HAVANA TIMES — As a child, I was unruly, argumentative and domineering…but also something of an overly sensitive crybaby. My dad would always say to me my tears didn’t go well with my character, that I was too strong a girl to cry over so many trivial things.
Though I’d promise myself repeatedly that I wouldn’t cry again, there was always something that made me shed a tear or two. There was something in me, stronger than my will that would ultimately make me cry.
When it wasn’t over the death of a beloved pet, I’d cry because some friend of mine had been mistreated or over anything that caused me pain.
Recently, I cried after reading the post titled “Cubans Visit the Home of their African Ancestors”. The reunion, the memories of my black forefathers, those who were brought from Africa to a life of suffering here, and those who remained behind, made me cry.
I cried over the mistreatment and the suffering my great grandparents, and those before them, were subjected to, and the discrimination attendant upon my grandparents, parents and, to some degree, even myself.
I cry for those in Sierra Leone and other parts of Africa who did not experience the wretchedness of slavery directly, but who floundered in backwardness and misery as a result of the fear that the slave-trade instilled in their blood and souls.
I tell you, friends, even though I try not to – no matter how hard I try to avoid it – I always come across something that makes me cry, my eyes always find a reason to shed a few tears.