Cubamerican at the Tower Theater, Miami - Ticket Giveaway

As you know, I love to promote projects by and for Cubans. In the month of September, I usually showcase the stories of Cuban exiles in my blog series, Cuando Sali de Cuba.

Our shared history is so compelling and our contributions and accomplishments are many and varied. The film, Cubamerican beautifully and artfully showcases the stories of many prominent Cubans. Their stories, like all of ours are filled with both unbearable sadness and unquenchable hope.

I had the privilege of seeing the film in a rough version last summer and I was blown away. This is a must-see, not just for Cubans, but for all lovers of liberty.

Here's an interview with José Enrique Pardo – Writer/Producer/ Director

Q: What spurred you to make this film?

A: My father’s death.  After he passed away I felt like my connection to Cuba had died with him and I wanted to commemorate his experience and mine.  I also wanted to provide a portal for my children and their children to remember the lives of their Cuban ancestors.  As it turned out, making the film revived my Cubania.  It was my father’s last gift to me.

Q: Of all the stories chronicled in Cubamerican which one is the most powerful to you?

A: All the stories are powerful, and though they share similarities they are all unique.  Anytime one is forced into exile from one’s homeland, it is a tragedy.  However, for me the stories of those characters who lost their parents and their families, who were never able to reunite with them, are the most compelling; they have an almost unbearable sadness.

Q: What would you like to see happen in Cuba?

A: The existence of a pluralistic democracy with free elections, which incorporates the philosophy of the American Declaration of Independence.  Namely, that we are all created equal and are endowed with the unalienable rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  That government is necessary to secure those rights and derive their power from the consent of the citizenry not the military or a dictatorship.  And that whenever any government  abolishes or infringes upon those rights, as the Cuban government has done for so long, it is the right of the people to institute a new government that can effect their safety and happiness.  None of this exists in Cuba today.

Q: What is the purpose of your film?

A: I hope that the purpose of my film is to bring all Cubans closer together.  To show that hatred, force, and repression is evil and a curse on humanity and that it is forgiveness and compassion that bring us closer to the divine.

Q: What place do you think your film will occupy in Cuban history?

A: I don’t know if it will occupy a place in Cuban history I think it will occupy a place in Cuban-American history.   My film presents Cuban history as background and explanation for the Cuban-American condition but it does not dwell on Cuba.  More than anything else, my film shows the resiliency of the human spirit embodied in the characters of the film and the million more like them that risked everything for freedom and ultimately triumphed because of it. 

Cubamerican will be showing beginning Friday, June 14th in Miami at The Tower Theater • 1508 Southwest 8th Street, Miami, Fl.

They have graciously offered to give away 4 sets of 2 tickets to the Friday, June 14th showing of the film to MBFCF readers. Of course, this is available only to my South Florida friends. (Don't hate.)

In order to enter the Cubamerican Ticket Giveaway, please leave a comment here on this blog and answer the following questions:

• What year did your family come to the U.S?
• What part of Cuba are you from?

Please go "like" the Cubamerican La Pelicula Facebook page for an extra entry and come back and leave another comment saying, "I like Cubamerican."

I'll choose the winners on Wednesday, June 12th, 2013 at 11:00 AM PST.

About the Director:

José Enrique Pardo was born in Havana, Cuba, raised in Union City, New Jersey, and now resides in Los Angeles, California. He has written three novels (Dealing from Heaven, Leverage, Hurricanes) a collection of stories (Poised Upon the Precipice) and three screenplays (Persuasion, God’s Law and Feelanthropy).  José Enrique has previously produced and directed two short films (Proposition, Birthday Boy}.  Cubamerican is his first feature film.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - "El Gallito" - Theresa's story

Marta here: I'm celebrating Hispanic Heritage Month: Cuban-Style with a series of stories about Cuban American families: Cuando Sali de Cuba, stories of courage and hope.

This is a short story by Theresa Cecilia Garcia Trilla (Theresa C. Newbill) submitted by Isabelle Ann Newbill.

El Gallito (The Rooster)

"El Gallito" is a story of a particular cultural/socio-political structure, the movement in the history of a people, and the behavior of its characters through time. It implements a comedic element with a strong sense of irony and a poweful undertone of sadness and sense of complacency. Told in a conversational style, this is a story about love, loss, friendship, community, and family. As a Cuban-American, I see it as a story of my people.

My father owned the store El Gallito -Billetes De Loteria y Boletos De Beneficencia . It was located in Habana- Mercado De Tacon- Galino y Dragones. This story is a tribute to him, Luis Garcia Trilla, his father, Jose Suarez, my mother, Elvira Margarita Alonso, and all the people of Cuba who were friends, family and acquaintances that they never saw again.

