The first words out of her mouth were: “I slept with a black man.” That direct phrase left me speechless. After all, it wasn’t like my friend to say such things. I wanted to know more, but I noticed she wasn’t comfortable talking about it. A few weeks later, I ran into her at an exhibition in a gallery in Old Havana and invited her to a cup of hot chocolate. While the steaming cups cooled a bit, I decided to ask her about the incident. This time, she dredged up the courage to talk about her experience. They had met during the recent Havana Film Festival. They had a chat before going to see a movie and after it ended. She told me the conversation was interesting and that they had similar tastes in movies and art in general. They had identified with one another.
She had begun to kiss and embrace the young man, but something in her head was telling her that was wrong. She would ask herself how she could possibly like this man when, her whole life, at home, her family had filled her with hatred towards the black race. Whenever she had invited classmates to study at home, her mother had asked if all of them were white, like she was.
The seed of discrimination had been firmly planted in her mind..CONTINUES