One day, when walking through Old Havana, my friends and I came across the shop for Clandestina, Cuba’s first private fashion brand. The company references the clandestine operations that characterized the revolution’s resistance to the US-backed Batista dictatorship, but its existence marks the transformation of Cuba’s economy with allowances for more privately-owned businesses. There is another location in New York City, which may at first seem incongruous given the adversarial relationship between America and Cuba. However, in Cuba today, people who seek more financial opportunities abroad are no longer viewed as traitors; instead they are perceived as people doing what they have to do. The contemporary class of Cuban immigrants are not necessarily against the ideology of the revolution but rather seek to establish themselves abroad and support loved ones back home with foreign remittances. The Cuban government is more interested in projecting unity with these facets of the Cuban diaspora than in the past because in the island’s dollarized economy circulation of foreign currency is key.
As my professor for a class on the Cuban economy often emphasized, the island has continually been in a process of “learning by doing” as the nation weathers shocks to the economy, starting with the fall of the Soviet Union. The government quickly pivoted to a tourist economy, but this shift presented its own challenges. President Obama’s sudden normalization of relations, followed by Trump and Biden’s heightened restrictions and the COVID-19 pandemic caused the supply of tourists to fluctuate dramatically. This insecurity can be observed in the cityscape of Havana itself, where the skyline is dominated by a new hotel under construction (shown below). The expense appears frivolous; but the deal on the hotel was closed during the Obama administration as a future investment. Throughout my time in Cuba, I found that this geopolitical context shaped my experiences and conversations, even if I was not aware of its influence all the time. Although, for instance, I was an individual college student buying a souvenir from Clandestina on that particular day, I was also an American with spending power, privilege, and mobility that I wore on my fair skin. As a result, the “Nada es Perfecto” baseball cap that I bought there came with meanings beyond those I ascribe or could hope to own through my purchase. Indeed, for me the hat was not very expensive, but in the context of the Cuban economy its price was steep. Ironically, or perhaps fittingly, the object I bought to say “I was here!” was one not made to be accessible for people actually living there in Cuba.
I became especially aware of these undertones during a particular interaction with my host mother, when I replied ¡Que lástima! when my host mother mentioned that we might be losing power and water for the next day or two. She responded with sardonic anger, reminding me that I didn’t know what it was like to have scarce resources, and repeated my comment to her niece in the next room. I retreated to my room, unsure of whether I should apologize. I had meant my comment to be sympathetic but recognized that my responses were based on a limited understanding of Spanish. I didn’t have the same familiarity with short phrases in English that I would regularly use to respond in everyday conversation, such as “that sucks.” I remember thinking that it wasn’t fair that my well-meaning response had created such tension, but after a moment I recognized that everything she had said was true. My experience and understanding was insufficient to presume to be able to provide sympathy. I was both well-meaning and privileged. This duality didn’t make me a good person or a bad person, but it did mean that I needed to work on letting go of my perfectionism so that I could weather the challenges and mistakes inherent in finding my way.