A short story
by Theresa Cecilia Garcia Trilla (Theresa C. Newbill)

Simon, bajate de ese campanario antes de que mates a alguien! (Simon, come down from that bell tower before you kill someone!)

Life was pretty easy in Cuba before the revolutionaries took over. Every afternoon, Simon Del Valle, the local Roman Catholic priest, would get drunk on communion wine and climb up on the church bell tower, rifle in hand. He would take pot shots at anything that moved in his vicinity, often revealing all the secrets told to him in the sanctity of confession. And every afternoon, his brother Lucio, the local Babalawo or Santeria high priest, called out to him, avoiding the flying bullets, begging him to come down from the bell tower before he kills someone. You could set your watch by Simon's responses. He would continue shooting, ringing the bell, and yelling back at his brother that he was a demon sent by the devil himself to corrupt his pure soul.

Grandpap would sit in his rickety rocking chair outside Dad's store, named El Gallito (The Rooster), laughing and smoking his Cuban cigars. The smell permeated the surrounding area, and I remember thinking that this scenario would stay forever registered in my mind. On a slow day, which was most of the time, my father would often stand by Grandpap to watch the events unfold.

"He just called Sra. Adeliada a prostitute, says she's sleeping with Jose Martinez," Grandpap would tell Dad as he smiled big, exposing some gold teeth before taking another drag of his cigar.

Dad would just stand there and smile, keeping Grandpap company before he scolded Simon down from the bell tower. Simon always listened to my dad, when he didn't fall asleep up there after exhausting himself with threats and gunfire.

My dad was one of those iconic figures everyone looked up to, straight-laced and decent, with a genuine caring for each of the town's people. He was known to all as Luicito. Many would come and ask for monetary help, and my father would happily comply. He purchased a huge house in El Vedado for his childhood friend Miguel Angel, and he kept Mom in movie-star style, both in terms of clothes and credit cards. She used to frequent the biggest department stores, often requesting that her purchases be delivered to her home. Everyone at El Encanto more than graciously accommodated her; all she had to do was mention she was Luicito's wife.

Old Cuba at sunset brought pachangas, festive gatherings at Auntie Sofia's house. Conga and merengue rhythms, strung-up chili pepper lights that illuminated door frames and darkened rooms, Cuban cigars, meat patties, Coca-Cola, sandwiches made with deviled ham and cream cheese, and even some gambling on the side. Everyone always had a wonderful time, and bonds of close friendships were established, never to be broken. Even Simon would dance and be somewhat civil at Auntie Sofia's.

The highlight of these evenings was when the American tourists arrived. Lucio brought out his tarot cards and gave them spiritual readings, warning them about each other, giving each one signs of betrayals, gossip, often pretending that the spirit of the trickster god Elegua had entered his body. The blue-haired Americans, as he often referred to them, would turn on each other with each one of his revelations, and when the arguments got heated enough, Lucio would pretend to faint. Others ushered the unsuspecting Americans out of the home, with tons of the tourists' money in hand.

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They say that a vulture of silence will eat away at your gut. After Grandpap and Daddy came to the United States, Cuba was never again uttered in the new household. Auntie Sofia stayed behind, as did Miguel Angel, Lucio, and Simon. We never saw them again, yet sometimes when I close my eyes, I'm there. I'm at Daddy's store, watching Simon on his bell tower; I'm at Auntie Sofia's, dancing and eating, surrounded by love, and feeling oh so safe and protected. I once asked Dad why he kept so silent about the past.

"You're turning your back on reality," I said.

"It's the times that have changed, my Teresita, and we must look forward with clear conscious," he replied.

Times changed.

I want to remember. I want to talk about it and remember, I want to write about it and remember when Grandpap and Dad were still alive in the country they loved and that loved them back.

Times changed, and I have a clear conscience.

copyright 2006 by Theresa Cecelia Garcia

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 14^th. 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.

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 14^th, 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 14^th, 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 36^th 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.

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 3^rd, 1959.  

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.

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 - 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 - 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.

 

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.

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.

Cuando salí de Cuba - Maria Elena's story + A Giveaway

Marta here: I'm celebrating Hispanic Heritage Month: Cuban-Style with a series of stories about Cuban American families: Cuando Sali de Cuba, stories of courage and hope.

Today's story comes from MS. She owns and operates the online store, A Taste of Cuba. 

*Tissue warning!*

I was born in Havana, Cuba in 1956.  My mother was married to my father, I had a sister and a brother.

My father owned his own business, family owned accounting firm.

 

 Her dad, sister and brother on car in front of their house in Cuba.

My mother is still alive and is a feisty 92 1/2  year old  mother, grandmother  and great grandmother!

