"Next Year in Cuba"

Every year we make a large batch of Cremé de Vie or Cuban Egg Nog, if you will.

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Photo: Jae C. Hong, AP

And every year we toast, "El año que viene estamos en Cuba." "Next year in Cuba."

This started in December of 1961. We had been in this country for a little less than a year and it was obvious that the whole silly revolution thing was going to blow over soon. Of course, it was.

My parents raised their glasses and said the toast, "El año que viene en Cuba." 

My mom would always add, "Si Dios quiere." "God willing."

Year after long year. It will be next year for sure. Next year. No, next year. Maybe next year...

"Si Dios quiere."

The toast endured, even as we quickly and soberly realized that even if we could return, we no longer would. We were Americans now, with Cuban roots. This is our home.

Ah, but Cubans love their roots. We're proud of where we came from. We have endured loss and longing for many years. But we're not dumb.

Now when we raise our glasses and toast, "El año que viene en Cuba," it has become a prayer. Not that we would really ever return to live there, but that our homeland will one day be free and that we will live to see that day.

I gave an interview to the Associated Press last week. Now the story of "The Toast" is being run in hundreds of news outlets across the country. Here's the link on Fox News Latino. (Also, I'm quite delighted to be quoted next to my friend, author Gustavo Perez-Firmat, but that's not important right now.)

Next Year in Cuba

It's a proud and bittersweet moment for me to be the face of Cuban exiles and our broken dreams.

But I promise you this, I'm not going to stop toasting, or stop praying for this until Cuba is free.

It may be many, many more years (I hope not) but I'll continue to say it until I take my last breath, "El año que viene estamos en Cuba."

Si Dios quiere.

The Cubans: Our Footprints Across America (A Winner)

When I first read Fernando Hernandez's book, The Cubans; Our Footprints Across America, I was intrigued. I read through and was impacted by two things:

  1. The scope and reach of the Cuban community is not a small thing.
  2. Our stories are so familiar and yet absolutely unique.

Thank you all who left such beautiful and poignant comments about your lives. If you haven't already, please consider sending me your complete "coming to America" stories to include in my Cuando Sali de Cuba feature.

The book, The Cubans; Our Footprints Across America is available on Amazon. (Click this link, or look over to the right on my sidebar.)

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The winner of the book, The Cubans; Our Footprints across America is:

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Congratulations, Nancy!

Please send me an email with your mailing address and put: HEY MARTA! I WON STUFF ON YOUR BLOG! in the subject line (so I don't accidentally delete it) and I will forward to Fernan who will get your book to you ASAP.

Thank you, again, to Fernando "Fernan" Hernandez for his generosity in providing this book for my readers and for so fearlessly and eloquently telling our stories. He believes, as I do, that we Cubans have to keep letting the world know the cause of our exile. We musn't be shy in explaining that communism ripped all we love from us and that we have survived and thrived and that we have a brave generation of parents that we can never completely and adequately thank for their sacrifices.

In Fernan's own words,

"One of my goals before I depart this existence is to see erected a statue in a free Havana honoring our Pedro Pan parents, their suffering during the separation period from us was incalculable."

Amen.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Gustavo's Story

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Marta here: Through my blog I've been privileged to meet so many wonderful Cubans, who represent the very best of our Cuban exile community.

One author in particular has been an inspiration to me since my very first blog post right here on My Big, Fat, Cuban Family titled, like his book, Life on the hyphen...

His name is Gustavo Perez-Firmat. You'll find his books listed over there on the right under Smart Cuban Authors.

He is also a fan of My Big, Fat, Cuban Family Cookbook and my pastelito recipe, but that's not important right now.

Gustavo Perez-Firmat
Author Gustavo Perez-Firmat & his lovely wife, Mary Anne with their favorite cookbook.

Gustavo's story is being featured in an episode of the new PBS series on Latino Americans. Gustavo was interviewed for it, and they used a lot of family photos and home movies.

You are all familiar with the story: The family left Cuba abruptly. Started a very different life here in the U.S. waiting for the whole Revolution thing to blow over so they could return home to Cuba. You know how it ends.

