Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date.

For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.



by Gigi Anders

See All Formats & Editions

According to Gigi Anders, when you’re a bride-to-be Jubana in America, or a Cuban Jewess in the US of A, you have to know you’re heading straight into the mondo-bizarro jaws of cross cultural hell. As the granddaughter of Boris and Dora, destitute teenagers from Russia and Lithuania who immigrated to Cuba in the early 20s, Gigi experienced what can best be


According to Gigi Anders, when you’re a bride-to-be Jubana in America, or a Cuban Jewess in the US of A, you have to know you’re heading straight into the mondo-bizarro jaws of cross cultural hell. As the granddaughter of Boris and Dora, destitute teenagers from Russia and Lithuania who immigrated to Cuba in the early 20s, Gigi experienced what can best be described as life as a quintessential Jewish Cuban Princess, or JCP. Gigi asks a question which has to this day, kept her trying to figure herself out: What if you’re Cuban, the self proclaimed Jews of the Caribbean, AND Jewish? How Jewish can one possibly be? And how American for that matter? So begins the hilarious self-examination of a sex-crazed woman addicted to Parliament cigarettes, Tab cola, lipstick, red toenails, who is both brilliant and sexy, and who refuses to settle for any man who does not fit “the bill”. Whether dealing with what she refers to as her Mami Dearest, or her time at the waspy Sidwell Friends in D.C., to her horrifying experience with being sexually assaulted by an older man her parents tried to set her up on a date with, to her years as a feature writer for the Washington Post, Gigi leads readers on a journey through what it means to be truly unique, and just what lengths people will take in order to be accepted. With the help of professional intervention from two private psychiatrists (along with the famous Dr. Phil himself), Gigi eventually learns to be at peace with her three selves: The Brainy Jewish Girl, The Cha Cha Latina Princess, and last but not least, La Gringa Cubana.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Castro's regime began in 1959, and Anders's family fled a year later, arriving in Maryland when Anders was a toddler. At this memoir's heart is Anders's relationship with her mother, Mami, whom the author alternately worships and scorns (leading to decades of therapy for Anders as an adult). Mami prepared Anders early for the life she should have: that of pampered wife. Standing over her infant's crib, Mami murmured, " `Tafet n color champ n.' " Anders writes, "It took about a year of hearing this bizarre mantra over and over before I was old enough to finally understand what... my mother was talking about: the color and fabric of my wedding dress." Mami is a complex woman who does puzzling things, like bringing four-year-old Anders to her job at a mental hospital every day because she doesn't believe in summer camp. But Anders doesn't sufficiently explain Mami's reasonings, and much of what she complains about is average adolescent angst. When Anders does find herself in serious situations, she resorts to humor, keeping the tone so light, readers are kept at a distance. If only this memoir had the frothy richness of the cafe con leches Anders so loves. Agents, Jane Dystel and Miriam Goderich. (June) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Journalist and first-time memoirist Anders tells the captivating story of her Jewish and Cuban heritage and her fruitless attempts at melting into the proverbial melting pot. She describes herself as a Jewish Cuban Princess (JCP) and a Jubana (Jewish Cuban woman) expected to inhabit the traditional female role espoused by her Mami. Anders and her family were forced out of Cuba in 1960 when she was only two years old. In Cuba, they were beautiful and affluent, but in Miami, where they settled, they were just beautiful. Their once-easy lifestyle was wrenched from them and replaced with all the fears that accompany a new beginning. Anders examines what it means to be different and how hard some people try to overcome obstacles from their past (something she has managed to do with humor and strength). Passionately written, this memoir lets readers in on some quirky moments in Anders's life, though her sometimes humorous idioms can be difficult to follow. Recommended for larger public libraries.-Susan McClellan, Avalon P.L., Pittsburgh Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A rambling, energetic memoir about identity and familial culture. First-time author Anders, a special correspondent for the Washington Post, was born to Jewish parents in Cuba. In 1960, when she was three, her family fled to the U.S. Here, she describes the life of a "Jubana," a Jewish-Cuban woman. Anders has a distinctive voice, and she'll score with some readers because she explores an interesting and little-known subculture. The chapter devoted to her friendship with "her first WASP" will strike chords with Jewish readers everywhere. Unfortunately, though, she trades in stereotypes: Jubanas pop out of the womb trying to look pretty; they are sent to bed every night in panties, sometimes even a bra, and therefore have "no clue about [their] own sexual potential"; mothers of Jubanas spend their whole lives planning their daughters' weddings, etc. Many of these ostensibly humorous forays into typecasting simply aren't that funny. The strongest sections detail Anders's relationship with her fiance, including their argument about Elian Gonzalez and their premarital visit with a Reform rabbi. Too often, though, her tic-ridden prose gets in the way of her stories. Her mother, for example, is quite a stitch, but the author's attempts to capture Mami's accent are hard to follow and annoying. ("Johs beeleeohns and zeeleeohns of eh-sperms and eggs just goheengh krehsee!") Sometimes Anders's idioms are quirky to the point of distraction, to wit her description of birth: "Okay. I'm out of Mami and home in my beautiful new hand-painted, imported crib." And her handling of Spanish is irksome; she follows every foreign word with a translation set off by commas, as in "I've got a tata, a nanny . . . acocinera, a cook . . . and a criada, a housekeeper." Sales may benefit from the popularity of Carlos Eire's Waiting for Snow in Havana (2003), but this memoir is not nearly as good. At its best moments, good bubble-bath reading. But the best moments are rare.

Product Details

HarperCollins Español
Publication date:
Sold by:
Zondervan Publishing
File size:
501 KB

Read an Excerpt


The Awkwardly True and Dazzling Adventures of a Jewish Cubana Goddess
By Gigi Anders

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2005 Gigi Anders
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060563699

Chapter One

Guerrilla Baby

It's the classic Latina position: Be pretty, get married, and shut the fuck up.

