1924-2003
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''Students often ask me what I think will happen when Castro dies,'' said Gustavo Pérez-Firmat, professor of literature at Columbia University and author of several books on Cuban-American culture. ``I say that whatever happens, it will have happened too late, thinking of my father and my grandfather and the hundreds of thousands of Cubans who have died in exile. Celia Cruz is part of that generation that you sometimes see the remnants of, walking like lost souls up and down Calle Ocho.''
Fidel Castro was the only topic that seemed to ruffle her gentle demeanor. On April 7, 1962, her mother died in Cuba. But Celia wasn't allowed to return for the burial. The government, which saw her as a traitor, did everything in its power to erase her from the collective memory. Celia Cruz records were considered contraband. They circulated anyway, and her freshest hits were beamed from Miami radio to the island's still-fervent fans. She made more than 76 records, won two Grammys and three Latin Grammys, appeared in several films (including The Mambo Kings and The Pérez Family), collected honorary degrees from Yale, the University of Miami and Florida International University, scored a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame and was immortalized in wax.
But she was most proud of taking Cuban music to every corner of the world. Her biggest dream was to go back home, even if just for a last glimpse. But she refused to do it with Castro in power.
``If I wasn't allowed into Cuba to visit my mother's grave, why would I go now? I adore my country. I miss it terribly. But New Jersey is home now. It may not look like Santos Suárez, but then, Santos Suárez doesn't look like Santos Suárez. It's turned to dirt.''
The closest she ever came was a trip to the Naval Base at Guantánamo Bay in 1990, where she performed in a celebration that honored Cubans who worked on the base.
''She was crying the whole time,'' said U.S. Rep. Ileana Ros-Lehtinen, who traveled with her. ``She walked over to the fence that separates the base from the rest of Cuba and reached through to take soil from the Cuban side. Then something eerie happened. She was performing on this very hot, still day. But all of a sudden, the Cuban flag starts to ripple. There was no wind, and the base's flag that was a few feet away didn't move. But the Cuban flag was waving. We were all astounded.''
One of my students is a newly arrived young Cuban who came here through Mexico. He heard about her death and started crying. And here is the strange inexplicable thing: all of us standing together cried for her passing.
Soon...
Eddy Sanchez didn't care that his battered Ford pickup blocked traffic as he made a wide semicircle onto Eighth Street.
He didn't care that his fingers, muscled and worn from decades of hard labor, shook a bit as he swiped them across two tear-filled eyes.
''I'm crying, look at me,'' said Sanchez, 50, a painter and construction worker by trade, leaning out his truck window to stare at the cluster of pink carnations strewn across one of the sidewalk stars on Calle Ocho's Walk of Fame, partially obscuring the name inscribed: Celia Cruz.
''She was the soundtrack to my life,'' said Sanchez, who left Cuba with his family when he was 10 years old. ``I danced with my wife to Celia Cruz when we married.''
He paused, then laughed.
''In fact, every woman I have ever known, every one that I have ever danced with, I have danced with to Celia Cruz,'' said Sanchez, watching as another person added another carnation in honor of the salsa queen, who died Wednesday of brain cancer.
ACROSS THE GLOBE
The death of the iconic Cruz elicited statements from boldfaced names across the globe, commenting on a career that spanned five decades and pushed Cuban music past national borders and across generation gaps.
But on Calle Ocho, and other parts of the county, fans commented on her death in the bittersweet and familiar terms of sorrow and loss.
''She was my roots, when we had no roots to really connect to,'' said Maria Oliva, 48, whose family left Cuba in 1965. Oliva, then 10 years old, was too young to care about dance and music. It was only growing up in the United States that she learned to love the sound of her country.
''And that sound was Celia,'' Oliva said, leaning down to press her hand on Cruz's name embedded in her star of fame.
Cruz's sound touched more than just her fellow exiles: Lovers of Latin music across the world embraced her signature earth style and her love of the classic Cuban son, the foundation for many genres of Latin music.
Cindy Valentin, born in Puerto Rico, sat on a bench near the memorial to the Bay of Pigs on Southwest Eighth Street and 13th Avenue.
`OURS, TOO'
''She was ours, too,'' said Valentin, pointing at her heart. ``I know she was sick, but it's still a shock. I just came here to meditate a little. And I'll probably cry, too.''
At Sedano's supermarket at 9686 SW 24th St., two clerks made Cuban coffee for customers as they reminisced about ``Celia.''
''Everyone has been feeling this,'' said Rosa Vasquez.
''The only thing that hurts me is that she never got to return to Cuba,'' added fellow employee Georgina Mara, as she listened to Salsa 98.3 FM's radio tribute to Cruz.
At La Palma restaurant at 6091 SW Eighth St., the usual group gathered outside for their evening ritual of Cuban coffee and chit-chat.
But the usual conversation topic of Cuba in general shifted to Celia specifically. ''Celia died, but her music didn't,'' said Manuel Vasco, 70.
