Cuando Sali de Cuba - Ada's Story

Marta here: I have more stories than I could fit into just one month. I am going to share them once a week. Thank you all for having the courage to share the details of the most difficult time in your life. Today's story comes from Ada. Being able to leave Cuba after just having had surgery was worth the risk.

by Ada Owens

My mom, my dad, my two brothers and I left Cuba when I was just 4 years old.

It was not our time to go, as we were nowhere near the number that was to be called next, but the government got a hold of the fact that my father had just been operated on. They decided to give us our number then, because since they only give you three to four days to prepare to leave, and they figured we would have to stay given my father’s condition.

Once the police officer on the motorcycle left our house after giving my mom the news, she immediately went to the hospital to inform my dad.  To her surprise, he said “Get everything ready; we’re leaving.” He had to sign a paper given to him by the doctor saying that he was leaving on his own free will and that he understood that due to the altitude on the plane, he could hemorrhage. He had his deviated septum operated on, so he had to fly with his head tilted back the entire flight.

Thank God he was ok.
 
We lived in Puerto Rico for a year with relatives then moved to Hattiesburg, Mississippi where I lived for the next 17 years. After that I moved to Miami Lakes. I now reside in Tampa with my husband and two children.  I often think about how different (and bad) my life would have been had my parents decided to stay and commend my parents for their bravery.

Ada's family.
 
Thanks for the chance to tell my story.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Edilia's Story

Marta here: My heart was aching as I first read Edilia's story. Imagine being a newlywed in Castro's Cuba and looking for a chance to get out and start a new life. 

By Edilia Beltran Pinero

My full name is Josefa Edilia Beltran Bermudez de Pinero.  I was 13 years old when Castro came into power.  I did not understand much of what was going on, but quickly learned that life as I knew it had ended. 

I had been born late in my parents’ life, therefore they were hesitant to leave Cuba and had hoped that the Castro regime would be defeated and life would go back to normal, but it was not be.

I had spent my childhood and early adolescence in a private school and had enjoyed every second of it. Our summers were spent in Varadero. We also visited Soroa, Hanabanilla, Valle de Viñales, Valle de Yumuri, Trinidad, Cienfuegos, Santiago de Cuba,  Santuario del Cobre, among others.  I had a wonderful life thanks to my parents! 

Now, my school was no more and indoctrination permeated every aspect of public school.  lt was 1961 and rather than being subjected to the brainwashing and a year away from graduation, I decided not to go on with school and found my first job.  I had met a young man while still in private school and we started so see each other, first as friends and then we became engaged.  We got married in October 1962 and started our life together. 

Varadero, 1965. Edilia, Manolo y Manolito.

I became one more among the young women of my generation who got married looking forward to the start of a new life abroad. At first, I was adamant about not leaving my parents behind but they were encouraging us to leave as the situation was getting worse and worse.  

To make a long story short, my husband was not allowed to leave when we first attempted it. Men between the ages of 14 and 27 were not granted the required permit. They had to put a stop to the droves of young men that were leaving the country to seek a new life abroad. Consequently, we had to wait until he reached the appropriate age.

When we requested permission to leave, it was still a nightmare. He lost his job and was sent to several forced labor camps. I was able to escape the forced labor because I had two small children, but life for me was not easy either. People knew we were “gusanos” (worms) as they called us and we were under constant surveillance and and suffered a lot of public and private humiliation. 

The least of mistakes could send you into limbo and your permit to leave Cuba would not be granted. We lived our lives in extreme fear. This feeling of living in constant dread, day in and day out, is one I will never forget.

Finally in March of 1972, we were granted the long awaited permit and boarded an Iberia flight to Madrid at 9 am in the morning. I left with mixed emotions as I was leaving my parents behind and did not know at the time if I would ever see them again. They still had hope and thought our absence would be temporary. 

Everyone was extremely quiet as the plane lifted off – fear does paralyze you. Finally, someone broke the silence and said, “We are not in Cuba anymore!” and we all laughed and cried at the same time. Food came and it was lobster salad! We started to see that there was definitely a different life out there.

When we got to Madrid we had friends waiting for us. It was 1 am the morning of the next day and the temperature outside was 33ºF.  We bundled up as well as we could, especially the children, and descended the stairs to get into a bus that would take us to the terminal. The next day we went to Catholic Charities and they provided us with warm clothes, coats, and even boots. Life in Spain was good. Within a month we moved to the Canary Islands where friends had found us both good jobs and we enjoyed our time there.   There was still a problem: the only family we had outside of Cuba was in the U.S. So finally in May of 1974, we arrived in Miami.

Miami, 1978. Edilia, Manolo, Manolito y Janely.