I am not a classic Latina.

I am a Jubana, a Cuban Jewess.

And when you're a bride-to-be Jubana, you have to know you're heading straight into the mondo bizarro jaws of crosscultural hell. Especially if, like me, you're an only child (which I am, except for my two American-born younger brothers). My mother, Ana, also a Cuban-born only daughter with two brothers, was treated by her indulgent parents like the quintessential Jewish Cuban Princess (JCP) she was and would always be, Fidel Castro's revolution be damned. The princess royal's parents, Boris and Dora, had emigrated as destitute teenagers from Russia and Lithuania to Cuba in the early 1920s. And just like my Polish-born paternal grandparents, Leon and Zelda, they spoke Yiddish and Hebrew with Cuban accents, Spanish with Yiddish accents, and English with Yiddish-Cuban accents.

Boris, born Boruch Benes, was a self-made man and Reform Jew. He started out selling handkerchiefs, bolts of lace, and fabrics, and eventually became the wildly prosperous owner of Camisetas Perro (literally translated, Dog Undershirts -- it sounds way better in Español), sort of the Victoria's (and Victor's) Secret of its day. He and Dora threw their only daughter the grandest marital bash of that winter season. At my mother's 1954 December wedding in Havana there were 750 guests. That's muchos silk undies. (Think wedding in Goodbye, Columbus, only everyone sounded like Ricky Ricardo or Ricky Ricardo with a Yiddish accent.) Mami's only job on that day was to show up in perfect makeup; a heavy, white, hand-embroidered velvet dress; smile; and do whatever she was told. Which she did. She agreed to have virtually zero input but her attractive presence and choice in groom.

But I've examined Mami's hand-tinted bridal portrait in my parents' Silver Spring, Maryland, living room. I know what really lies behind the twenty-one-year-old bride's crimson-colored smile.

"I'm goheengh to get joo, sohkehr."

The "joo" would be . . . who? My father? Well, that was a given. My father, David, has never been able to say the word no to my mother. Indeed, that was a very strong selling point to get him on her short list. Because in case of doubt, worship works on JCPs.

Was I the sohkehr she was gonna get? Probably, though I wasn't born yet. Mami always said that until she had me, she could wear bikinis. Thanks to me, she, who was otherwise beautiful and perfect, was deesfeegur-ed with ugly, permanent stretch marks, and forever relegated to maillots.

That is hard-core guilt. That is the classic Jewish way. Be alive and be guilty -- over what exactly, no one knows and it really doesn't matter anyway. Just be it.

As a result of the disfigurement and due to the presence of my vulva instead of (the infinitely more desirable, powerful, valuable, and superior) penis, I was subjected -- just as Mami had been back in her day -- to control and guilt, the respective Latin and Jewish mega-bullies. Not that any of us are bitter or anything.

Now, intellectually, we all in my family realize we've been out of Cuba, our homeland, for well over forty years. We understand things have, you know, changed. Today's typical bride is well past twenty-one and is the primary choreographer of her own damn wedding. The parents' primary contribution is to pay for some or all of it and to consider that payment a gift.

Under normal circumstances, with at least seminormal parents (i.e., parents who aren't the children of Cuban Jews and didn't experience in their own lives yet another generation of political/emotional/geographic dislocation at a tender age, and who, as a result, are terminally nuts), "gift" would mean, uh, "gift." But in my case, the planning and execution of my wedding is an all-out conflict, an estrogen-espresso-propulsed struggle for power and control.

I'm sitting with my parents in their family room, going over the guest list. My fiancé has wisely chosen to be suddenly indisposed elsewhere in the country. Neither his relatives nor any of our respective friends' names appear on that list. Mami's going for a Kool (she's the only white person I know of who smokes that brand) and her five millionth cup of jet fuel, aka espresso. Papi is spaced out on the couch, absorbed in the Redskins' latest nearperfect losing streak.

"Dahveed!" Mami commands Papi. "Come over here an' look at our lees. We wan' joor eenpoot."

"No we don't," I tell her, lighting a Parliament and reaching for a TaB. So delicious and soothing, this ritual. My vegetable and carbonated-water diet has kept me going for a good thirty years. I consider it a religion, really. I've actually turned down jobs and spurned relationships because they weren't located near TaB access.

Mami scowls at me.

"Dad," I continue, exhaling, "couldn't care less."

"Dad kehrz! He kehrz a LOT. Dahveed! Show joor daughter joo KEHR."

Dad looks up wanly and reluctantly joins us.

"Now look," Mami says, pushing the huge list in front of him. It's on a legal pad she stole from work. Mami isn't one to "buy" things. Actually, she resents having to pay for anything. She believes she should be exempt because Castro took everything away from her. Therefore, she's special. Very special. Castro made her an exiled victim, and she's pissed about it. Cubanly pissed. The kind of pissed you don't get over. And that's why she feels entitled to steal. People who pay for things, like people who voluntarily slow down at yellow lights, are "total sohkehrz."

Papi barely glances at the list. I know what he's thinking ...


Excerpted from Jubana! by Gigi Anders Copyright © 2005 by Gigi Anders. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Author of the hilarious memoir Be Pretty, Get Married, and Always Drink TaB, Washington Post special correspondent Gigi Anders and her parents were born Jewish in Havana, Cuba. The trio fled Castro's regime for the United States in 1961. After six months in Miami Beach, the family moved to Washington, D.C., where Gigi came of age and eventually turned to writing. She has written for Glamour, Allure, Mirabella, American Health for Women, USA Today's USA Weekend, American Journalism Review, Hispanic, Latina, and First for Women.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Post to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews