Yurisdislaidis' Fifteenth Birthday

Yurisdislaidis' Fifteenth Birthday / Rebeca Monzo
Posted on June 8, 2013

After a disastrous first marriage which bore no "fruits," Isabel — a
slim, young brunette — met a young laborer with whom she fell hopelessly
in love. They decided to become a couple almost on the first date. From
this "explosive union" a child was born, whom they named Yurisdislaidis
because compound names and those with the letter Y were very fashionable
at that time.

All her life Isabel had dreamed of having a daughter whom she could
"dress up" and shower with affection. After giving birth, she firmly
resolved to stash away part of the money she earned as an at-home
manicurist in a clay jar that had belonged to her grandmother. She left
it in the care of her mother, who did not trust banks. Every week Isabel
fattened the jar, depositing part of her earnings in it.

Meanwhile, her selfless husband was using the old Oldsmobile he had
inherited from his father as a taxi. He was taking his chances, doing it
"on the side," since he was never able to obtain a license. By
redoubling his efforts, he drove more routes than his malnourished body
could stand, all in the hopes of bringing home some extra money so that
his wife would not have to work so hard or "touch her little savings
account."

They made these sacrifices and many others perhaps not worth mentioning,
including foregoing the eighty grams of daily bread allotted to each
member of a nuclear family in the ration book, which they gave to the
little girl. She got one for breakfast, another for her school snack —
filled or topped with whatever they could get their hands on at any
given moment — and another to accompany a café con leche which she had
before going to bed. This is how Yurisdislaidis grew up, eventually
becoming a lovely young lady.

There was still a year to go before the her fifteenth birthday, and the
family had already put together a trousseau for the much anticipated
celebration. They still had to find a suitable pair of shoes for the
occasion, a make-up artist and a photographer.

It was then that Demesio, the father of Yuris — curiously, this is what
he called the child, perhaps because it was too much effort even for
them to call her by her full name — began working as a mechanic, fixing
his neighbors' broken cars. It was a skill he had learned the hard way
over many years by fixing his own car after driving it through Havana's
pothole-filled streets and avenues. All this caused his health to
deteriorate, making him look older than he really was.

Isabel's eyes fill with tears as she describes the unforgettable day in
which her beloved husband arrived home exhausted but joyful, "with a
smile from ear to ear" and his face glowing with emotion. He was
carrying a package in his arms which he laid at her feet as though it
were an offering to a goddess. It was a brand-new pair of white shoes
with high heels and two shiny buckles as the only ornamentation. A
regular client, who was aware of his troubles, had provided them as a
gift for his daughter. Now she only needed to find a modern photographer
with good taste since she was already getting the make-up artist — a
charming gay man, who was the brother of one of her clients — for free.
Everything "was set!"

Finally, the long-awaited day arrived. The local Committee for the
Defense of the Revolution and the neighbors on the block were all
excited, watching the comings and goings of strangers entering and
leaving Isabel's house. It was a big event. From the early morning hours
music blared at full volume, alternating with the voices those present,
screaming to be heard. These were the friends who had come to clean and
decorate the house. In the main room there was still the portrait of the
former lady of the house, as always with flowers, who had the foresight
to will the place to Isabel, her former employee, legally leaving it to
her as an act of gratitude for having been her companion and caregiver
after her entire family had decided to leave the country. She had stayed
behind because she wanted to die in Cuba.

The first to arrive that day was Francisco, the make-up artist, followed
by the lady who was providing the various outfits for the photo shoot.
When the birthday girl was finally ready, the young photographer
arrived. A stunning 1950s convertible belonging to one of her father's
friends was parked in front of the house, waiting to drive
Yurisdislaidis to the Plaza de San Francisco in front of the Chamber of
Commerce building. She was dressed in a distinctive costume like those
from the Cuban soap opera, Las Huérfanas de la Obra Pía — with parasol
and all the other 19th century accessories — to have her picture taken
among the pigeons and recently restored historical buildings. Behind
Yuris was an entire entourage, darting to the various locations chosen
by the photographer. They were the make-up guy, the costume lady, the
camera man with his tripod slung over his shoulder and her mother
carrying baskets filled with artificial flowers, shoes on loan, wigs of
one sort or another, and head ornaments for her beloved daughter.

After returning home, a few "more artistic" photos were taken. These
showed her peeking from behind a shower curtain, exposing a bare thigh,
pretending to fall down head first with her legs strategically placed
above her, coming down the stairway, carrying a hat and suitcase as
though she were on a trip, and so forth. These were to fill an album
which she would later proudly show to relatives, friends and teachers at
her school.

From what I was able to find out later from some neighbors, the party
was "over the top." Beer and rum flowed freely. There were fish
croquettes, pastry hors d'oeuvres, cold macaroni salad and guayaba
tartlettes, all provided by some friends. Afterwards, they served a big
pink cake decorated with flowers and fifteen candles — the kind that do
not go out when you blow them — procured by someone who "had come from
far away." The extravaganza ended at dawn, when there was nothing left
to eat or drink. To this day people in the neighborhood still talk about it.

Only a couple of years later I happened to run into Isabel, noticing how
much older and thinner she looked that usual. When I asked about Yuris,
she made an attempt to smile. "She's fine," said Isabel, "but she wants
to quit school because she says she does not feel motivated. So I am
still struggling, trying to fill up the clay jar again. My daughter has
now gotten it into her head that she has to be made a saint!"*

*Translator's note: Kari Ocha, or "to be made a saint," is an initiation
ritual of Santería, an Afro-Cuban religion, and can cost as much as $800
if you are Cuban, and significantly more if you are from overseas.

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