By the time we came here, we were experts in “starting a new life.”  We immediately found jobs, I got a college degree. We changed jobs several times - always looking for improvement, and I have to say that we could not complain. We were able to provide our children with a great education, which was our number one priority. 

Sadly, I did not see my mother ever again. She passed away in Cuba in 1981 while we were trying to bring her and my father to the U.S.  My father made it a year later and lived with us until his passing in 1984. I am eternally grateful to my parents for the life they gave me and for the sacrifices they made so that we could give our kids a better life.  Now that I have grandchildren myself, I totally understand.

Edilia, Manolo, Janely and the four grandchildren. Boca Raton, 2012.

My husband and I are retired, enjoying our four grandchildren - born to our daughter - and we are celebrating our 50th Wedding Anniversary this year.  Our son passed away in 1981, he was 17, but we have the consolation that he too was able to enjoy a good life until God decided he needed one more angel. He lives on in our hearts.

All the tribulations and suffering that we went through to become Americans were worth it.  Even though we still keep many of our Cuban traditions and have taught them to our family, we are undeniably part of the melting pot. We enjoy our afternoon cafecito, pastelitos de guayaba y cena de Nochebuena, while at the same time enjoying hamburgers, Thanksgiving dinner and apple pie.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Elena's Story

Marta here: Most Cubans are familiar with Santayana Jewelers. They are a mainstay of the Cuban exile community in Miami. I'm delighted that Elena Santayana has graciously agreed to share her family's stories. Her memories of growing up Santayana are both hilarious and poignant.

(Translations to her Cubanisms are marked with a red * and are at the bottom of the story.)

Gracias, Elena. You humble me.

Cuando

I was born en la saguesera. That’s the southwest area of Miami, on June 8, 1978. I have three sisters, Marisa, Miriam and Patty and a twin brother, Rudy. We grew up in a split plan home in the beautiful Westchester area of Miami, Florida.

Totem pole pic

Santayana loved taking totem-pole pictures.

Both of my parents came to this country alone. My dad, known as Santayana, was Peter Pan (pronounced with rolling r’s). I thought that meant he wore green tights and fought pirates. Later, I learned it meant he came to this country without his parents and stayed at a home for boys until a cousin or uncle picked him and his brother up. But I never really “got it” until quite recently. When I was 17 years old and in high school, I never took a moment to imagine, “What if right now, I was sent away to live in another country, indefinitely, with little money and alone?”

Mom arrived in the United States on the Freedom Flights. In 1961, the day before Halloween, she was supposed to board a plane with her brother and sisters but there was a problem with her visa and she was made to stay an extra couple of days in Havana. She was 17 years old and didn’t speak much english. She lived in a house with 12 other people in the northwest area of Miami or, as she says, “la casa del nor’wes’ ”.

The original hipster

Elena's mama. The original hipster.

My father, Santayana, was a hard working man. Every morning he would dress in a fine suit and take his maleta* of jewelry to visit clients at their homes. Before he opened the jewelry stores, my dad was known for his maleta. I still hear stories of people who remember my dad showing up at their house, opening his maleta and revealing tray after tray of sparkling jewelry.

In the 80’s my dad had three really cool things in his possession. Number one, Santayana owned a beeper. Not the beeping kind we know now, the kind doctors still use. Dad’s beeper was like the speaker at KMart. Here’s how it worked:

• Step 1: Call the beeper.
• Step 2: Wait for the tone.
• Step 3: Convey the message for all to hear over the speaker/beeper strapped to his belt. Twice.

The messages were to be coded at all times so that random strangers on the street wouldn’t suspect he was carrying a maleta of jewelry and give him the proverbial, “Palo por la cabeza.*” 

An example of an acceptable message would be: “Santayana, llama la tienda. Santayana, llama la tienda.*”

However, if you said, “Santayana llama la joyeria.*” - that got you in big time trouble. Similarly, if you said, “Papi llama a mami,*”  you would get banned from beeper detail. Singing Happy Birthday into the beeper was also not warmly received.

Second, Santayana had a car phone. His car phone was super cool, space-age stuff. Imagine a rotary phone bolted to the center consul of his wine colored Caprice Classic. The advanced car phone technology also required the Caprice to sport a subtle, 6 foot long antennae on its roof. Phone calls were ridiculously expensive but dad was a gadget man and had to have it. No one had a car phone.

Well, some people had carphones - drug dealers. In third grade some kid asked me, “Is your dad a drug dealer? Why does he have a car phone?”  We’re talking about Miami in the 80’s, this kid was not asking an illogical question. So I told him, “Noooo, my dad is not a drug dealer, he’s a jeweler.”

