Young Communist is Expelled from the Communist Youth Organization (UJC)

Two or three days after the events I’m kind of recovered from the initial shock and I go to see my friend; the one with the camera and zoom lens. I ask him to see the pictures. He says that he didn’t take any. I’m looking at him in disbelieve. He has a telescopic lens and truth to be told he wasn’t standing few yards from me but a whole street block away. He could have easily taken pictures with the aid of his zoom lens without even being noticed. But he froze in fear, scared that the police was going to decommission not only his camera but also the dark room equipment he has purchased recently. He had everything a good photographer need, except balls. I’m furious at him, we had been together in many parties having fun, but he has failed in this moment of truth. I have staged one of the best performance events of the whole decade and he hasn’t taken any picture of it. My trust on him is gone.

I walk to the place where the mural is in order to take some pictures if not of the performance at least of the painting. But Alas, the painting is gone too. They have covered it with paint. Somebody tells me that few minutes after I was taken by the police some people came in a truck and covered the painting with a water base compound; in front of the eyes of the astonished crowd. But the oil painting bleed through the water based layer and they have to put a second and a third oil based layers in order to cover my work.

(Some months later I’m reading an interview to the vice-minister of culture Fernando Rojas in Casa de Las Americas magazine. In it vice-minister Rojas states that “we cannot allow another 1980’s generation to take form, under any circumstances”. I realize that the reason why my mural was shot down is that the cultural policies of the government didn’t allow room for any kind of public art manifestation; not even flowers.)

After seeing that the whole mural has been covered by several layers of a grey, thick, oil paint, I walk back home filled with rage and impotence. A few days later I receive a notice from the local base committee of the Communist Youth Union, to which I belonged. I have to go for a meeting in which they are going to analyze my behavior and they are going to determine if I’m still fit to be Young Communist member of the organization.

The next day I arrive to the building where the Communist Youth Organization, known in Spanish as Union de Jovenes Communists or UJC, has the base where I belong. It is in the police headquarters in Havana. How I came to belong to that base committee in that building is a long story, which I’m saving for another moment. So I go the 8^th floor and enter the conference room where the young communists are waiting for me. They ask me to seat at a huge conference table. I seat in the last chair of the row next to the door. In front of me there is another row with about six or seven youth. There are about twenty people in the room in total; all of them dressed in police uniforms. At one end of the table, to my left, the president of the base committee is seated. By looking at her features you can tell that she is an authentic folk of the people, of peasant origins. She has a long straight nose similar to a Venus de Milo, a marble skin, long dark eyebrows never plucked off roofing her dark eyes. Her obsidian hair rolls down in waves from her shoulders to her waist like she has never had a haircut. You can tell that she is a true Cuban Valkyrie. With deep voice she announces the motive of our gathering which is no other than to determine if my behavior can be considered counter-revolutionary or simply criminal, and if I’m still fit to belong to the organization.

Next to the lady president seats a man of about 35 years old, tall and slender with short dark hair and glasses. He launchs a diatribe against my actions. He also produces several pictures of the mural. There is a scream of joy inside of me after realizing that there is some documented record of it. That my friend didn’t take pictures but the state security department did. Voila, the state security department is keeping a record of Cuban art for the future generations. The guy with dark short hair and glasses, which is a first lieutenant pass the pictures around. Another lieutenant, this one a blond guy, joins the indictment against me in earnest voice, followed by another short dark hair lieutenant, this one of a rather complex constitution and without glasses.  They all are charging against me in every possible way. To their merit, the whole place looks like a fashion event from a Nazi Hollywood movie. I respond that when I was taken into the police precinct and I got beaten I said to the guards “the one that is not with me is against me”. A dark tanned girl with an athletic body seated in front of me sighs with an expression of disbelief, mixed with affection, in her beautiful face.

Next to me and at the other end of the table there is a high-ranking officer who has been in silence and who is going to remain in silence for the whole duration of the show while taking notes on a paper and observing everyone else. The president asks me an explanation of the meaning of the painting. I know that if they prove me as a counter-revolutionary artist I’m going to be in big trouble. And if they prove my actions not as counter-revolutionary but as criminal, I’m going to be in trouble too. So, I have to be careful in what I say not to give more ammunition to the three lieutenants who have taken upon themselves to be my prosecutors. I explain to them that my intention was to produce a mural to reach the confused youth of my generation regarding the recent events in the Soviet Union. The president says, “But the words Fidel and Hitler are next to each other and both are in black. Are you going to deny that you are tracing a similarity between both of them?”. I respond that the word Fidel was written with olive green paint while the word Hitler was painted in black. One of the lieutenants, the one of muscular complexion, says that they look the same in the picture. I respond that the pictures are in black and white. The blond lieutenant remarks that they looked similar from across the street. I say that I wasn’t aware of it. Having solved this point I realized that there is no way they can prove my actions as counter-revolutionary. But the criminal part is still open up for discussion. They tell me that in order to paint a street mural in Havana you need a permit from the police. I answer that I didn’t know what the rule was and that if I knew I would have asked for a permit. I also tell them that there was a police officer there from the first day I started the painting. That he wrote my name and address down and also took some notes. That he was there every day since I started and that he never said to me that what I was doing was illegal.  That if he has told me I would have stopped. At this point they know that they cannot find me guilty of violating the criminal code. The only resource left to them is to expel me from the communist youth organization. The president asks everybody if my actions could be considered appropriate for a young communist or if I have rather violated the young communist code of conduct. They all agree that I have violated the young communist code of righteous conduct and they all vote for expelling me from the organization. I feel sad and ashamed but there is nothing I can do about this one. The president writes down that I’m formally not a young communist anymore. The meeting is over and we leave in silence.

All the way home I’m thinking what to tell my mother. She had so many aspirations with me and about my future. By telling her that I have been expelled from the communist youth organization I’m not only telling her that I’m not a young communist anymore; I’m also telling her that I have no future. That all her plans and hopes about me have come to a crushing end. I feel destroyed inside, having disappointed her and so many people along the way. I know that all my dreams and aspirations are over, that I don’t have a place in Cuban society anymore.

I spend the next weeks debating myself what to do with my life. I’m so young and after all there has to be something that I can do. I’m replaying in my mind the recent events and I realize that there is so much to improve concerning drawing, color and composition. I realize that I have to practice my drawing in order to get into the competition to be accepted in San Alejandro fine art school. I have also realized that is not only the Soviet Union that has collapsed in the past few weeks; the Cuban  Revolution has collapsed too, at least  in my mind.
 Epilog:

Two or three weeks later I’m cited again to a meeting at the base committee of the Communist Youth organization. I wonder what this time is all about. I thought the whole thing to be over. Turns out two of the three lieutenants, the blond one and the one with a fair complexion are on trial for selling influences. I discovered that they are lawyers and that they have been selling prison time sentences to common criminals and other stuff like that. They cannot look at my eyes while the high-ranking officer, the one that was seated next to me in silence at the end of the table, lays down the facts. They are in real trouble and they are fit for prison time.