Description

Damián is the most joyful soul I have ever met, though he barely has reason to be.

Sixty-four years old, small in stature and slight of build, he is never seen without a worn old hat. A bulky gold ring sits perpetually on the ring finger of his right hand — I later notice he never once takes it off. When I ask about the ring’s origin, he only offers a smile and says nothing. It is a secret he’s carried all the way to Mexico.

He is reluctant to share much about his own past. “I am Cuban,” he says, “nothing else matters much.” He then swiftly steers conversations elsewhere: music, dancing, the weather, or the taste of that day’s soup. He is not shirking something— singing, dancing and living are truly all he cares about.

Singing and dancing are his greatest passions. Out in the courtyard of the immigration center, music of any kind can pull him to his feet instantly, even just a radio blaring faintly from a passing car. He often sways his shoulders, hums along to the tune, and stretches out a hand as though inviting every stranger around to join in the dance. Sometimes people accept his invitation; more often, they do not. It never fazes him either way. He dances not for show, but for an “outlet”, exactly as he puts it. “So much is crowding my mind,” he taps his temple. “It weighs heavily on me. If I stop dancing, it will overwhelm me.”

He never complains. He never badmouths Cuba, never moans about immigrant hardships or tiredness. He only keeps dancing, singing and smiling through every day. There is a quiet, remarkable dignity about him; with every sway of his body, he proves time and again that one can still keep rhythm in life, even when he owns nothing at all.

I ask where he plans to travel next. “Mexico is perfect,” he replies. “The locals here love music, and the sunshine is magnificent. I could spend the rest of my days singing here and growing old.”

He turns his joy into resistance — against painful pasts, uncertain futures, and all despairing hardships. His weapon is singing, not fists.

On his departure day, I ask what he thinks about while singing. “Nothing,” he says. “While singing, I am the melody myself.”