The third, neato thing Santayana had in the 80’s was a beautiful, brand-new, wine-colored Caprice Classic. On the rare occasion that Santayana took me and Rudy to school, he would pretend that his car was an airplane; he was the captain and we were his crew. I was the flight attendant offering peanuts and Rudy was the mechanic. There was always something wrong with the plane and we would have to rush, rush, rush to fix the problem. This game probably explains my fear of flying.

Although it had been over 20 years since our parents’ flight from Cuba, growing up in the 80’s, we were raised to believe that our residence in Miami was temporary. Every Christmas Eve someone proclaimed, “El año que viene en Cuba!*”  Then everyone would toast and cheer and give each other big hugs.

Santayana fam 1980

The Santayana Family. Circa 1980.

My uncle Marcelo, who exiled to the Canary Islands after serving 9 years in a Cuban prison, had a really short index finger. His index finger was literally shorter than his pinky. Don’t imagine that his finger didn’t have a nail. It totally did. The whole thing was intact, it was just short. Like a baby finger. As a kid, that finger was the freakiest thing I had ever seen.

He waved that finger around like there was nothing wrong with it. I once asked him about it, he loudly proclaimed, “Porque este año, este año cae Fidel!*” while slamming the tip of his freakishly short index finger on the table. I totally believed him. I mean, it made sense to me that slamming that finger down every day for the past 20 years would make it a whole phalanx shorter.

Every year was the year Fidel was going down. Every Christmas we were spending the next one in Camaguey. I worried about what I should pack in my luggage. Should I take a bathing suit, a sweater, boots? Should I start packing today? Was there going to be horseback riding? Whose house would we be staying at? How would Santa know where to leave the presents? It was all very confusing.

Mom (far left) with 8 of her 11 siblings

Elena's Mom (far left) with 8 of her 11 siblings. Tio Marcelo (not pictured) died this year, 2012, on her dad's birthday.

In 2007, my father was diagnosed with a horrible form of cancer. One night, as I was sitting with him at the hospital, it came over the TV that maybe Fidel Castro was dead. I wondered to myself, “Do I wish death on Castro now?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted Castro to be dead just then because my father was, at the time, on his own death bed. On this night, facing the uncertainty of my father’s life, I wasn’t sure I could wish death upon anyone. Not even on the person who had caused so much misery to thousands of people.

I also did not want my dad to live in a world where Castro was finally dead. The one reason he had not visited his childhood country after all these many years was the fact that Fidel Castro was alive, and finally, right when it was too late, the son-of-a-bitch up and dies? I didn’t know what to do. So I did the first thing that came to mind, I went to La Carreta.

I have celebrated many major life changing events at La Carreta. I sounded the horn of mom’s minivan from our house all the way to La Carreta both times the Florida Marlins won the World Series. I made sure to find parking far and early both times the Heat won the Playoffs because getting there late meant being stuck in traffic. Once, the day after Halloween, my friends and I dressed up in costumes and strutted our stuff carrying a boom box from the entrance, all the way to the back, then right out the front door. But this night, the night we thought Castro was dead was different. The energy in the air was celebratory, but nostalgic. It was both happy and sad. And I watched, completely covered in goosebumps, as a group of 20 or so teary individuals sang and danced in unison to Willy Chirino’s “Ya Viene Llegando” (video below) until the police came and broke up the entire party.

I don’t have to tell you, but I will anyway, Fidel Castro was not dead that night. Nor has he been dead any night since. My dad wasn’t happy I danced in the streets. He didn’t want me to go La Carreta to celebrate that man’s death. He didn’t want to be duped by the Castro regime. But I wanted to pass the joy in my heart to my dad. The joy I felt from being his daughter and the immense sense of pride I feel of being Cuban.

A few days or maybe weeks later my father passed away. He died in a world where Fidel Castro lived, his beloved Cuba, still existing under the foot of a tyrant. But, in the end, the only thing that ever truly mattered to him was his family. When my dad died I understood, for the first time ever, what Cuban nostalgia was really all about.

* Translation of terms used in Elena's story:

• Maleta - suitcase.
• Palo por la cabeza. - Blow to the head with a large blunt object.
• Santayana, llama la tienda. - Santayana, call the store.
•  
• Santayana llama la joyeria. Santayana, call the jewelry store
• Papi llama a mami. - Dad, call mom.
•  
• El año que viene en Cuba! - Next year in Cuba!
• Porque este año, este año caie Fidel! - Because this year, Fidel will fall!

Celebrating Six Years in the Blogosphere (MBFCF Giveaway WEEK!)

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you already know that I love any occasion to celebrate. So, you're probably asking, "What are we celebrating today, Marta?"

