así - CapitOlio! I got away with it, many times. I would sit in the back, crushed between other sweaty passengers in the midday, midsummer heat, and pray no one would ask me any questions. I tried hard to scowl standoffishly like everyone else. If I got nervous I would put on my sunglasses I had strategically perched on the brim of my baseball hat - a style that was a dead giveaway for a recently arrived Cuban in Miami. If they ever suspected me, no one said anything, because the driver could get in trouble for being caught with a tourist in his car. I would compose speeches in my head of what to say to the police to play dumb and keep the driver out of trouble, should this ever come to pass. Though I never needed to use that particular speech, the habit of playing dumb when caught developed into a key survival skill.

I practiced getting home, too. Staying with a family was also illegal as an American, and I was told in a small town I would never get away with it, but in Havana, there were too many people and most infractions went unnoticed. As long as I kept my voice down and did not talk to much in front of the neighbors. Pamela, No hables.

Playa. Playa por Tercera, I repeated over and over, until the sister and the mother and the sister’s husband and the uncle and the sister’s stepdaughter all looked at each other and nodded and agreed I could be let out unsupervised.  Playa por Tercera. Playa por Tercera. The only time I blew my cover was not due to my accent, but it was the first time I was seated next to the door and had to open it myself when getting out, instead of someone else getting out first to let me pass. I was used to modern American cars. I couldn’t find the handle. When I finally did, it took me far too long to figure out which way to pull it.

I knew I had done a good job of blending in, because I saw the faces of the driver and the other passengers journey from irritation at the delay, to surprise, to confusion, to a slow dawning, to disgusted betrayal when they realized they had a mole in their midst and had been duped by a stupid foreigner. My face betrayed my own panic as I surveyed their faces and went back to clawing at the door, trying and failing to get out. The young woman across the back seat either lost her patience or took pity on me, I will never know which, and pulled the door handle for me. I quickly made a mental note for future reference, and jumped out of the car without making more eye contact, and scurried up the street in the opposite direction of my destination to throw anyone off who might be taking their own notes about me.

Because, I suppose, it is la Isla, everyone is used to small, daily betrayals, and to foreigners taking advantage of their ability to run away scot-free when they will never have such a luxury, the Cubans in the car just shook their heads, and moved on to greet their next indignity.

Meanwhile, I learned every day to get better and better at hiding who I was and subverting myself and my own nature to get by.  Pamela, No hables. It was only the natural thing to do in Cuba.