Episode will air tonight, Tuesday Sep 24th, 2013. Check your local PBS listings for times.

This video is worth your time. Enjoy.

Cachita

When I was very small, maybe about 5 years old, my parents took me to Santiago de Cuba to visit "El Cobre."

Santiago de Cuba is about five hundred plus miles from the city of Havana. I remember it being a long and dusty car trip. But we got to stay in a hotel and eat at restaurants. This is pretty much all I can recall about the travel itself, but that's not important right now.

In the hills above the city sits a beautiful basilica dedicated to Our Lady of Charity, so named because she was found bone dry on a wild, stormy sea by some fishermen. On her was a sign that read, "Yo soy La Virgen de La Caridad." (Translated: "I am the Virgin of Charity.")

Read the entire legendary thing right here.

Of course, Cubans always seem to familiarize the things they love. We call her "Cachita." This particular version of Our Lady of Charity is the Patron Saint of Cuba and she has a presence in pretty much every Catholic Cuban home.

From our trip to El Cobre, we brought pieces of copper from the mines as souvenirs. And my mom got a little statue of Cachita to put up in our home. Since that point in time, Cachita has always lived in our family home in some iteration.

On September 8, 1961, having been in this country for just a few short months, our family went to pray at a mass alongside 30,oo0 other Cuban exiles for the peace of our homeland. The image of all those displaced families remains with me to this day. In Miami there's a beautiful chapel dedicated to her and I know she still lives in lots of Cuban homes.

Here is my mom's altar to Cachita.

Cachita

I'm no longer a practicing Catholic (I'm an Evangelical Christian), so I don't usually subscribe to Catholic images of saints. But there's something about our Cuban Cachita.

I know it's a childhood thing.

I know it's a Cuban nostalgia thing.

I know it's a cultural thing.

I know it's definitely a Cuban thing.

Cachita it's a cuban thing

Which makes her presence that much sweeter.

Happy Day!

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Luis Felipe's Story

Marta here. I started this series, Cuando Sali de Cuba, Stories of Courage and Hope in order to celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month: Cuban-Style. I asked my readers to send me their stories about how their families left Cuba and how they ended up here in the U.S.

As the stories began pouring in, I realized that this needed to be an ongoing series. The stories are still coming in. Some are written as tributes by descendants of Cuban refugees who were born here in the U.S. and some, like this one, written from the perspective of someone who lived and survived the first years of the revolution and helped others escape.

I asked my friend, Joey Lay, of the Dos Cubanos Pig Roasts to send me his story. He did one better. He sent me his father's.

I'm honored to offer you Luis Felipe's story. It is absolutely fascinating because of the position he held in the national bank system at the time of the revolution. It will in turn make you angry and break your heart. 

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CUANDO SALI DE CUBA – 14 de Octubre 1960

WHEN I FLED CUBA - October 14th. 1960

Every Cuban that left their homeland in the aftermath of the communist takeover treason from the beginning of the 60’s decade through this date, half a century after, has a story to be told and a vivid and stressful one. 

This is my story. I hope you share the sense of hope when I survived and the sense of mourning when somebody else you never knew did not make it.

The world needs to know.

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It is our great responsibility to speak on their behalf, as so many innocent people were swallowed by the horrors of cruel and despotic criminals that had no control of their appetite for power and civil compulsion. They have demonstrated this over five long decades and three generations immersed in tremendous devastation as they struggle for life and freedom, the two most precious gifts from God.

It was October 14th, 1960, at dawn, fifty years ago now, the telephone at my parents home rang very loud and clear at that early hour. It was still dark and it felt like the surroundings were matching the situation that all were experiencing in Cuba at the time.  My cousin was calling to advise me to leave right away.

I was already planning ahead of what was coming to protect my wife and 2 ½  year old baby daughter because it had been announced that the banking system was being taken over by the Communist Government. I was affiliated with the Bank that was in charge of  the Dollar Currency, known as divisas, donated by the people for a supposedly more democratic government that was to be put into place during the first year of the Revolution.