Let me tell you. Today marks the 6th Blogiversary of My big, fat, Cuban family on the Web.

GUAT? I know. Shut up.

That's right, people! SIX. YEARS.

I sat down in front of my computer screen on October 1st, 2006 and started over-sharing about being Cuban in the O.C. and how difficult it was to get decent Cuban food and so I just started cooking for myself and my family. And I took pictures every day anyway, so I started sharing my recipes.

And isn't it fitting that my October 1st Blogiversary is right smack dab in the middle of Hispanic Heritage Month? Coincidence? I think not.

I was amazed when I hit the One Year in the Blogosphere mark in 2007. So I celebrated.

Encouraged by your great response to this little Cuban corner of cyberspace, I kept writing, and picture-taking, and documenting and before I knew it, two years had gone by. And so I celebrated again. And designed a faux magazine cover, and I gave stuff away.

Blown away by your support and because I apparently had a whole lot more to say, I continued to write and lo and behold, in October of 2009, I celebrated My 3 Year Blogiversary. (<--is that even a word?) By that time, I had gotten into a groove and I was totally loving the whole faux-magazine-cover thing and I really enjoyed giving stuff away, so I did it again.

I was having SO. MUCH. FUN! I did stuff. I took pictures. I wrote about it. This space had become a living, breathing, photo album of my life. And I just kept writing, and picture-taking, and over-sharing right up until it was time to celebrate Year Four of Blogginess.

To be perfectly honest, I was still amazed and surprised that anyone even wanted to read what I was writing about. I kept doing it because, well, it is my life. And it should at least be of interest to me, right? Plus, when I look back at the hundreds of posts that I've written, it tells a really nice story about a really nice life and that makes me really, really happy.

I had some health challenges in 2011 and the thought crossed my mind that I had probably told all my stories and said everything I wanted to say about my family and my kids and all that. And I actually toyed with the idea of stopping this whole documenting-my-life-for-the-world-to-see thing. I took a break for a while and went back and read some of what I'd written and decided that even if no one else was following, it was an excellent record of my life (or at least the last few years of my life). And it made me happy. So when I got to Year Five in the Blogosphere, I really felt like I had a lot to celebrate.

Now I'm six years into telling, not just my own stories, but sharing some of yours with the Cuando Sali de Cuba series. I'm very proud of my little cyber-home here at My big, fat, Cuban family. I've made some lovely relationships with some wonderful people and generous sponsors.

As of today, my 6th Blogiversary, I'm happy to report that I have 4,491 followers on the MBFCF Facebook Fan Page where I get to over-share every single day in real time, but that's not important right now.

I want to thank you all.

You read. You share. You come back. You write to me. You leave comments. You make me laugh out loud. I love writing about the "relajo" that is my life and I'm humbled that you keep responding so positively every time. I love that you get my Cubanisms.

{A very special Thank You and shout out to Val & the rest of the Intransigents over at Babalú Blog for their unfailing friendship and support and for putting MBFCF on the Blogging World Map. Gracias!}

So, about that whole celebration thing.....

I'm going to be celebrating ALL WEEK. That's right. For the next SIX days, I've lined up some fabulous Cuban sponsors and I'll be hosting a very cool giveaway every single day for the ENTIRE WEEK to celebrate each of my SIX Bloggywonderful years.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. ;-)

To kick things off - here's MBFCF Blogiversary Giveaway #1:

My Big, Fat, Cuban Family Cookbook

Leave a comment on this post for a chance to win my cookbook and please answer one or all of the following questions:

• How did you find My big, fat, Cuban family?
• What do you enjoy most about this blog?
• How long have you been here?

I'll choose a winner at the end of MBFCF Blogiversary Giveaway Week on Monday, October 8th, 2012 at 11 am, so you have lots of time to enter.

Have I said, "thank you"? Seriously. Thank you.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Roland's Story

Marta here: This story is really about Roland's mother. I love how totally genious she was in preparing her young son to leave Cuba at any given moment. 

Cuando

as told to Lucy Vega

In 1966, little Roly Vega was just 4 years old, born in Habana and living in Camajuani, Las Villas in Cuba.

Castro had been in control of Cuba for over 5 years and his parents knew that it was time to leave their beloved homeland.  His parents had already seen their nephew Henri sent to the United States as part of the Peter Pan Project and with President Lyndon B. Johnson opening doors for Cubans they saw their opportunity. 

Being allowed to leave Cuba was challenging; you had to leave everything behind and be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.  This would be difficult as the entire family needed to stay close to home and each other, ready to go and with two small children there would be additional challenges. 

One of those challenges was the fact that Roly was afraid of airplanes. Really afraid of planes and if he caused a scene when it was time to leave, well, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. So, everyday his mother would take him to the small airfield they hoped to leave from to see the planes and watch them take off.

