If you know one thing about Cuba or have read a few of my more distressed musings over the years, you’re aware of how hard things are here. Some people have it easier than others of course – that’s the way of all societies, including those striving to be equitable and just – but I can count on one hand the Cubans I know who have it easy como tal.
The rest of us? We’re taking it One Day at a Time, trying to keep kindled the light in our eyes as we tolerate brutally long lines under an equally brutal sun; navigate a frustratingly disorganized (and often contradictory) bureaucracy; and bid adieu a steady stream of friends and loved ones as they leave the island.
That light, the inner sparkle and glow which I’m convinced helps us mere mortals to remain upright and breathing against the most violent and debilitating experiences life is forever fond of meting out – brain cancer, heartbreak, war, earthquakes, Tea Party republicans – has been snuffed for many here. Perhaps you’ve seen it yourself.
Is it just a coincidence that Cuba has one of the world’s highest suicide rates? And for all you dissident fucks and pseudo-intellectual detractors who pin blame on the revolutionary government, I recommend you read Lou Perez’ definitive tome To Die in Cuba: Suicide and Society. Therein you’ll discover that Cuba has had a sky-high suicide rate throughout the ages. I’d venture a guess that rather than any political paradigm, imperialism, slavery and neo-colonialism (plus their oppressive after effects), combined with lost or tossed love are largely to blame.
Causes aside, the problem is that in today’s Cuba, killing yourself is not an easy proposition. I wouldn’t even know where to get a gun, for instance, and no one I know has a working oven to stick your head in, let alone a car and garage guaranteeing proper asphyxiation. As far as I can tell, unless you throw yourself in front of a bus, off a bridge or down a dry well (a popular solution in the campo if I’m not mistaken), you’re shit out of luck in terms of trying to off yourself.
Hanging is a universally popular option, but how do you knot the thing correctly? If we had any decent kind of Internet, this could easily be learned on YouTube, I’m sure, but alas…And then there’s the question of finding an appropriate spot for your final dangle. I know that in my microbrigada apartment, there isn’t a prospective beam that isn’t termite-infested, an overhead fan that could bear my weight or other place for proper hanging. Getting cozy with a toaster in the tub seems practical – if you know anyone with a toaster or a tub. I suppose you could substitute an olla reina, but finding a tub? Good luck with that.
This leaves poison, pills or wrist-slashing (vertically, people, not across the veins). All things considered, I suppose an overdose would be the best bet. How many diazapan do you think it would take? That’s a rhetorical question.
I leave you with these thoughts since this will likely be my last post for a spell as I try and enjoy something of this summer.
