Blessings and Light

BLESSINGS AND LIGHT | HAVANA, CUBA | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

We passed her sitting on a bench just inside the gates on the Cathedral grounds. Her hands outstretched, hoping to receive. A beggar on the threshold of the house of the Lord. I stared at her as we continued inside, unsure of the proper etiquette. 8:30am and already well into the 80s, fahrenheit, that is. It only took a few short minutes for my shirt to become soaking wet and paste itself to my skin.

I stood in back of the Cathedral, quietly making photographs as services began. When the word “Oramos” (Let us Pray) was spoken, she entered, her gait slightly unsteady, but without hesitation, and walked right down the middle aisle, stopping just about center.

She bowed her head and joined the others in prayer.

“Amen…” and in the same fashion she entered, she turned right around and marched back to the doorway, then paused. She placed her hands on the door frame and leaned slightly forward into the light. I captured this moment just before she stepped back out into the world.

Outside, she took her place on the bench, and all was as it was before. Hands outstretched to passers by, hoping to receive.

A beggar on the threshold of the house of the Lord…
With Blessings.

Havana.

Morning Light... 314 Aguila Street, Havana

MORNING LIGHT | HAVANA | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

The seventh floor flat we rented had an easterly view, perhaps a bit south of east. Each morning, the sun slowly snaked around the buildings and through the streets of this old city, bringing shadow and light. An appropriate paradox.

Our flat was in Central Havana, a simple neighborhood populated by local folks and scant few tourists. This was just fine. On the street, quiet mornings quickly gave way to the daily “get down” of life in La Habana. School kids, taxis, fruit mongers, construction workers, and shops filled with craftsmen that will repair any and everything… while you get a haircut.

We decided our neighborhood was “sketchy”, but safe. The sketchy part? There was some kind of hustle happening around every corner, folks with stuff to sell. People tryin’ to put a little extra paper in their pockets, or what one should expect in a country with an average monthly salary of $25. The most common offers were of bootleg cigars and weed, followed by cocaine, which I seriously doubt was actually cocaine, and women who promised to make your moments with them ever so memorable for the low, low price of…

I wasn’t mad at ‘em, though. How could I be? I’m from a country built on the kidnapping, blood, sweat, rape, and lynching of people who looked just like me. People who, after their so called emancipation, had nothing but a hustle to live on. Naw, I wasn’t mad at all.

Our guide and companion, our Alejandra, left us at the end of each long, beautiful, and exhausting day by hopping into some random 1950s taxi, already filled with strangers, often men, and riding off into the night. My friend and I never got used to this. It went against every lesson, every cautionary tale, and every survival instinct we’d absorbed during our lives as Black men living in the US. You do NOT send a woman home by herself. And you certainly do not allow her to get into a car full of strange men in the middle of the night… unless, of course, you’re in Havana.

Alejandra, all of 23 years old, a Theatre History professor, an actress who has been in her share of telenovelas, and has performed in a number of The Bard’s plays, and who recited Puck’s closing monologue from A Midsummer Night’s Dream to me one afternoon over coffee, would simply smile each time we protested her preferred mode of travel. She would say “Guys, this is normal. This is what we do. It will be fine. See you in the morning. Ciao!” Hugs and kisses and away she would go.

This place.

Juxtaposition

JUXTAPOSITION | HAVANA, CUBA | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

In the foreground we have two young girls on their way to school. In the background, we have a scene from Inception. This pretty much sums up the visual nature of Havana.

The city is awash in beautiful and often, massive and decaying structures created decades ago by master architects and builders. Colors weathered and worn but that still explode with a preternatural vibrance under the slightest bit of sunlight, they shine an embarrassing light on the drab, lifeless, beige existence that is so pervasive in the United States.

We’ve all seen city streets ripped apart, chunks of concrete and asphalt strewn alongside the roads while various components of infrastructure are added, removed or replaced. But when it happens in a place like Havana, it's just another work of art.
Abstract Expressionism for the People.

On another note: the skirts worn by the young girls in this photograph don’t start out that way. When the uniform first arrives, the skirt actually stops just below the knees. But as every parent knows... teenagers are gonna be teenagers, and that’s that.

The Great Lovers of La Habana

THE GREAT LOVERS OF LA HABANA | © PRESTON LEWIS THOMAS

There was a visceral tone to this second trip to Havana. Aside from the fact that practically everyone there thought I was Cubano, the people were extremely welcoming, and openly interested in who the hell we were.

The Sister in this photograph called out to me and pointed to her home. She opened the door which gave way, as so many of the structures do, to multiple thresholds, open rooftops, peeling paint, lavish colors, and strange stairwells. She pointed to my camera, beckoning me to make a photograph of all she was showing me - in a very Vanna White fashion.

I was totally captivated, not by her home, but by her. I loved how forward and fearless and open she was to total strangers. Maybe not strangers at all.

I asked instead for her photograph. She laughed, at which point, Lover Boy, husband I assumed, poked his head out to see what was happening. We all just stared at each other for a minute, and then he simply embraced her and began planting kisses.

Such were our days…