“Look Roly, look at the planes! We will be going on a trip in one of them soon.”  Every day they followed the same routine until they got the word that they were given clearance to finally be able to leave Cuba.

Roly was, by now, used to the planes and didn't make a fuss when it was time for the family to leave on the airplane that would carry them to freedom.

*****************************************

DSC_0172

Roland today with his very clever and brave mother.

DSC_0177

Roland's dad wearing one of the most popular Habana Brand Clothing designs.

Many years later, (okay over 45+ years) Roland Vega lives in California and still thinks about his beloved Cuba. In 2009 he joined his love of his heritage and his love of art to create Habana Brand Clothing.  A family run business specializing in men's and women's vintage style t-shirts with a Cuban and Caribbean feel. He hopes to show the music, history and nostalgia of the old Cuba that Roland and his family left behind 45 years ago.

111222 Family Portrait-8646

Roland and Lucy Vega with their handsome sons.

Visit Roland and his family at www.habanabrand.com and yes that is Roland singing to his parents! He will always be grateful for their struggles to give him and his sisters a better life.

P.S. Roland Vega is still afraid of planes, really afraid of planes!!!

*****************************************

Marta here:

I found Habana Brand Clothing through the Wassup en LA? page on Facebook and I immediately fell in love. So, I shared the link on the My big, fat, Cuban family Facebook page. And I said to my fans, "Go like them. And tell them Marta sent you."

According to Roland, what happened next was crazy....their "likes" started climbing and they couldn't understand what had happened, until they saw the posts on their wall that looked like this:

Screen Shot 2012-09-26 at 2.18.02 PM

Isn't that absolutely awesome? Oh the Cubanity. 

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Estrella's Story

Marta here: Estrella was 10 years old and part of the historic Mariel Boatlift which happened 32 years ago and brought more than 125,000 (!)  Cubans to America's shore and to freedom.

Mariel:  Remembering the Boatlift

By Estrella Diaz-Quibus

My parents and I were part of the Mariel boatlift, where hundreds of thousands of Cubans took to the seas seeking freedom. 

On a May afternoon in 1980, all the students and faculty from the Augusto Cesar Sandino in Fontanar were led to Gaspar’s (a fellow classmate) home to scream obscenities and throw stones. I remember how sad I felt at his fate while I managed to stay far in the background, hoping to be invisible. You see, it was rumored his family was going to leave the country. In the eyes of the revolutionary government, that made him "escoria" - scum. That same week the same thing was done to Ramona, a teacher who, as far as I know, never got to leave.
 
Some days later a patrol car had stopped in front of my house. I ran home curious to find out why they were there.  My mother let us know that my uncle Mario had sent for us.  This was a complete surprise, even to my parents who had never planned on leaving Cuba. I remember begging my mother to please let us stay.    I feared I would suffer the same fate as poor Gaspar.
 
On May 28th my mother woke me up at around 2am asking me to rush and get dressed... we were leaving.  I was terrified. That evening my cousins Frank and Miriam who lived with us were patrolling the streets doing their obligatory neighborhood watch when another police car approached them asking where the Diaz-Quibus family resided.
 
I give Frank (my cousin/Godfather) full credit for encouraging my parents to leave.  He made my mother realize it was the best thing to do if they wanted me to have a chance at a better future.  I will forever be grateful to him. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to see us leave. He had said goodbye to his parents, two brothers and three sisters when his visa was denied because he was of “military age."  He bravely told his parents he was not going to sacrifice his siblings. He insisted they leave so that they could be free. Here he was sacrificing himself once again. I will forever be grateful and indebted to him.
 
We left the house before dawn. I remember them knocking at the neighbor’s house down the block asking him if he could please take us to Marianao. He refused, fearing retaliation if anyone ever found out he helped us. So off we went to the bus stop, wearing what was on our backs and just one set of clothing for changing. By the way, I still have the one dress I wore hanging in my closet. Unfortunatelly it stopped fitting me about a week after I got to Key West!
 
We arrived to the Abreu Fontan where we were registered and then we waited. The place had been some sort of a country club in it’s heyday. At the moment it housed what seemed to be an endless sea of people. We slept under the stars on the cold concrete for what seemed to be an eternity to a ten year old child.  I remember asking my mother if we could go back home if our names had not been called by my birthday (June 4th). 

I was so looking forward to the usual party… to wearing the new shoes they had bought for me, smelling the cake they always baked themselves.  Oh, what lovely memories I had. “Let’s wait and see,” was the answer I always got.  My poor parents were afraid someone would hear me saying I wanted to stay. It was rumored that kids who asked to stay were separated from their parents and lured by the idea of being given some sort of a heroic title.
 
