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I always said I never wanted to write an autobiography.I always dreamed to have a movie made about mylife, but I never imagined a book. Yet here we are. So what finallyconvinced me to write my story? I realized that whenI'm gone, there will be those who'll say, "Celia was like this,"and others who'll dispute that and say, "No, she wasn't likethat at all, she was more like this ... "
Everyone is entitled to an opinion, but I decided to tell mystory in my own words, so no one could ever dispute the truefacts about my life. Who better to tell my story than thewoman who actually lived it, right?
This book is a collection of my own opinions, memories,points of view, and feelings. Wherever my recollections maydiffer with those of others, I just want to remind readers thatevery individual sees things his or her own way. Interpretationis a funny business.This book and these memories are all mine.
My name is Úrsula Hilaria Celia Caridad Cruz Alfonso. Iam the daughter of Catalina Alfonso, whom everyone knew as"Ollita," and Simón Cruz. I was born in Havana, Cuba, in alittle house located at 47 Serrano Street, in the poorer sectionof a working-class neighborhood of different races and ethnicitiescalled Santos Suárez. Since Cuba has undergone terriblechanges since I left, and I have never stepped foot on theisland since I became an exile, I don't know if the little house I once lived in exists anymore, or if it does, it still looks anythinglike I remember it.
I'll never reveal the actual year I was born. By no means do Iclaim to be younger than I am, but I won't ever divulge my age.Whoever wishes to know how old I am will have to wait. I'm surewhen the time comes, the funeral home will make that public.But I'll never tell. Everyone will simply have to keep on guessing.
My birth was marked with drama. It was a major event for myaunt Ana Alfonso. "Tía Ana," as everyone called her. Tía Ana andmy mother shared a deep love for each other.When my motherwas pregnant with me, Tía Ana's newborn daughter had justdied. The death of her newborn daughter scarred her so deeplythat she never had another child -- of her own, anyway.
My mother, Ollita, was in Havana when Tía Ana's little girldied. Since Tía Ana lived some two hundred miles west, in thecity of Pinar del Río, my mother -- who was then pregnant withme -- traveled all the way to Pinar del Río to console her. WhenOllita finally arrived at Tía Ana and Uncle Panchito's house, shefound her sister holding her dead daughter in her arms. Tía Anawas surrounded by other women, pleading dramatically with herto let her dead baby go. She refused. Ollita approached her sisterand, after kissing her tenderly, calmed her down until Tía Ana finallyagreed to let go of her daughter. My mother convinced TíaAna to resign herself to fate.
Given that Tía Ana was heartbroken, my mother said to her,"Ana, when a child dies at birth, or if it's born dead, that meansthat its soul will return.You have to leave a mark on that littlechild so you'll recognize her when she's reborn. She's sure tocome back to us." I don't think my mother realized how much toheart Tía Ana would take her words.
They prepared the dead baby girl for her wake and began to pray. Apparently,Tía Ana wouldn't cry: she stared at the coffin insilence. Without saying a word, my mother told me that Tía Anagot up, walked toward her dead daughter, hunched over the casket,and began to whisper into her ear. My mother said that shewhispered, "I know one day you'll come back, and I'll be waitingfor you. I'm going to mark you so I can recognize you when youreturn to me." And with that, Tía Ana grabbed the dead baby'spinkie fingers and pulled them back so hard toward her thumbsthat they broke. Everyone in the room gasped.
My mother, who was sitting close to the coffin, told me thatshe was so stunned by what her sister had done that she felt asthough someone had punched her in the chest. She lost herbreath and almost fainted the second she heard those fingersbreak. Later she told me that the instant those fingers were broken,she felt me jump inside her womb. The other ladies at thewake ran toward my mother, giving her water and calming her byfanning her face with fans made of straw. The following day, mylittle cousin was given an appropriate Catholic burial, and afterwardmy mother stayed with Tía Ana for several days before returningto Havana.
A few months later, on a cool afternoon, my mother was sittingon the porch of our house in Santos Suárez, singing, as washer custom. Suddenly, a strong breeze began to blow. Ollita toldme she felt so cold, she began to rub her arms with her hands,and just when she was about to get up and get a shawl to warmherself, she heard a voice whisper my name in her ear. From thatmoment on,my mother knew I was going to be a girl and that myname would be Celia Caridad.
There are only two seasons in my beloved Cuba, thedry season and the wet one, and both are equally warm. At the end of October, the pounding rains let up a bit. Nonetheless, it'sthen that everyone begins to prepare for the impending dampheat. I decided to enter the world on one of those warm days,surrounded by song and prayer.
Because she felt so heavy, Ollita couldn't help but stare at herbelly all day long. With all the black beans and white rice that weate in Cuba, newborns tended to be quite big ...
Excerpted from Celia: My Life by Ana Cristina Reymundo, Celia Cruz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
