90 Miles to Havana

“Real gunshots are like the roar of a lion compared to the meow of a cat.” 

This quote exemplifies Julian’s random switches in narrative tone from deep and thoughtful, to simple and childlike. Sometimes, he thinks in colorful and metaphorical language, as he does here, to show that children can be insightful. They can make meaningful connections, especially when they are afraid, to fictional things they have read or seen on television.

“I’m starting to get this scary feeling that anything could happen anytime, anywhere. It’s like the glue that kept everything and everyone together started to dissolve right after I lost the big fish.” 

This moment is important because it is one of the first times where we see Julian’s innocence crumbling. Children often think they are invincible, that their parents are perfect heroes who will always keep them safe. When he sees the chaos of revolution, he starts to understand that the world is a scary place and not even his parents can protect him from everything. He also blames himself, developing an adult-like self-awareness.

“That’s when I started thinking that drawing is like magic. When I draw I have X-ray vision. I can see how all the parts fit together and then I understand how things work and sometimes how I feel.” 

Here, we see how Julian draws in order to understand his emotions. Like the machines he takes apart and reconstructs with Bebo and Tomas, he can deconstruct his own feelings by expressing them in picture form. Through drawing, he becomes a superhero with x-ray vision—bigger than the hero he dreams of becoming.

“The saddest line was the one that snaked around the back of the embassy. That line was for the parents who could not get passports but were trying to send their children out alone. Maybe that explained the steely expressions they all wore like masks. They looked sad and determined, as if they had made up their minds to take the medicine, no matter how bad it tasted.” 

This scene foreshadows Julian’s parents sending away their own children. Julian cannot understand why a parent would do this, so he likens it to taking medicine. As a child, Julian has probably been given medicine by his parents and knows that it is not something children may take willingly. This is how he begins to understand his parents’ sacrifice.

“The soldiers seal the windows with their red tape, trapping the spirit of the families inside with their laughter, dishes, and photographs. Those empty houses, like the tombs of the Egyptian kings we read about in school, are dark and mysterious and begging to be explored.” 

Julian compares the abandoned houses of those who have fled the country to Egyptian tombs because he believes they are sacred ground now. They hold the memories of the families that lived there. For someone young enough to not understand the families’ reasons for leaving, the houses also hold the key to this “mysterious” understanding.

“Until this morning it had all seemed like a dream—a dream about some other kid—but now I know this is real. Now, every time she says, ‘we don’t know’ or ‘maybe,’ she blows a little more haze away from that dream. I used to believe that my mother and father knew everything, and everything went the way they planned, but now I’m not so sure about that. Now I’m wondering what’s going to be waiting for us at the other end. My mother hasn’t told me everything because she thinks I’m too young to understand and she doesn’t want to scare me. But I’m not too young to know that it’s not her fault, and that she doesn’t really want to send us away to a strange country all alone, and I’m not too young to feel terrible about it.” 

This passage marks the moment Julian sees the reality of his parents’ human fallibility. Being afraid is distressful but seeing your own parents afraid is even more frightening. Part of the “haze” clearing is Julian’s rapid coming-of-age; the “dream” of childhood is being shattered.

“As we bank over Havana the broken plate in my pocket is poking into my leg, reminding me that it’s not a dream—everything has fallen apart. One minute we were together and safe, and the next minute, everything is broken and dangerous. Outside my little window the thunderheads are rolling white-cloud boulders into castles, high in the deep blue sky. Our new dictator can wave his cigar, wag his finger, make people stand in lines, fill the streets with tanks and soldiers, close my school, turn everything upside down, but he can’t tell the clouds what to do. Every day, like clockwork, the clouds still build their castles, then they come tumbling down with the afternoon showers.” 

Once again calling on the “dream” imagery, Julian likens his family and childhood to the broken plate. This comparison is even more powerful because Julian is the one who broke the plate, meaning he also feels some responsibility for his broken family for not catching the big fish. Ironically, being suspended in the plane gives him a sense of stability in chaos.

“That night, right before they turn the lights off, I try to draw a picture of the map on the director’s wall but I didn’t have an animal or a thing to remember the shape by. So I draw the humped crocodile of my island and three jagged triangles standing on one point: Havana. I could draw Florida easily, but the three triangles remind me of the broken plate, and then I start thinking about my mother. I close the drawing book as fast as I can and then as I slide it under the mattress the lights go out.” 

This scene shows how Julian not only draws to remember but draws by remembering and making real life into shapes in his mind. He knows his home by making it into a familiar animal. When the memories of home get too strong, he stops remembering, a strategy that he learns to perfect as he spends more time away from his family.