Five or six days later our names were called. We were led like cattle to a shuttle bus that took us to “El Mosquito."  It was an awful place. I saw how they beat some defenseless looking men as the dogs were barking. I remember seeing the fear and sadness on people’s faces. We were stripped of any personal belongings and of our citizenships. We ended up being assigned to a tent that had many bunk beds.  My mother was able to find a can of sweetened condensed milk (“nectar of the Gods”).  I had some of it and fell asleep till dusk.
 
We were put on another bus and taken to the ship that evening.
 
A Rough Crossing

It seemed small to me… extremely crowded. We ended up sitting on a small bench on the outside deck on the left side.  My mother would joke saying she was afraid to lift up her foot because she’d end up stomping someone’s head when she’d put it down.

Estrella's parents on the right in the corner.
 
The boat was wooden. It seemed old and not sturdy at all. I was sure the thing was going to capsize before we reached Key West. I kept wondering how Christopher Columbus must have felt.  I would look out to the horizon and only saw the endless sea. Land was just an illusion and it seemed it was never going to become a reality.
 
The Gulf of Mexico has the roughest waters I’ve ever seen. At one point a helicopter came very near holding an SOS sign on it. We were handed life preservers. The smell of the fumes made me nauseous, not to mention the sight of people vomiting into the plastic bags they came in.

The Queen of Queens

My mother tells me it took 17 hours.  To me it seemed like a lifetime. The joy I felt when we finally saw land on the horizon was overwhelming. I can sincerely say the only other time I’ve felt anything bigger was when my son was born.  There were these uniformed men helping us get off the boat. I was so scared. Had we really reached the USA? We were lined up and handed a can of ice cold Coca-Cola. To this day, I remain faithful to Coke. I looked up and there was a sign in Spanish that said “the last one to leave the island, please turn off the lights.”  I think that was the first laugh I had in the USA.
 
My mother and I would reminisce about that day… what the boat looked like. She and I had different versions. From time to time I would do an internet search for “The Queen of Queens” but would be directed to beauty pageant pages. Last year it occurred to me to Google my maiden name (which I have proudly resumed recently) and had the great pleasure of finding a posting by Mr. Jorge Rodilles who was looking to reunite with the passengers he’d brought over during the Mariel Boat Lift on his boat The Queen of Queens.

 Jorge Rodilles and The Queen of Queens brought many Cubans to America and freedom.

Jorge Rodilles also remembers Mariel as one of the greatest experiences of his life.  He was able to bring a number of relatives on this voyage, including his parents, whom he had not seen in 18 years, and his maternal grandmother, who was then 97 years old. 

Rodilles remembered Estrella Diaz-Quibus as a little girl, who celebrated her birthday shortly after landing in Key West with birthday cake provided by the US Immigration Service.

Mr. Rodilles back in 1980.

Arriving in Key West

I remember that evening vividly.  We were in line waiting to be taken to Opaloca when my dad recognized a flag from the Bay of Pigs Troop his Godson had served under. Someone overheard him mentioning it to my mother and we were pulled aside and taken to an office as a courtesy to wait for my aunt and uncles to come pick us up.
 
At midnight my parents kissed me and wished me a happy birthday. (I’m crying as I write this. What a sentimental woman I’ve turned out to be.)

Again, someone must have overheard them, because shortly after that, they came in with a piece of coffee cake with a lit match on it singing Happy Birthday. I was thrilled. They gave me an apple, gum and a dollar.  They took some pictures, what I wouldn’t give to see those now!
 
I felt so special. The fears were now gone. I was now an 11 year old woman... Cuban by birth, American by choice.  A very good choice made my two loving, aging parents that put their lives on the line to provide me with a better one.

Estrella with Captain Rodilles in 2011.

Rodilles has been compiling a list of his passengers on that voyage, now having about 105 names out of about 200 people.  He still has over 100 photos of the Mariel phenomenon -- of the three weeks he spent at the bay of Mariel, picking up passengers, of the journey itself, and of his passengers, many of whom were children, like me, forever changed by this experience.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Carmen's Story

Marta here: Carmen tells a beautiful story about her family's many and painful losses after the Cuban Revolution and about their personal triumphs here in America. (Get tissues.)

by Carmen McPherson

I was born on July 23, 1960 in Santiago, on the beautiful island of Cuba.  My parents were born and raised in Cuba. My father had attended university in America and was employed as a research chemist at an American company in Cuba.

Carmen's parents on their wedding day - February 8, 1959.

My memories of my early childhood are happy and vivid. We visited my grandparents' homes often and my  younger brother and I enjoyed having my cousins as playmates during those soon to be very difficult political years.

