In Cuba: My Revolution, Inverna Lockpez gives us a perfect example of the Miami Anti-Castro mindset, fifty years after the event, although she does her best to cloak this agenda in "liberal" trappings, by depicting Sonya, her protagonist, as a dedicated revolutionary. While the nature of Sonya's commitment is never explained beyond an overtly sexual attraction to Fidel's "bold and dominating figure," an early representation of Sonya, mostly sans pupils, entranced zombie-like at a Fidelista rally tells the reader all he or she needs to know: this is an irrational passion on our misguided bourgeois heroine's part. But she learns the hard way, accused of working for the CIA after tending to her Batistiano ex-boyfriend during the Bay of Pigs invasion, she is subsequently tortured in a sequence that includes an inadvertently comic vision of multiple Fidels marching out of her pregnant mother's vagina--it's all about sex and madness. Reducing revolutionary commitment to sexual pathology is, of course, an old counterrevolutionary trope, originating with Burke's depiction of the French revolutionaries as lascivious thugs sexually menacing Marie Antoinette (and Sonya at one point references Robespierre: good job, Inverna).
Apparently there weren't any legitimate reasons to support the revolution nor was there repression under Batista: at least if you happened to be a member of the Cuban upper classes, as Lockpez's family clearly was. Sonya's mother is a revealing character in this regard, since she consistently gives voice to an unapologetically Batistiano and bourgeois perspective, e.g., wanting to shop in Miami or send her children to a "good," "private," and Catholic school in the States. Although Lockpez seemingly wants the reader to identify her "revolutionary" protagonist with the author, despite the chronological and historical improbabilities of such an identification (and despite her refusals to say if and to what extent the character's experiences are autobiographical), it is in Sonya's mother that we find a more ideologically accurate version of the authorial position, if we consider the work in its entirety. Why, then, is this position cloaked in the guise of two familiar liberal figures and narratives: the disillusioned revolutionary, albeit one without any discernible political commitments,and the frustrated artist, fighting state censorship? One of the story's subplots ironically revolves around Sonya's frustrated artistic desires, since she wants to pursue abstraction (amazing how the old Cold War cultural signifiers linger on here), but she's forced to paint heroic portraits of Fidel and Che in the vein of socialist realism; it turns out that Lockpez learned those lessons well, as Cuba: My Revolution is the clumsiest piece of Soviet-style agitprop that I've seen apart from late Stalinist-era Soviet film, and in the service of cartoonishly bourgeois notions--such as the pop Freudian cast of the heroine's "political" attachments--to boot! Illustrator Dean Haspiel, of Spider Man and X-Men fame, reveals in his crude appropriation of said agitprop iconography (lots of red!)the affinity between comic books and the kitschy-heroic mode of socialist realism against which daring artiste Sonya rails.
While this graphic novel is a veritable beastiary of Miami anti-Castroisms (he was Soviet from the start; it was all personal ambition, etc.), they are married to a select number of critical representations that could be described as "left," or at least as appealing to the kind of progressive readership who, while anti-Castro, would reject the reactionary world-view of the Miami gang. For example, a historically unbelievable because openly gay character named Oscar is shipped off to a UMAPS reeducation camp because of his homosexuality, in a direct echo of gay dissident artist Reynaldo Arenas's experience in seventies Cuba. The autobiographical fiction breaks down here and elsewhere, as Lockpez uses dissident narratives as camouflage for an older agenda, in the same way that Sonya's
a-political commitments distract from her mother's class loyalties.
That older agenda is on view in several ideologically telling characterizations, such as Lockpez's representations of the popular CDRs as an angry and significantly Afro-Cuban mob driving the revolution's supposedly vindictive turn, or how, in a climactic meeting with Cecilia Sanchez toward the end of this comic book, Sanchez is described as the power behind Fidel and the revolution. These symptomatic aspects of Lockpez's histrionic narrative reach their apotheosis in Willi, the Afro-Cuban street-side florist. This offensively one-dimensional character responds to a "disillusioned" Sonya's claim that he (poor, black) at least--AT LEAST!--should support the revolution, since it was made for people like him, in a way that is redolent of antebellum and anti-abolitionist southern fiction, with its various "good slaves": "I only ever feel equal at your house,when your mother asks me to sit down and brings me water." Willi--the benevolent and grateful black man--naturally delivers this funny book's set-piece denunciation of Fidel the tyrant in a curiously programmatic English that is more in keeping with official US anti-Castro rhetoric than that lame "dialect," which the character uses up until this point.
There are many legitimately critical accounts of the revolution and its failures from once committed revolutionaries, but this is not one of those accounts, as evinced by Lockpez's dedication, where she offers her cartoon to those "who still fight for the return of freedom once enjoyed"...presumably during Batista's corrupt dictatorship. Lockpez should get out of Miami and onto the island and see how many dissidents she can find who long for Cuba pre-1959. What's even more depressing is the fulsome praise this schlock elicits from people for whom this latter-day exercise in anti-Jacobinism functions as a "realistic"--ideologically resonant?--depiction of Cuban history (thirty years of which are inaccurately sandwiched into the first two years of the revolution here). Perhaps Lockpez does work for the CIA. No, I wouldn't want to indulge in conspiratorial fantasies, since the more likely scenario is that she left Cuba with her bourgeois family early enough in her life to internalize the Miami fantasies on view in her graphic novel, without the inconvenient intrusion of fact or ambiguity.