Till We Meet Again

I’ve lived in Miami all my life. I am not Cuban, although I’ve taken Spanish since grade school. My skills have remained on a “need to speak” basis. I don’t speak Spanish unless I need it to for work, give directions to a lost someone, or sing the occasional Feliz Cumpleanos with my Fiance’s family.  

I am more embarrassed than anything for having been learning spanish for the last 20 years, and still get a grip on it. Still, once I leave Miami, I’m aware how Cuban culture is a big part of my Miami-ness. 

In Suarez’s “ Song for the Royal Palms of Miami,” the nostalgic description of the palms resonate with my memories (it was written for Firmat, who lived in Miami, making him the key audience): “Everywhere they stand, slightly bent/ against nocturnal offshore breezes.” This is an appeal to pathos, and happens throughout the poem. The palm is strong against the forces of nature, and is a symbol of another home: “pilled by the roots,/ remembrance of our lost childhoods.” I’ve traveled, felt the emptiness of nostalgia, and out of the blue seeing a palm tree standing tall against the wind made me feel at home. 

Gustavo Perez Firmat’s Transcending Exile: Cuban-American Literature Today is one of my favorite readings of the class.  Miami is not Miami without the Cuban culture, even for those who are not Cuban; drinking a cortadito every morning, roasting a whole pig for Christmas, and jamming to Salsa is part of the Miami culture I experience; even if I’ve felt left out due to my non-Cubanness, I am from Miami, and there is Cuba in Miami. 

  What drew me to Firmat’s Transcending Exile was how I could relate to it. His idea that transcending exile could be accomplished through literature is not new, however, his categorical perspective - that exile literature could be categorized into immigrant, exile, or ethnic literature - is a genuine thought, expressed through his own cultural understanding.  His main argument is that a culmination of culture - Cuban-American - can be experienced through ethnic literature. He states, “the ethnic writer is not interested in assimilation or return...to refuse both of these option,” with ethnic literature being “neither prospective or retrospective.” Firmat assert’s this allows the writer and reader to experience more than just floating around in longing.

I gravitate towards this idea because I see it in Miami; even Spanglish, arguably a demoralization of language, is a technique Firmat claims could be used to translate an ethnic cultural experience. His genuine voice appeals to ethos, and appeals to my pathos.  He seems to be speaking to an audience who normally rejects this kind of idea. However, his clear arguments to accept an already existing ethnic culture is an appeal to logos.

Firmat’s Epilogue: My Repeating Island begins: “What sort of exile is this person, who’s homeland is not longer his home?” This makes the audience think about the subject that will be presented, and appeals to their emotion.  It is a strong rhetorical act, with a sense of timing and format, providing Firmat with an opportunity to answer the question insight-fully: “The chronic exile never says, I am an exiled Cuban. He always says, I am a Cuban exile: the noun, the substantive, is exile.” 

It is also important to know the audience is reading the epilogue because they are reading My Life in the Hyphen written by Firmat. It’s an opportunity to introduce his book, and the “three faces of Cubanness: cubanidad, cubaneo, and cubanía. Cubanidad...” His use of style in mixing english and spanish - “in a homeland, una patria” - reveals a culmination of his becoming an the ethnic writer he wrote about in Transcending Exile.

Getting to speak to Firmat was an interesting experience because I got a better sense of his ethos, face-to-face, and affected how I internalized all 3 pieces. Hearing and seeing a writer speak about a piece we analyze is also a rhetorical determination of how we interpret a text.