Carmen, at her favorite place to be as a child: the beach in Cuba. This was taken shortly before her family came to the United States.

1966 was a turning point in my life. People we knew started to disappear, seemingly overnight. There were hushed tones by adults and the new  ever-present presence of military police.

My father lost his job because we were now declared to be “gusanos" - worms - because we wanted to leave the country.

I loved socializing and my world revolved around my school friends. Even though the school was not a Catholic one, we all wore uniforms. One day the military police came in the middle of the day and we were told that we now had to wear red bandanas in alliance and respect for Castro and the Revolution. That would be my last day attending school. From that point on, I would be home schooled by my father.

Around this same time, my mom told me that we would not be able to attend Mass anymore at our beautiful Catholic Church. Cuba was now under Castro's regime , an atheist country. The priests and nuns were quickly run out of the country.
 
My father using his  chemistry skills was now making everything from soap to shampoo and even ketchup  to sell for pesos on the black market. The entire country was now on food stamp rationing.

Castro's militia would conduct surprise inspections of our home and would take inventory of all of our belongings. I remember wondering “why does anyone care how many dolls or dresses I have in my closet?"

Summer 1967. I am at my maternal grandmother’s home when my father suddenly and excitedly appears in the courtyard. He is happy. My mother is crying. I am confused. I hear, "nos vamos." We are leaving. Our lottery visa number had come up!

At first our visas have us leaving and spending some time in Spain, then all of a sudden we get the news that we are going directly to America on a Freedom Flight sponsored by Catholic Charities. I would be turning 7  in July. 

August 1967 we spend the night in my mother’s childhood home and the next  morning, my aunts give us Spam sandwiches to take with us. We say goodbye and vow to see each other soon. My father gives the last of his pesos to the cab driver and we are at the airport for a very long time.

Our bags are checked and re-checked. Each child is allowed one toy and one bag. I have chosen a doll that is dressed like a bride, my grandmother had used part of my mother’s wedding gown to dress the doll. My brother is holding a red truck.

We sleep on the benches. We are stripped of our gold religious medals. My father has hidden family pictures  and sown them in different compartments in his suitcase. My mom's wedding band is allowed to remain on her finger. The bearded soldier has declared it to be "basura" - junk - not worth anything. My brilliant father had purposely tarnished it, hoping that the communists would think exactly that.

I sleep through the plane ride to America. We arrive in Miami and are “processed” at the refugee detention center. My father is handed a square box with a Red Cross on it. It contains toiletries and some American money.  Imagine the start of a whole new life... in a box.

We spend a few days there, in rooms with bunk beds and huge cafeteria style open rooms where I watch Bewitched and That Girl with other Cuban kids. None of us understand what s going  on.

We are served cold cereal to be eaten in small boxes. How odd is this America? We are served “hot dogs.” After months of eating a diet that consisted mostly of  bread and olive oil and  spam, the abundance of food is startling. I am shocked that food is thrown in the garbage.

Our paperwork is cleared and we are soon on the way to New York City. We arrive at Kennedy Airport and are met by my uncle, my mother's eldest brother and his family. We will live with them until my father gets on his feet. In the cab ride to Brooklyn, I am wondering why it is not cold or snowing  as I have been warned by my aunts in Cuba.  It is August 31, 1967.

The next few weeks would be a dizzying ride: new food, hand me down clothes, something called "Vietnam" is making my 18 year old cousin cry because her boyfriend is there. I am hoping we won't have to go there next.

September 1967. My brother and I are walked to a huge public school where we line up in endless lines and are lead into the huge building. My father has pinned this note on us: "I do not speak English." along with our names. Eventually we are put into a bilingual classroom.

Carmen, on the day of her First Holy Communion with her mom, dad, and brother, Rick. Montclair, New Jersey.

By Christmas, I am reading in English. Reading has opened new doors for me and a place to escape.

My father  found work as a research chemist thanks to his American degree and by Summer of 1969, he found a new home for our family in Montclair, New Jersey. Eventually, we would settle in West Orange, New Jersey, where I reside to this day.

I hope and pray that someday my family and I will be able to travel back to a free and Democratic Cuba. I value Education and never take the privilege of voting in a government election or practicing my faith for granted. I am grateful to America for the many opportunities it has offered my family.

Carmen and her husband, Ken.

Carmen's five kids (l to r): Russell, Robert, Camille, Coryne and Ken.

I have been happily married to my husband, Ken for 21 years and still think of my late fathers words everytime one of his  grandchildren receives a diploma. 