This, of course, never took place because Castro and his comrades deceived the people of Cuba making them believe that they were going to establish a just and democratic country with rights for all their citizens where peace and prosperity were going to flourish. History shows they had no intention of doing this. Instead they brought violence, terror, and misery. Desolation has prevailed for over half a century without the most needed rectification of direction to improve the conditions and liberty of  the people of Cuba.  

The fact that I represented the bank employees as a delegate of the national banking syndicate, jeopardized my security and the control of my actions and movements because I refused to follow the orders and instructions of the newly formed revolutionary government.

This "new" government was increasingly influenced by the communist party and the atheist platform. Their plan was to attack the church and religious entities and take over the press and all communications media as well as the different sectors of the business world.

The situation in the country escalated at an alarming rate. The oppression was at full force and the threats were constant. They menaced by means of telephone calls and the sudden presence of armed people that looked more like gangsters than soldiers.

This was the contribution of the errantly named Cuban revolution. A revolution that did not exist because it was stolen from the people and given to the elite of international communism.  The Red Menace took over our island with absolute cruelty and disregard for the human condition and absolutely no sensitivity to their citizens. Private property was rapidly stolen and given to cement the absolute control of the state, and the state was Castro.

El Che Guevara and all the other abusers of power aligned with world elements of the Communist International Group, funded and supported by the Soviet Union and their enslaved satellites. Since I was considered a leader with a Christian philosophy and democratic principles and surrounded by people like me, I was a target for pressure and threats and next in line to either be sent to prison arbitrarily or shot to death like many others were on a daily basis at La Cabaña and other military fortresses.

The new regime had thousands arrested  and also sent to the death squadrons each morning at dawn, without due process of justice or a day in court  since the purpose was to eliminate people that loved freedom and because the justice system was eradicated when these hordes took the country by surprise. They took advantage of a corrupted and weak military dictatorship that was governing by force, too, and had displaced the constitutional government of an elected president and congress eight years before.

I had to leave Cuba that morning of October 14th, 1960 if I wanted to survive with my family in a country of freedom where I could be of help to my countrymen and to restore our civil life and patriotic values, as well as the religious profession of the people that were not respected by the usurpers. My choice was obvious but the mission almost impossible because of the scrutiny on me.

It was difficult to get out of the country and the permits were unattainable, but I had a plan, and, I put it into effect, carefully and with elaborate disguising.

It worked only because we had God’s protection to such a risky departure. All elements were against me. The banks were invaded by the government militarily with machine guns and all; just like an assault.  

And the leader of the syndicate had already left to fight the revolutionary army from the Mountains of Escambray, in Central Cuba, just five days before.

I was the second in command and everybody was looking for me because I did not show up at the bank that day. They went to my house to get me, but I had already vanished. They went to my parents' house searching for me, but I had already left with my father, my wife and baby daughter. We were on our way to the International Airport where there was a big event that particular day.

At first it seemed it would be much more dangerous to be heading to the airport with a military presence there, but instead it turned out to for my benefit. The confusion was what helped me escape.  

I arrived at the airport while the armed groups were looking for me. I was the only bank associate that did not show up while the takeover, or so-called nationalization, of the commercial and private banks, in addition to all the retirement funds was happening.

There was a big confusion generated by the coming of the Minister of  Exterior Relations accompanied by the President of Ghana (pseudo-communist) from the United Nations. It happened to coincide with the time of my departure and called for a concentration of all the militias from different fields and sectors of the country, including the bank militias that were at the airport.

All of this perfectly coincided with the time I was there trying to board the airplane. The militia from the banking sector belonging to different institutions thought that I was there for the celebration and had no idea I was really there to escape from my persecutors.

After being stripped and thoroughly checked, we had to walk quite a long way on the tarmac in order to step up the ladder to climb into the aircraft. We were on hold for nearly 45 minutes while we could see the Foreign Minister's aircraft with the President of Ghana (the African country). 

Twice the armed soldiers boarded our plane and two men were removed, one at a time.  Our little baby girl was crying, trying to drink a bottle of milk in that terrible heat and the loud noise from the propellers. 

