Free Close to the Edge by Sujatha Fernandes

their apron strings to the state and move out on their own.
    I approached the curved driveway of the Hotel Riviera and looked out onto the blue sea just beyond the Malecón. It was March 2004, and I had abandoned my jeans and t-shirts for neat slacks and a collared shirt, as befitting the faculty leader of a tour of fifteen undergraduates from Princeton University, where I was now a postdoctoral fellow.
    I entered the air-conditioned environs of the hotel and walked past the bar where we had been offered complimentary cocktails and juice when we first arrived. I passed the front desk and was about to enter the elevator, when a security guard stopped me.
    â€œPermiso , señora, but only guests of this hotel are allowed to go upstairs.”
    I was stunned for a minute. But then I pulled out my hotel card to show him that I was a guest at the hotel, and he let me through. Once upstairs I started to get angry. Why didn't they stop white tourists, or even white Cubans for that matter, from going upstairs? I grabbed a few things and went to wait in the lobby for Lily, who was coming to see me.
    It had been nearly two years since I had been back to Cuba, and I waited anxiously in the lobby to see Lily. She arrived, dressed in her dark blue work suit and toting a small briefcase. We hugged. We had missed each other so much.
    â€œLet's go up to the room,” I told Lily. “You gotta see this place, there's a view of the Malecon and the cleaning staff makes these bouquets—”
    â€œUmmm,” Lily looked hesitant. “I don't know if that's a good idea.”
    But I grabbed her by the arm, and we made our way past the same security guard.
    â€œSeñora.” His voice had a warning edge to it. “You can't go upstairs, only guests of the hotel are allowed upstairs.”
    â€œDidn't I just show you my card earlier?” I replied testily.
    â€œYes, but she is not a guest,” he pointed at Lily.
    â€œLet's go,” Lily said quietly, her hand on my arm.
    But I was just getting started. “Well, I don't see you stopping any white people here at this hotel,” I told the guard. A blond-haired woman in a hat, and another white couple walked straight past us. “Why don't you stop them, huh? It's because they're white, isn't it?”
    â€œSorry, señora, but it is hotel policy not to allow any Cubans to enter the rooms.”
    â€œWell, that policy is ridiculous enough on its own,” I retorted. I was getting incensed. “But we all know this is also about race, because any of those people going in right now could be Cuban.” I gestured at the groups of white people entering the elevators. “But you only stop black and brown people here. That's known as racial profiling.”
    Lily was looking embarrassed. “Please, Suyee, let's just drop it.”
    But I didn't want to drop it. I couldn't let these people get away with it, and I couldn't see that this was just making Lily feel worse.
    â€œI want to speak with a manager,” I demanded.
    The manager was a middle-aged, smartly dressed white Cuban woman in a suit and pink high heels. By the time she came down, we were surrounded by three or four other security guards. I explained the situation to her, and she asked for the name of the guard. I pointed him out, but he refused to give his name. Instead, he pulled out a list of guests from the hotel and began looking for my name on the list.
    â€œIf your name is not on this list, then we will have to ask you to leave the premises,” he threatened. I looked at him incredulously.
    â€œThis is a case of racism,” I told the gathered group. “My friend here and I are being discriminated on the basis of our skin color.”
    The guards and manager were outraged. “No, en Cuba no hay racismo,” they told me. In Cuba there is no racism. They repeated that refrain, against which there was no argument because it was the official line. The