He would say, "M'ija, Fidel Castro took everything away from me, except what is in here." - and then he would tap his head.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Henry's Story

Marta here: Today's entry in my continuing series of "coming to America" stories contributed by readers, Henry tells about his family, who are proud Americans with Cuban roots and his memories of growing up Cuban in Little Havana in the 70's.

by Henry J. Celorio

I was born in Miami, but my family was from Cuba. My mom and dad were part of the "Pedro Pan" exodus in the early 60's. My dad settled in Miami and my mom lived originally in Tampa before settling in Miami. My parents met while attending school at Miami Senior High.
 
I was born in 1971. I grew up being a American made with Cuban parts. I would visit my grandparents alot in my youth. Both sets lived in Little Havana. Little Havana back in the 70's  was what Cuba should have been in my opinion. I remember staying overnight with my parents and going to the "bodega" to get fresh Cuban bread, pastelitos and Cuban coffee. I remember the smell of the fresh food in the air and the friendship that all Cuban had when talking to each other.
 
My uncle showed his appreciation for this country as in 1969 he volunteered to go to Vietnam. He joined the army right out of high school. My uncle came back paralyzed from the waist AND never regretted the price he paid for the freedom America gave him. My father was drafted  for the Armed Forces in 1970 and showed up to his assignment. My dad didn't make the cut because of his high blood pressure but was ready to go if he had passed his physical.
 
My parents taught my sister and me to be proud to be American but to NEVER forget our Cuban roots and heritage. I feel very proud of the heritage I have with my family. My parents and grandparents struggled hard and succeeded here in America. My family has always been grateful to America for taking them in and for giving us the opportunity to succeed and for the freedom America gave them after it was lost in Cuba. My family has served in 2 foriegn wars and always followed the rules of this great nation. America is our home and we would die to defend her.
 
As for me, a first generation American of Cuban heritage, I hold my Cuban roots dear to my heart. I heard the stories of Cuba and Cuban life on the island from my parents and grandparents. Now its my turn to pass the stories and heritage on to my son. My son will be second generation American of Cuban heritage. I want him to be a proud to be a American and proud to be of Cuban heritage.
 
In honor of my departed Grandparents......I miss you all so very much to this day.
 
Henry J Celorio

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. 

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.

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. 

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."

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.  

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.

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 33^rd anniversary in the U.S., so bittersweet as at that point they lived away from home longer than they had lived in it.

 

This August marks the 50^th 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 - Margaret's Story

Marta here. Welcome to my ongoing celebration of Hispanic Heritage Month - Cuban Style with a series of stories about Cuban American families and how they ended up here in the U.S.

Cuando Sali de Cuba, stories of courage and hope.

Today's story comes from Margaret. She tells about the agonizing wait to leave Cuba and how her family was harrassed by Castro's goons after they decided to leave.

My family consisted of my mom, my dad, my brother and I.  We were a happy family. My dad worked for US Company as a mechanic-electrician.  He and my mom were married for 17 years and had built a modest home in El Cotorro,Reparto Las Brisas.  He was born in Guanavacoa  and my mom in Regla.

My dad knew what was coming when the Castro Regime took over, so when the Bay of Pigs invasion was unsuccessful, he and my mom started paperwork to leave. My uncle in New York was our sponsor and it took one year from the time the paperwork was started to the day we received the departure date.

As all Cubans know, you leave everything because the government says it’s theirs. Everything in the house is inventoried  when they find out you are leaving and then 3 days before your actual departure day, you are put out of your home, inventory taken again to make sure you haven’t sold or given away any of YOUR stuff.

If anything was missing, you didn't leave. My family’s day of departure was September 26, 1962.

Our uncle took us to the Havana Airport, we went into the “fishbowl” where you were called names and jeered at by the loyal Castro-lovers who stood on the other side of the glass room.

Margaret with her mother and brother.

We were lucky; we were not searched in the manner in which many were. However our luck ran out when going up the stairs to the plane. My dad’s name was called and he was not allowed to board with us.

We took off without him and knew nothing of him for over 24 hours.

Once he joined us in Miami almost two days later, he said he had not been tortured but I don’t really believe it now. My dad got sick one week after we arrived in New York and died on November 15^th, 1962 less than two months after coming from Cuba.

 Anyone that says you can’t die of a broke heart is wrong. Leaving everything you worked so hard to have to a government just because you disagree and want to leave can break your heart.

My dad never got to experience the freedom he died to give us and my brother and I are forever grateful to him and my mom for their sacrifice to get us out of that hellhole!  How different our lives would have been if we had stayed.

Margaret's mother and stepfather.

Our story is not that different from many Cubans, but it is ours. We were lucky to be here and I will forever be grateful to the United States of America for opening their arms to us.

~ Margaret Rabelo-Carlson