Finally, the airplane took off.

Up into the air we went and the blue sky could be seen all around us coming from heaven into the horizon.

Everyone on the airplane, from the passengers to the crew were happily clapping and relieved that we had succeeded in our dangerous plan to escape communism and oppression after so much turmoil. The happiness reflected in the passengers faces was undeniable. There was singing and laughing, smiles and hugs. We all felt united in our euphoria and relief.

When I arrived with my wife and tiny daughter at the old Miami Airport, the Pan American Terminal on 36th Street was full of people waiting for one of the first groups coming from the chaotic island of Cuba. Once the Pearl of the Antilles and now immersed in tears, hate, guns and distress. 

Of course, with empty pockets but a clean heart, we gave thanks to God for his enduring protection that saved our lives.

I called my family that could not come with me to let them know we had arrived safely.  I told my Father and my Mother that I was safe and that I would start helping others to escape the horrors of communism. Our Lord helped me not only to be a bridge between the Cubans and Americans in this country but also allowed me to be an instrument to help bring to freedom hundreds of families and nearly 5,000 people who were being persecuted in Cuba because of their religious beliefs or democratic ideals. Except my grandmother, who knew that she would never see me or the rest of the family again. She was in her 90's when she died a few years later.

I'm sad to say, however, that 51 years after the day I left Cuba for the last time, the conditions there are much, much worse. We lost our homeland. And now three more generations of young people have been deprived of the right to live according to God’s plan for humanity.

The same oppressors that killed our friends and citizens just because they did not follow their ignominies continue to rule the country with a cruel and miserable tyranny. We knew many who served more than 20 years in jail, many of them dying in prison. The devastation has been horrendous in all spheres of society. Such a thing as this had not even been seen before colonial times.

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My wife, Miriam and I were married in Miami at Gesu Catholic Church the same day that the revolutionary forces entered in La Habana, January 3rd, 1959.  

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Our oldest daughter, Myriam Cristina was born in Cuba, and five more children were born to us here in the U.S.A., Luis Felipe Jr., Dennis Albert, Joseph Edward, Rose Marie and  Robert Anthony.

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They are all married and we now have 12 Grandchildren. We live in peace and prosperity in the freedom offered to us here in the U.S.A.

~Luis Felipe Lay

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Marta here:

I'm so very grateful to Joey and his father for sharing this amazing story. Gracias, my friend. I'm proud to know you.

If you're Cuban American, your family has a story to tell. Please allow me the privilege of sharing it here on my blog. Even if you were born here in the U.S. and you want to pay tribute to those who bravely left Cuba for a better life here, please do. Send me an email with "Cuando Sali de Cuba" in the subject line. Also, please send some family photos. 

It's my honor to pay tribute to your courageous families. As Luis Felipe so eloquently put it:

The world needs to know.

(cross-posted on Babalú blog)

Cuando Sali de Cuba - So many stories... and a giveaway

As you know, I am passionate about story telling. I believe it's important for all of us to record our personal histories. Much more so those of us whose stories are woven into a larger historical context. 

I've been so honored to be able to share some of your stories recently in the series Cuando Sali de Cuba: stories of courage and hope. 

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I plan on continuing to highlight those stories as long as you keep sending them. The plight of Cubans - on the island as well as those of us who are exiles - has long been misunderstood by the general population. I want people to know who we are and where we came from and why. 

Amy Kikita and I had the pleasure recently of meeting two Cuban filmmakers each with a different story to tell. 

Voices from Mariel
Dr. Jose Garcia and Carlos Montaner with me and Amy

Dr. Jose Garcia tells his "coming to America" story in the moving documentary, Voices from Mariel.

Dr. Garcia goes back to Cuba and the neighborhoods of his youth searching for the friends and loved ones he left behind when he left Cuba via the Mariel Boatlift in 1980. He interviews other Marielitos, who tell the stories of leaving their homeland and what it was like coming to the U.S. as part of that amazing historical exodus of 125,000 souls.

