January 13: We Are Family

White rice and Cuban-style Black beans, served Ecuadorian style (with the beans on the side instead of on top).

By Magdalena I. García

Last night my extended family had a dinner to celebrate the birthday of cousin A. who is visiting the US from Cuba. A. is what you might call a true child of the Revolution, born just 12 days after Fulgencio Batista—a U.S.-backed Cuban general, President and dictator—fled the island nation, and the rebels affiliated with the July 26th Movement claimed victory on January 1, 1959. But I gather the Revolution has evolved tremendously since I left the country in 1969, because cousin A.’s universe now includes the militant CDR—Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, which is basically a spying family on every Cuban block—and a growing presence of MP3’s.

We gathered at cousin T.’s house and immediately headed for the kitchen. It’s hard to know why Cuban households bother with a parlor since guests always find their way to the stove, where rumors roast and secrets simmer. Then again, who needs a parlor when you’re born with a chatterbox gene and integrated speakers!

Like a set of mismatched pots and pans, my family is an interesting collage of shapes and colors. There’s cousin J., a die-hard romantic and prolific poet who is a walking heart attack. There’s cousin G., a gourmet cook and pastry chef whose waist keeps evaporating like a reduction sauce. There’s cousin A., a railroad worker whose love life is on the fast track. There’s cousin C., an Iraq War veteran who is a consecrated bachelor. There’s cousin M., an accomplished DJ turned Jehovah’s Witness who could usher in Armageddon with a Conga beat. There’s cousin T., a shapely forty something whose kidneys must be very healthy because she wears the stones around her neck and fingers. There’s cousin N., a robust woman whose heavy breathing reminds us that she has seen better days. There’s cousin M.d.C., a beautician whose wild comments make your hair stand on end. And so on.

We are blondes and brunettes; college graduates and school dropouts; Republicans and Democrats; devout Christians, agnostics, and atheists. And to this wonderful stew you must add the in-laws from Ecuador and the Philippines, and the partners from Illinois and Michigan. And yet, despite the vast differences, as we nibbled on the lechón or the honey-baked ham...as we toasted with Chilean wine, German beer, or American Coca Cola...it was clear that—at least occasionally—we belong together, like White rice and Black beans. As Sister Sledge would sing, “We are family...”