When I was younger, I wore no face.
The streets of La Habana, cracked cement that smelled of cigars and sweat, had no need for my face. Faceless little boys and girls stood in attention, saluting the image of El Che in their sing-song voices. Older gentlemen wore faces of satisfaction: playing dominoes and kissing their grandchildren, paradigms of elderly contentment. The women whispered along the mile-long lines of markets; gossiping with other wives kept their sanity in check. Mothers wore faces of obedience they hoped their sons would imitate.
Once a year, a group of braggadocious teens with cracked faces would hiss profanities under the gleaming statue of Jose Marti. They foresaw a future where the Cuban people had skin beneath their faces, and would dance among the wealthiest, bathing in luxuries not even Fidel could indulge in. This wind of hope reached the commissioners, and the teens’ cracked faces crumbled under their iron boots.
For months, the wails of their mothers kept me up at night. They would plead to a God that did not exist.
My mother wore an intricate rubber face that betrayed no purpose or ambition. It had a smooth, flawless surface that drove me mad. How I loathed the face, yet wished it for myself. Her ambition was unyielding: she sought to escape the streets that buckled under the weight of iron boots. Even when I cried and asked her “Mama, where is Papi?” She would smile and say, “Away on a mission.”

For three years, Papi was away on a mission. Near the dawn of my sixth birthday, when the sunlight kissed the eastern horizon, Mama whisked me and my brother away to see Papi, leaving behind the cracked faces and streets of La Habana.
I do not remember what Papi looked like before he went on his mission. The first time I saw him in Chicago, he wore a robust face made of shiny steel. It was so distinct, yet so similar, to Mama’s. From just a glance, I could tell that he had poured his livelihood into the mask. Perhaps it had been forged in under the moonlight’s glow, where no one but God could hear his pleas for a better life? I was captivated by its luster, and wished to make one similar in its image. But Papi had been making faces for over three decades; it took him three years to make a face that not even iron could crack. Would my face one day be as shiny and strong as his? Or, would it be flexible and stubborn like Mama’s? Papi held my hand and smiled at his faceless daughter.
He said to me “One day, you’ll make a face as pretty as mine.”
A few months later, when I started American school, I began crafting my face. My first face was made of cheap glass. I could not find rubber, so I tried imitating the smoothness of Mama’s. On the first day of class, I wandered around reading faces, for I could not understand this new language that sounded like gravel. My schoolmates’ faces were made of coarse rock, like the streets of Chicago. My face was too fragile to be kept around theirs, so it broke several times before I decided to change the material.
When I was ten, I made a paper face. I was certain that, with this face, I could brave the change when we moved to New Jersey. I would not, could not, cower against the others’ rock faces. The paper face would last longer than the glass one, but the fabric got wet easily – betraying the outline of my eyes too often – so I threw it away and made a new one.
Two years later, I blossomed. To commemorate the occasion, I made a face out of wood. But, the tempest in my mind caused it to explode in flames once my face grew too hot. A year later, the last face I tried making was out of bronze. It, too, would rust away in a few years because of the perpetual sheen of sweat that clung to it.
I spent hours and hours examining Mama and Papa’s perfect faces, ones that appeared innate to them. But I had no steel or rubber (they were too expensive), and I knew it would nonetheless be futile. How could I hope to replicate un don given to them by a non-existent God?
I grew tired of making new faces, so I created a cement-like paste with the residue of my past faces. It smelled of salt and mildew; I gagged as I smeared it on my face. I tried to not mind its stench and pressed forward. The paste hardened and curved to my face. The smell kept other faces away. For years, it did not crack.
Perhaps God truly did exist. Perhaps he was granting me my own don.
I figured that if the cement cracked, I would cover it with another layer, and its form would stay true. I stacked layers upon layers of the pungent paste, hoping that it would never crack, hoping that it would stand the test of time. If Mama could last with rubber, or Papi with steel, surely I could last with cement?
Miami had streets of paved cement, and the sun bathed its buildings in an ethereal glow. I spent so much time looking up, marveling and yearning to stand among God, that I didn’t notice the pool of tar in my path. I flipped on my side as I fell down. The faces of passersby crowded the corner of my eyes before I was completely encased.
Sometimes, people I knew would come by my side. They would give advice and half hearted tugs to pull me out. I told them I didn’t mind, that I was used to it, and they shouldn’t worry.
One day, Papi asked me if I was happy.
With my thick cement face, I smiled and said: “Yes, Papi.”