Voices from Mariel will be shown this coming weekend at the University of Miami in Miami, Florida and also on November 6th at the Alexandria Film Festival in Alexandria, Virginia.

Check their Facebook page for dates, locations and times.

Carlos Montaner directed the beautiful documentary, Grandchildren of the Cuban Revolution. Montaner interviews young Cubans who are still on the island and are frozen out of the political and economic process there. This moving film allows them to express their fears and frustrations about growing up under communist rule. 

Watching both films, I felt like I was seeing two sides of the same story. 

There are as many stories as there are Cuban people. All of them involve heartbreak loss and  longing. All are worthy to be told. 

Today I have 3 DVDs to give away.  

One copy of Carlos Montaner's film, The Grandchildren of the Cuban Revolution

Grandchildren of the Revolution

And two copies of Dr. Garcia's Voices from Mariel.

Voices from Mariel dvd

To enter the drawing for a chance to win one of the DVDs, please leave a comment on this post and answer one or both of the following questions:

  • If you're Cuban, when did you leave? And how?
  • If you're not Cuban, (you're welcome to enter this giveaway, too, of course!) tell me what you know about or what fascinates you about Cuban people. Or if you have a personal connection, please tell me.

I'll do a random drawing on Wednesday, October 26th at 7 pm Pacific Time. 

NOTE: If you have not yet sent me your own "Coming to America" story, please send it to me via email along with some photos. Write Cuando Sali de Cuba in the subject line. I promise to highlight it here on MBFCF. Thank you!

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Mica's Story

 Marta here. I hope you're enjoying this series:  Cuando Sali de Cuba, stories of courage and hope.

 Every time I receive an email with "Cuando Sali de Cuba" in the subject line I get super excited. I seriously love that you are all so generous to share your lives with this blog. I know so many of these stories resonate with you because they speak of your own experiences. Thank you so very much.

Today, Mica tells the story of the bravery of her parents and how they left everything behind for a new and better life here in the U.S. I particularly love that she has included those beautiful old photos which depict a perfectly ordinary family caught in a terrible political predicament and having to make some truly difficult decisions.

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I remember being very jealous of the mystical, magical world my parents, brother and sister came from.  Hearing stories of the large homes, perfect weather, amazing foods and idyllic parties and gatherings. 

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Instead, I was witness to living in a cold, busy, noisy city where snow and slush made my parents miserable.  You see, I was born in Brooklyn, NY to Cuban immigrant parents who bravely came to the United States with two small children and not a dime in their pockets.  Their story was repeated to me day in and day out, time after time as a reminder of their sacrifices and all that they gave up so that we could all live a better life in freedom.

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My father had business ties with the Icelandic government and through them he was able to secure a temporary visa and passage to the United States.  Instead on continuing on to Iceland as his visa allowed, he stayed in Miami looking for a job and home for my mother and siblings as they waited in Cuba. 

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It was 1961 and jobs in Miami were hard to find.  He had some leads that lead nowhere.  Desperate and missing my mother he told her his visa was about to expire and he was thinking of going back home.  She decidedly told him, "You can return if you wish but I am leaving for the U.S. as planned with my children.  I refuse to let them grow up in communism."

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So, thanks to my mother’s determination and clear thinking, my father decided to try his luck in the Big Apple.  He found a job and an apartment just in time to accommodate the arrival of the family.  They arrived, with no one to welcome them, help them or guide them.  They left every single relative behind.  How brave they were, how lucky I am to have had them do such amazing things.  

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Slowly, one by one, they brought all of their immediate relatives to the States.  The list included parents, siblings, nieces and nephews.  By my count in 7 years they received 27 people, with no extra money or space to house them.  It didn’t matter because it was the right thing to do.  They breathed a sigh of relief when the last one finally came over.

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As I recount this story I realize it is not much different than others. Sadly this story has repeated itself now for over fifty years.  Other stories are worse, for escape meant Castro’s prisons or death.  But I don’t minimize the importance of what that generation did for all of us.  Their stories are a living example of determination, desire for liberty and an unending faith in God.

