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Battle of the T-shirts by Miriam Frances Abety Here we were, high noon and ready for the Battle of the T-shirts. Click to read Essay Profile of Author Bio of Author from ETG Essay, Late-breaking Developments Author's Comment on the ETG Experience Updated Bio Click to Purchase Send email to the author (The copyright on this essay is held by the author.  For permission to duplicate: copyright@cunepress.com)

Battle of the T-shirts
I was born with curly jet-black hair and eyes. "You’re a Cuban," my father would tell me, "who was born in the US by accident." My mother, a redhead from the countryside of Oriente, Cuba, came to New York to escape the monotony of a small agrarian town. She would dash from the kitchen, ladle in hand and yell, "You are Americana." As a teen and young adult, I never knew what nationality to claim. Now I identify myself as Cuban.

A few years ago, my friends Rolando and José and I walked into a Publix supermarket. We bought supplies consisting of wine, cheese, Cuban bread, and grapes for our ritual Café-con-leche Sunday, in which we read and critique each other’s work. Café-con-leche, "Coffee-with-milk," is the name I came up with for our writing group. I felt that the name reflected our cultural relationship in the community and with each other. Two of us are Cuban born, one is not; two of us grew up in Miami and felt rootless for many years, one did not; two of us are gay, one is not; two of us are men, one is not; two of us have liberal views when it comes to dialogue with Cuba, one does not. When we are together, we add rich flavor to each other’s lives.

It was near noon, and the vigilante summer sun torched my arms, burned my nose, and vexed my eyes. I had forgotten my sunglasses so I compensated by squinting. We passed the shopping carts and headed for the ATM. I observed the silhouette of a muscular man just ahead. He walked alongside two smiling men, smaller than he. My friends poked me to let me know the one with wavy hair and Fabio frame, the papi or cute one, was observing me. The sun’s intense light hovered just above him like an aura. I squinted to get a better view and noticed his bright smile. I smiled back. We Latins are very friendly, you know. "Well, Miriam," said my friend Rolando, "it looks like we’ve found you a date and you won’t have to spend the weekend cleaning your house, after all."

"Are you kidding?" José said, "he’s obviously looking at me."

I didn’t pay attention to José. My eyes tried to automatic focus, like the lens of a modern camera. My lenses, however, were manual, and did not cooperate. I got closer and, naturally, so did the man. He must have been as nearsighted as I, for when we were close enough to read each other’s T-shirts, we reacted like aggressive animals ready to defend our territory. We stood firm, about two feet away from each other, two stiff alley cats ready for combat.

One of us wore a T-shirt that had a picture of Nelson Mandela and the caption, "The Miami Herald

Welcomes Nelson Mandela to Miami." The other one wore a gusano (worm) T-shirt. In Miami’s Cuban community, a gusano is symbolic. You see, when the mass exodus of Cubans from the island in the late 1960s flooded Miami, Castro called the exiles gusanos, cowards. The caption of the T-shirt read, "Gusano o muerto. Nunca dialogo." A worm or dead. Never dialogue. To understand why these two T-shirts can bring two Cubans to challenge each other, much like the shoot outs at the O.K. Corral, one must understand the conservative Cuban community’s dislike for Mandela.

Nelson Mandela has expressed sympathy toward Cuba’s Fidel Castro. In Miami, if you associate yourself with Castro or even approve of dialogue, you are automatically categorized as a communist. You are a natural enemy to a gusano, no matter what. In Miami’s Cuban community, politics are black and white; no room for shades of gray. You either are, or you’re not, on the "right" side—the extreme right.

Here we were, high noon and ready for the Battle of the T-shirts. We Cubans are very emotional, you know. He stared at my shirt, I at his. Not everything is so clear cut, I wanted to say. Our two sets of friends sized each other up. José is Audrey Hepburn thin, Rolando average build. One of the papi’s friends was Jackie Gleason fat, the other, average build. This inevitable altercation would leave three people in bad shape, the Café-con-leche team, that is.

My opponent looked down at me. I looked up at him and raised my eyebrows. "Any questions?" my eyebrows asked. For a moment I felt that he was going to spit at me. He moved a little bit forward, then his friends grabbed him. My friends grabbed me.

"Vamos," the fat one on the other side said.

The papi walked closely in front of me. I could smell his breath, café-con-leche. He looked at me, I stared at him as defiantly as a cornered mouse, he winked, and asked "Mandela?"

"He’s South Africa’s José Marti," I said, knowing he’d understand. José Marti was the legendary Cuban patriot/poet who fought for independence from Spain.

The papi motioned me to walk into the store where the ATM was located. Cubans are very polite, you know. We entered.

"Well," José said, "maybe he was interested in me after all."

Profile
Once Miriam Frances Abety and I went to a reading at Books and Books, a Spanish-style building in the heart of Coral Gables that is every local writer’s Mecca. Miriam was wearing her black "Against Animal Testing" T-shirt, and her long, curly auburn hair was all over the place. I dressed more appropriately for the reading; a plaid shirt with cut off sleeves and jeans with holes in the knees. The bookstore was flooded with the usual writing students, writing wannabes, and writers like myself.

Allan Gurganis read from his new book White People. While he read, Miriam and I bickered in whispers, arguing, as always, about how I feel about writers who join academia and dilute writing by making it structured. Afterwards, we left, blaming each other for missing the content of the evening. We went to Miriam’s house. She played her favorite Cuban singer, La Lupe, a singer the likes of Nina Simone with the civility of Janis Joplin. We drank Robert Mondavi white zinfandel and "clinked" our glasses, our peacemaking. She read a story to me she had been working on. "So the literary mood permeates," she said. She read her short story about a middle-aged woman whose preppy daughter comes to visit and who disapproves of her mother’s lifestyle. In page after page, written with ink from the heart, and a spicy touch of madness, I was engaged with a writer who is full of life, as life is full of her.

To be a single mother, a career woman, a graduate student in a doctoral program in psychology and a master’s program in creative writing, a social activist, and a prolific writer, simultaneously, requires an unusual and powerful alchemy. Miriam never fails to amaze, irritate, and anger with her prose.

—José Toledo

Bio
Miriam Frances Abety
Place of residence: Miami.
Birthplace: Manhattan.
Day job: Therapist in domestic violence program.
Education: M.S. in psychology. Completing Ph.D. and M.F.A. in creative writing.
Awards: First prize, New Times Hurricane Andrew Writing Contest. Second round finalist, Steven Spielberg’s Screenwriting Fellowship. Voted Best Sister of Flagettes in High School.
Current projects: The Son of the Wagonman—a novel. Like a Miami Flamingo—a memoir from which this essay is excerpted.
Favorite book: The last one I read that inspired me.
Beliefs: Vegetarian and animal rights activist.
Recognition: Thanks Sami, for being the best daughter and friend any woman could have. I’m really proud of you!

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