“As I walk back toward the camp, the gray metal buildings look even stranger than they did the first time I saw them: the distances seem bigger, emptier. I feel like there is nothing keeping the wind from picking me up and blowing me over the chain-link fence along with the red dust.” 

Here, Julian’s brothers have just left the camp. Julian senses that they are going away permanently, so he feels “lighter” without them. Like the buildings, he is emptier. This emptiness is scary at first, but later, he learns to survive independently of his brothers; he learns to see the lightness as a part of growing up.

“Something is scrambling, scratching around in my chest. It feels like an angry little animal that’s been cooped up for a long time and now it has to get out.” 

Julian has always had trouble identifying and expressing his feelings, so when he gets angry at Caballo, it feels new and foreign enough to be some other animal entirely. It is easier to deal with emotions if he thinks of them as separate from himself—whether through drawings or as caged-up animals.

“When the fear finally drains out of my legs, I get up and make my way to the shed. I hide out on the roof, drawing on a piece of paper I’ve been carrying around in my back pocket since I lost my book to Caballo. I draw myself trembling and smaller than I actually am. I’m ashamed of myself for getting so scared, letting him push me around. If Alquilino and Gordo had seen me, I’m sure they would have laughed, too.” 

Again, Julian turns to drawing, even when he does not have his drawing book; he draws on whatever he can get. This moment shows how Julian can sometimes get lost in his own imagination. He lets his feelings of shame and inadequacy dictate his relationship to others and himself. His brothers probably would defend and support him instead of laugh at him, but he cannot imagine that reality.

“Angelita and I are dancing on a groaning table like its [sic] New Year’s Eve, as if our revolution is over and Caballo the dictator has grabbed all the desserts and flown away. Now I understand why those people in Havana were throwing chairs through the windows and ripping parking meters out of the ground with their bare hands.” 

This is a clear example of the connection between Caballo and the Cuban dictators. Just like the people rioting in the streets in Havana, Julian and the camp children are celebrating having overthrown their own ruler. The use of the word “our” demonstrates Julian taking pride in, and ownership of, his actions; it has become personal.

“Maybe this is a crazy idea. But then one little thought lights up the dark edges of the others: this might be a crazy idea, but it’s my idea. My brothers are not here to tell me I can’t do it or that I should do it some other way.” 

This is the moment Julian starts to feel more sure of himself without his brothers. He is slowly getting out of their shadow and becoming his own person. The “dark edges” mean he is still sad that they are gone, but he can now appreciate their role in stifling his growth and independence.

“If I listen and look just right, the growl of engines, beeping of the horns, and the tack-tack of a jackhammer turn into music, then the men in their yellow hats almost look like they’re dancing to the beat of the song. But the music here is louder, harsher than the music of Havana. There you could hear conversations breathing out of cool entryways, caged birds singing on a balcony, and the muffled clack-clack of someone mopping the floor inside. Here there are no voices or songbirds, just the crunch and grind of machines.” 

There are many moments of comparison between Miami and Havana, but this one is meaningful because of the musical diction. The irony lies in Julian’s denial of there being any beautiful music in Miami, all while creating a beautiful musical description himself. This is symbolic of refugees adapting to their new home and making their own “music,” or life, in a foreign land.

“I take my wrinkled shirt off and try to lie down inside the castle, but I’m too big, so I poke my legs through the walls. This is the first time I’ve ever felt too big to do anything. It’s usually the other way around. I guess now, without my brothers trying so hard to make me feel small, I get to be as big as I want. Sometimes I miss them, but at the same time I think I like being with Angelita and Tomas better. They let me do older things, things that my brothers would say I was too young to do.” 

The castle in this scene represents Julian’s brothers trying to box him in and prevent him from stretching his legs out. Feeling bigger makes Julian feel more powerful. Here in this castle, he is his own hero and ruler. He is rejoicing in his newfound independence.

“It was so much easier when my brothers made all the decisions and I just followed them around. Now I start wondering if I’m doing the right thing for my parents. What if they get caught or the boat sinks? Am I doing this because I miss them, or do I just want to be the hero, the one who helped them to escape?” 

In this moment of self-awareness, Julian questions his own motives. He is concerned with morality and doing the right thing, whereas at the beginning of the novel when he failed at catching the big fish, he was more concerned with being the hero. Ironically, questioning himself here is already a moral act—one that he did not practice before. His growth has become apparent.

“A vague and familiar shape is rising out of the gum spots and soda stains on the cement. Kneeling down, I draw my first line. It curves into a circle, and there is the nostril of a horse. I flesh out his muzzle, then flash along the arc of his neck all the way to the flying tail. I make my way back along the belly, up and down the legs. Now the horse is running. I erase the bumps and shapes that don’t look right and then fill in the muscles that I do know. I put the bit in the horse’s mouth and follow the reins to the boy’s hand, to the arm, chest, and then the neck and head. As I color in the patch of blue sky and puffy clouds behind the rider, coins start raining down around me.” 

