Author: Laura Ornella
“LAWURAAAA!” A bald, 5’2’’, 94-year-old Cuban man rises from his bed, squealing my name like he always does. I’m in the doorway of an assisted living home in Upstate New York and that excited bald man is my grandfather, Saul.
I bend down to hug him and gently rub his hand; his tissue-paper skin speckled with moles.
“Hi! Should we go outside?” I chirp, knowing the destination is our usual spot — the nearby Dunkin Donuts. “Yes! Of course!” He sings back in his thick accent. As we exit, I notice the piece of toast and the pile of ketchup packets squirreled away in his nightstand. I make a mental note to clean it after our outing.
This is our weekly routine and has been for almost two years now.
In the spring of 2021 during the COVID lockdown, a newfound curiosity in me was sparked about my heritage. (It started with some psychic sessions in regards to my great-grandfather, but you’ll just have to see my solo show PREDICTABLE that covers all of that 😉)
The psychic was great, but I had questions even she couldn’t answer. It seemed only natural to ask the last living source from my ancestors’ homeland, Cuba — my grandfather, Saul.
“My grandpa had created a whole new life for his wife and children in America as an immigrant trained at a Cuban trade school. I hungered to know more, and I did.”
We had spoken sporadically throughout the years, but we weren’t particularly close. However, as the pandemic wore on, I had the time and space to realize how important knowing my Cuban heritage was. It was clear that not talking to him would be a missed opportunity.
After our first phone call, I quickly realized my broken, elementary Spanish wouldn’t suffice for much more than a timid “How are you doing?” This was past Google Translate territory. And while he’s fluent in English, his ears weren’t up for the challenge the phone provided.
I was embarrassed by my failed memory; I had studied Spanish from high school until my sophomore year of college.
How could I read the language better than I spoke it?!
I felt utterly useless.
Feebly, I signed up for online Spanish classes, but, after much floundering, I put out the bat signal for translator friends to hop on calls with us in the evenings.
My grandfather was thrilled! If anything, we both share a love of entertaining. He got such a kick out of reliving his stories! He’d recite long, dramatic poems in Spanish from memory, riddles, jokes from his childhood.
His rapid Spanish was sprinkled with giggles as the translator noted the main points of each story for me to read later. I’d catch a stray word here and there, but I certainly wasn’t following plot lines. Nevertheless, it was comforting.
I knew the language by sound and tempo so well that it felt like a familiar song.
“My previous depiction of my family began to dissolve before my eyes as something clearer emerged — the realization of my ancestors’ humanity.”
Afterward, when I digested the translator’s notes, I learned how our family narrowly escaped Batista’s reign in Cuba, his involvement in the Cuban rebellion, and my relatives’ heroism during their country’s uprising. My previous depiction of my family began to dissolve before my eyes as something clearer emerged — the realization of my ancestors’ humanity.
These people were no longer faceless, unknowable blurs; details came into view. My great-grandfather was tall, dark, and handsome. My grandpa had created a whole new life for his wife and children in America as an immigrant trained at a Cuban trade school. I hungered to know more, and I did. I learned that Saul was in dire need of help.
By summer, my partner and I were exhaustedly sifting through my grandfather’s belongings in his bedroom in rural Georgia. We’d flown out to transition him into housing.
People who don’t qualify for Medicaid can choose to live in a private residence where the homeowner agrees to provide meals, laundry, and a bedroom for a higher monthly rate. It’s more affordable than paying out-of-pocket for a nursing home, but it isn’t government-regulated in any way. It’s just an agreement between the homeowner and the tenant. That’s where he’d go until he spent enough of his savings to qualify for Medicaid.
While it’s easy to trash the mattress manual from 1989, what does one do with the loaded guns, knives, cockroaches, and mold ringing the room? I traveled to Georgia knowing he needed help, but I was shocked to see this level of neglect.
Saul had been rooming with a fellow friend in his nineties (cue CBS sitcom music), and his daughter, Cara, revealed that my grandfather had overstayed his welcome by six months.
Cara’s father’s health was declining and my grandfather needed to move out immediately.
