Chiclet! Chiclet!

In the early years of my wanderings through Cuba, I often found myself simply drifting through the streets, letting my spirit guide decide where I might end up. The vibe carried its familiar mixture of wonder as each corner turned was another surprise; the rhythm of life unfolded with an expectation of the unexpected. It was during one such wandering that I came upon a group of boys in the midst of a game that seemed to belong to every childhood everywhere—some version of war, or perhaps cops and robbers. The exact rules were invisible, but the urgency was clear. I recognized it instantly; I had played such games myself once, in another time.

They noticed me almost at once.

In a moment the game dissolved and I was surrounded, the boys circling with bright eyes and quick laughter, repeating a word that echoed like a chant: “Chiclet! Chiclet!” Sometimes it was chocolate, sometimes simply gum. Fortunately, I had learned early to travel prepared. My vest pockets usually carried a few packs of gum, a modest currency that seemed to delight children in their innocence.

But I had a small request of my own.

Before handing out the chiclets, I asked if I might take a photograph. What followed was something I could never have orchestrated so beautifully. Looking at this image now, one might imagine that I arranged them, placed each boy carefully where he stands, directing their expressions, composing the scene. Yet nothing of the sort occurred. This was their offering to me.

Each boy stepped forward into himself, in a way children sometimes do when a camera appears. Individually, each face carried its own quiet strength~defiance here, curiosity there, a hint of mischief and so together they formed something even more striking: a fleeting constellation of boyhood, gathered in that instant with the easy grace of children who belong entirely to the moment. In their faces there was the innocence of childhood, the bright certainty that this moment, this game, this laughter, this small gathering around a stranger’s camera and the promise of chiclet was all that mattered. For a heartbeat, they stood there untouched by tomorrow, carefree in a way only children can be, as if the world beyond this time had not yet made its claims on them.

A few years later, I noticed something had shifted. The children no longer asked for chiclet or chocolate. The request had changed.

Now they asked for moneda, money.

The innocence of gum had quietly given way to the mathematics of survival.

But on that afternoon, at least, the exchange remained innocent.

Yes—I gave them each a chiclet.