This is the most detailed description of Julian’s drawing process we see. He sees the shape in his mind as it pours out onto the cement. This is also the first time he has earned money for his work, a sign that he is being taken more seriously as an artist and person. It proves to himself that he is capable of, and old enough, to make a valuable contribution to Tomas’s rescue mission.

“The rain is coming down in sheets when I step outside. The soaking rain is pushing me down and my shirt feels like it’s made out of lead. I feel like I have nothing left to push back with. I must have been crazy to believe that it would work, that someone like me could make something this big and important happen. I’m standing ankle deep in a puddle that looks as big as a sea. The reflection of the red Pirate Angel sign is flashing in the shallow water. Even upside down the lady pirate’s face reminds me of Angelita. I can almost feel her hand reaching out to me.” 

In this moment of desperation, Julian has practically given up rescuing the people in Havana. His old self-doubt starts to creep in. This is foreshadowing the rescue that will take place later. In order to save them, Julian must save himself first, as he is figuratively and almost literally drowning. He must be his own ship in the storm.

“The vibration from the engine is buzzing up my legs like electricity as the boat nudges out into the middle of the river. I can feel the churning current pulling on the boat. We’ve hooked on to something even more powerful than a big fish.” 

This scene again references the opening chapter where Julian is trying to catch the fish. He understands the significance of what he is doing by rescuing the people on the dock in Havana. They are the new, bigger fish he is trying to catch. The fact that he knows this moment is more important shows his heroic growth.

“For the rest of the morning I sit by the engine like a desperate doctor caring for a patient with a mysterious illness. I use anything I can find in the toolbox and around the boat to keep the old engine running. The nice white tape from the first-aid kit wraps around a leaky hose; the spring from a ballpoint pen keeps the throttle open. I bend the metal ink cartridge and it works almost as well as a paper clip—when it isn’t slipping off. I use a coffee can, which I cut open, to cover a hole in the rusty exhaust pipe, and chewing gum to plug up a crack in the distributor. Tomas is amazed.” 

This is a clear moment when Julian becomes the hero by just being himself. Instead of doing something grand, all he has to do is use the skills Bebo taught him, which he enjoyed learning, to complete the rescue mission. This moment solidifies his identity as inventor and mechanic.

“I might have to stand up on my tiptoes to see over the deck, but on this watch I am wearing the cap. I am the captain. As I watch the dark sea roll by I realize that I never used the important things that Bebo taught me. Before my brothers left me alone I was just like a balloon on a string tagging along behind them. I let them decide, solve, and think for me. Out here, in the dark, if I listen past the drone of the engine, I can feel the big silence rushing by and I can hear myself think. Maybe my brothers were making too much noise for me to hear my own thoughts?” 

Along with the label of “captain,” this scene adds another powerful element to Julian’s evolving identity: in control. Before, he had no control over where he went, especially on his trip to Miami, but here, he literally has control of the steering wheel of the boat. He now has choice and more autonomy in the absence of his brothers.

“As I fit the paper clip into the barrel of the carburetor, I feel an emptiness in my heart. I pry the butterfly open so the right amount of air mixes with the gasoline vapors. That feeling in my heart has been there all this time. The engine sputters, coughs, and starts up. I guess it’s like gasoline: it just sits there until you mix it with air and then it burns.” 

The quick back-and-forth between Julian’s feelings and his actions represents his internal struggle with moving forward—literally and emotionally—and leaving Bebo behind. As he is heartbroken that Bebo will stay in Havana, Julian is developing a different method for dealing with his feelings. He has previously pushed down his emotions, but now, he knows they have come out in the open and he must feel it all.

“My mother’s warmth and the waves of her perfumed hair crumble the sandcastle walls I had built around her memory. Now I’m home and swimming in her warm sea again, barely aware that my brothers are standing in the doorway. They come closer to poke and measure me, and then grudgingly declare that I did grow a little. But they’re just looking at my skin—the outside of me. Safe with my mother and brothers around me, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for a long time and now I can finally exhale. But I can still feel something hard and brittle around my heart. I think that’s the shell I had to grow to be able to make it through all that time I was alone. I think it’s going to take a long time to melt that shell.” 

Here, we see a more mature self-awareness in Julian. He acknowledges that he is different now and that he has hardened. The image of “swimming” in his mother’s sea is reminiscent of being in the womb. This shows that while he wants to regress to an innocent fetus, he must accept that he has grown because of his experience.