From Salon:

At 10 p.m., Camilla rings the doorbell as I’m touching up the dark on my lashes. We’re bound for a trendy salsa club packed with rich tourist men. I look at myself in the mirror, a strange confidence reflecting back at me. I’ve made up my mind. With my bank account dwindling, and employment here impossible, I’ve reluctantly joined the ranks of the Cuban demimonde. Educated. Professional. Hopeful. And part-time hookers. With Camilla as my mentor, I’m going dancing.

The jockey has an outfit. A whip. Riding boots. Jodhpurs, the breeches with reinforced patches at the knee and thigh where the rider’s legs grip the beast. “Jinetera,” the Spanish word for a female jockey, means much more in Cuba. It’s a fitting metaphor for what many educated and beautiful Cuban women do after hours to feed their families as well as their dreams. I’m American, but I’m also Cuban. And to live on my island home, the place I was born, the land where my family surely resides, I’ve little choice if I want to stay. So I jockey. I ride the beast. I control the beast.

Is this why NBC’s Couric praises the Cuban ‘education system’ so much?

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