Que aguante, que felicidad

This picture, a wedding out-take, was on our fridge for years. I thought it hilarious when I put that little thought bubble on it and loved the fierce look on my father’s face under that guajiro hat. Those are my parents in the background. See the resemblance with my mom? (The blacking out of my husband’s face, I just did. He’s a private sort.)

So, today marks Year 14 with the Gringo Mas Cubiche Que Hay.

When the man who dared marry me met my family, he was instantly loved.

He’d been to Cuba, where we met while reporting during the 1991 Pan American Games. (“La Virgen te lo trajo,” all the old women said.)

He knew to say: “Kennedy: Bad. Reagan: Good.”

He knew more of Cuban history than some of my own relatives did. He’s a student of history so when he spewed details of Moncada’s attack, Chibas on-the-radio suicide, and such — which they expected no gringo guy from California to know — my great-uncles practically gave me to him in that moment.

He knew to tell my mother how bella she is and in the years since has learned to tell her to “calmate.”

He quickly learned to say: “No hablo, pero entiendo.”

He sealed his fate as “Number 1″ — as my father calls him — when he had little pins made depicting Cuba and South Florida and dotted Havana (where we met), Miami (our wedding locale) and Banes (my mom’s Cuban hometown) on the tiny metal map. He gave them out at our wedding reception. My great-uncles still wear them on their lapels.

I could go on.

But briefly, my husband has provided love, refuge, understanding and a necessary even-temperament to my uneven one. And, as any real marriage should, lots of opportunity for personal growth. If you’ve ever been married, you know exactly what I mean.

This evening as we prayed before dinner, my husband was giving thanks for our years together. As he was finishing, Maria tooted. Loudly. We looked at each other, cracked up, and agreed: “Yup, that’s about it.”