While I was unaware of what caring for him would entail, I knew I couldn’t live peacefully in ignorance. So, there we were, my partner and I, unrolling trash bags and bagging up Saul A.’s possessions.
The objects varied. Faded film pictures from Cuba. Moth-eaten sweaters and polyester shirts. A bottle of rum from the ‘60s. Mounds of indistinguishable trash. A family portrait from before I was born miraculously leaned against the wall in pristine condition.
Someone who had led such a heroic existence now had his wide-eyed adult granddaughter awkwardly stuffing his most prized possessions into trash bags.
“Even though I can’t speak his native language, he and I both know he’s my abuelo.”
I’m half-Cuban, but I’ve always felt conflicted about what I “am.” My family’s escape from the country is a harrowing story — but I was born in Ohio. I’ve had my struggles, but fleeing a dictatorship certainly wasn’t one of them.
I didn’t learn Spanish until school. I could fumble through ordering lunch and sing “Happy Birthday” with gusto — but not much beyond that. Because of this disconnect, I’ve always referred to my grandfather as just that — grandpa.
Calling him “abuelo” always made me feel like a fraud. “Abuelo” felt like a name reserved for fluent Spanish speakers, people who understood the language for more than just its sounds.
Another year would pass before I would end up moving my grandfather to New York to be with me. Until then, it would be endless phone calls with government workers, biting family emails, and multiple trips to various rural Georgia townships as he bounced from one unfortunate home to another.
One homeowner would seem great, but then I’d find out they would have a lock on the fridge; another wouldn’t let him watch television on Sundays. No one seemed to want to understand him or how to care for him. It soon became clear that Saul had limited options. No one wanted to live with a 93-year-old man.
Once, while living in Georgia at one of these many housing arrangements, my grandfather ran away after being forced to shower (he has dementia, and showering is often an issue). When he was finally hospitalized (a request I’d made so I could arrange new housing), they told me I had two options: get someone here to receive him, or they’d release him onto the streets.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Even with his dementia diagnosis, he was free to roam about town unprotected. I was experiencing how unhousing happens in real-time.
I felt like I was failing every day. After securing housing for him for the fifth time, I was on the brink of giving up. While this wasn’t the life I wanted for him, I felt utterly helpless.
Then, one day, my friend Ryan, who lived in Atlanta and had taken Saul out to lunch a couple of times, called to ask me how he was doing. I was honest. I was ashamed but also too exhausted to think of any other response other than the truth. Ryan listened. And then, seemingly effortlessly, offered to help move my grandfather to New York.
It’s still one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.
If I tried to explain what I did now, I couldn’t. It’s all a blur and, sometimes, I think my mind doesn’t want to remember out of protection. What I do know is that the process seems purposefully complicated and classist, and I now truly understand that state lines truly dictate the quality of life in this country.
While I’m thankful to live in a state with more accessibility for its elders, it was and is still a tireless fight to get the care he needs. I worry for those nationwide who toe the poverty line so closely just to receive a fraction of the help they deserve. As Medicaid cuts loom with our current administration, I worry the complexities will only increase as the aid diminishes.
But for now, we are at Dunkin’ Donuts.
Saul continues to reminisce just like he used to on the phone — travels to Spain and France, his job at Procter & Gamble — qualities about my ancestors. This is the same man who hid arms in a broom factory as a part of the Cuban revolution, who fearlessly moved to the U.S. with my grandmother, three children, and hardly any belongings.
This same man sits before me, enjoying his donut, chattering on about all he’s lived. I reach for his hand. He grabs it instinctively. I realize now that I’m one of the few left who can possibly understand him. And even though I can’t speak his native language, he and I both know he’s my abuelo.
About the Author:
Laura Ornella is a first-generation Cuban American, New York-based actor, writer and comedian. Her credits include Just For Laughs, Comedy Central, Vulture, SeriesFest and HollyShorts.
If you liked this essay, catch Laura’s solo show PREDICTABLE. Follow her on IG and TikTok @_lauraornella for updates.
Find more about Laura on her site: www.lauraornella.com