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Comelibros
(book-eater) and ratón de biblioteca (library mouse)
are popular Spanish terms for “nerd.” Both were
regularly applied to me when I was a teenager in
Havana. My classmates didn’t realize that I had no
choice but to be a comelibros. I lacked a prominent
behind (the foremost mark of female beauty in Cuba),
was too skinny, didn’t know how to dance, and never
wore makeup. My Saturday night options used to be
staying home to read or hang out with goofy
girlfriends.
Havana wasn’t a city throbbing with life in the mid
’80s. The only two television channels broadcast
just a few hours of programming a day, and programs
were repeated ad nauseam. A film would be shown for
weeks at the same movie theater. Waiting lines at
restaurants and cafeterias lasted a couple of hours
on weekends. No wonder I became a book glutton.
Reading transported me to a magical universe where a
dull day was over in a short paragraph and a lively
dinner party went on for two pages. Then one night I
discovered I had read all the volumes of our home
library, including my grandfather’s collection of
19th-century Spanish novels and my mother’s
dust-covered medical texts. I could repeat by heart
entire paragraphs from my favorite books. It was too
late to go to the bookstore in hope of finding
something palatable. “Why don’t you write a story
yourself?” my father suggested. The proverbial light
bulb went off in my head. I sat in front of our
venerable Underwood typewriter and started a short
story. Papá smiled and said, “Aha!” That was my
first serious try at writing. I haven’t stopped
since.
Neither my mom nor my grandma were enthusiastic,
much less supportive, of my newfound calling.
“Writing is a vice,” abuela scolded. “It is for
marimachas.” “You’ll end up a spinster unless you go
out and meet guys!” my mom barked. Like Jo March in
Little Women, I had made peace with the idea of
spinsterhood when I met Hugh Page, an American
psychologist, in 1994. We married a year later. My
mother and grandma sighed in relief. In 1996 I moved
to California. Then I sighed in relief.
Once in La Yuma, as we Cubans called the United
States, my writing addiction escalated. Thankfully
my husband, also a writer, has always supported my
vice — in two languages, to boot. My novels A Girl
Like Che Guevara (Soho Press), in English, and
Posesas de la Habana, in Spanish (PurePlay Press)
were published in 2004. My mom and grandma were,
oddly enough, thrilled. If my father were alive, I
know he’d have smiled knowingly and said, “Aha!”
Though my novels aren’t really autobiographical,
nerdy Lourdes, the main character of A Girl Like Che
Guevara shares some traits with me. I participated
in Santeria ceremonies similar to those described in
the book. I spent two months at a
school-in-the-field camp in Pinar del Rio picking
tobacco leaves. Posesas de la Habana (Haunted Ladies
of Havana) takes place during the Special Period, in
2002, and its characters also bear a suspicious
resemblance to my own relatives. With this novel I
intended to give voice to four generations of Cuban
women, from a 90-year-old great-grandmother to an
11-year-old girl.
Now, at 38, I am less of a nerd. I have gained some
weight, much to my chagrin, as in La Yuma, culitos
aren’t cool. I wear makeup now, and my weekend
options have expanded considerably. Yet I still
prefer to spend Saturday nights at home, typing
away. Once a nerd, I figure, always a nerd. |