 I will never forget when my parents reached their 33rd anniversary in the U.S., so bittersweet as at that point they lived away from home longer than they had lived in it.

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This August marks the 50th anniversary of their trip to my homeland and I am not jealous anymore but forever grateful for giving me the gift of living and being born in such a wonderful country. 

Gracias Mami, Papi, Olgui and Armandito.  I love you. Happy Anniversary. 

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Thank you, Mica, my friend, for sharing your family's beautiful story.

To those of you who are still thinking about it, please send me your own "coming to America" story. Send it to me via email to mdarby(at)cox(dot)net and put Cuando Sali de Cuba in the subject line. Please include photos. 

Thank you all, again. I am honored and humbled to be able to post these stories of such beautiful ordinary courage.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Lillian's Story

 Marta here. I started collecting stories from other Cuban Americans to celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month. I realize now that our stories will take much longer than just a month to tell, so I'm expanding this series for as long as I have contributed stories to share. Thank you, my friends, for the privilege of letting me tell about your lives. 

Cuando Sali de Cuba, stories of courage and hope.

Today, Lillian shares about how even as she came here to the U.S. as a baby, she still feels the music of her Cuban heritage beating strongly in her heart. Enjoy.

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I don’t remember when I left Cuba. I was only 6 months old. Most of what I will share is what I was told about the adventure of leaving the land of sugar cane fields, warm sultry beaches and amazing nightclubs for a land to the north, so different culturally.  I was to learn that being Cuban American meant to embrace this special place, my homeland.  The song of the Cuban soul runs through my heart as I share this account with you.

My father was a teacher and my mom was a pharmacist.   My older sister, Amy, was about 2 years old. I was only a baby.   My parents could not get a visa to the United States. They could get one for Spain. However, they really wanted to come to the United States.  There was a stopover in Haiti, and my parents simply didn’t answer the door when the knock on the door came to report to the airport to fly to Spain.

Lillian and her mother

We lived in Haiti a short time while my parents applied there to go to the United States. TWA Airlines flew us from Haiti to the United States.  My mom tells me that the airline stewardess gave my older sister a candy bar.

We arrived in Miami, but stayed there briefly.   Our family was sponsored by a group of Cubans who had a church in Northern California.  From there, my dad got a teaching job teaching ESL Math. He would continue to be a teacher in this for most of my childhood.  My younger sister Jackie was born in Northern Califonria.  We moved to the Los Angeles area, where I spent the rest of my childhood.

Being Cuban is drenched into my soul and I feel inseparable from it. My married name is not Hispanic, but there is no taking the Cuban out of my soul.

My father’s brother, Guillermo, lived in San Francisco.  Every Thanksgiving, they would come to see us. Every Christmas, they would come to see us.  It was so amazing to experience those American holidays intermingled so intimately with Cuban tradition.   Aunt Olga used to make large pots of carne con papa for us to have before Noche Buena arrived. Then it would be the traditional lechon asado, black beans and rice, those scents savored by me while my uncle and godfather, Guillermo, played his nostalgic Cuban music on his large reel to reel tape player.

My memory of arriving in this country is not a memory I vividly remember because I came here as a baby. However, my parents, my aunts, my uncles and my cousins, kept the Cuban spirit alive.  The frosting on the Cuban cake of my memories was trying guarapo for the first time in Miami and also introducing the Cuban culture to my half Americano children during their childhoods.

It’s been 50 years since I was born, and at least 30 years since the frequent visits of my family would melt Cuban ambiance into my  soul.   Receiving the rich feelings of the Cuban culture was better than having the world’s finest chocolate. They are both sweet, but my memories will always drift home, to the fast talking Cuban dialect, the scent of just brewed Cuban espresso, and the joyful expression of our music, our heart, and our soul. 

Guantanemera!

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Marta here: I'm so grateful to Lillian and all those of you who have contributed stories. I feel it's important for all of us to tell our stories. I will keep posting them as long as you keep sending them in. 

Please send me an email to mdarby(at)cox(dot)net with Cuando Sali de Cuba in the Subject line along with a few photos to illustrate. 

Thank you again, my friends.