My memories of Cuba actually begin when our life in Cuba ended.

 Her brother with his nanny.

By 1960 my mother and father had separated. My mother and her immediate family began to make plans to flee Castro's regime.  One thing my mother promised was that Castro was taking over her home but she was not leaving anything inside for the communist to enjoy.  She kept her promise.  Sometimes in the wee hours of the morning she removed every piece of furniture and gave it  to friends that were staying in Cuba.  By the time August 1961 came around there was nothing left inside the home.

My memory of that horrible departure begins.

My mother took my sister, brother, grandmother and grandfather to the airport.  We had packed a suitcase and were leaving to Miami, FL on a Pan Am airplane.  We arrived at the airport.  The soldiers had separated the people leaving from the people that were staying. 

All of a sudden my mother and I were separated by this huge glass wall.  The glass wall was a partition so that the people could not smuggle things to the family members leaving. The passengers were not allowed to take anything but a suitcase.  Our suitcases where searched by the military personnel and only clothing was allowed.

I did not know what was happening, why my mother wasn't with me, I was only 4 years old?  I quickly found out she was not going with us.  She decided to stay behind with her brother that did not get his visa.  She didn't want to leave him in Cuba by himself.  By now all my aunts and uncles had left, two uncles went to Miami and one had settled in NYC.

I had never been separated from my mother before and was not happy.  I started crying and having a big tantrum.  Finally a soldier allowed my mother to comfort me.  She hugged and kissed me, and assured me everything was going to be ok.  She told me my grandparents were going to take care of me until she could join me again in a few days.

I remember I was holding my favorite doll, she told me when I got to my seat on the plane hold the doll up to the window and wave to me.  She said, "Then I'll know you are ok."

 After a few minutes we had to board the plane.  But back then they didn't have ramps to board a plane.  You actually had to walk on the tarmac to a stairway to board the airplane.  I started walking and right before we boarded the plane there was a soldier making a last minute check of all boarding passengers.  He took my doll and told me I could not take it in the airplane. 

I started to cry that it was my only connection to my mother. I had promised her I would wave so she knew I was ok. My family pleaded with the soldier that the doll had already been checked inside and I was to wave to mother good bye.  So I was able to board the plane with my doll. 

I sat down next to the window, waved my dolly goodbye to mother, as I cried, the plane too off into the sky.

That was very traumatic for me, as a four year old, but nothing compared to what my family went through.

Days turned into months, it wasn't until two or three long months later my mother and my uncle were able to leave Cuba and reunite with us in Miami.

As a mature woman now, mother and grandmother myself I often think back and wonder how my mother was able to handle everything in her life.  I realize how strong my mother is and her strong faith in Jesus has allowed her to sustain the turmoil.

This was very difficult to write I was reliving it.

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Marta here: I'm so grateful to M.S. for sharing her deeply personal and painful story. As a mother myself, I cannot imagine letting go of my 4 year old and putting her on a plane to another world not knowing when we would be reunited. I have tears in my eyes even as I type this. 

MS owns the very cool online shop, A Taste of Cuba and has generously offered to host today's giveaway.

It's a Cuban Coffee Basket (yes, please!) that includes the following:

1 Coffee maker (3 cup pressure system)coffeemaker is perfect for cafe, latte, or cafe con leche! 1 Cafe Cubano (espresso coffee) 2 cups and saucers (design varies) 1 Maria cookies(3.5 oz)

Just leave a comment on this post telling MS your thoughts about her story, or tell your own. 

I'll choose a winner on Wednesday, September 21, 2011 at 5 pm.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Anna's story

Editor's note: One of the best things I love about blogging is hearing your stories. When I do a comment giveaway, I read each and every one of your comments. A while back I was doing a giveaway for the Mariel DVD and asked you to share your Leaving Cuba stories. I was at once astounded and deeply touched. If you're a Cuban living in the U.S., you have a story. And most likely it is an amazing one.

I'd like to start sharing your stories here on My big, fat, Cuban family. So please enjoy the first in what I hope will become a regular series here: Cuando Sali de Cuba, stories of courage and hope.

The first in this series comes from my friend, Anna Tang Norton. It's the story of how her parents met in Cuba and how they started with nothing and managed to thrive here in the U.S. Enjoy.

Cuando Salieron de Cuba...

I was born in the USA, but my parents came from Cuba in 1968 and 1970.  Their story is just as incredible as the many I’ve heard over the years, and like those stories, I am never tire of hearing it.  In fact, I’ve romanticized it in my mind; I think it’s incredible and only my parents could have experienced it.

When my parents met in Havana in the mid-60s, they both knew they did not like the government there and were looking for a way out of the country.  My father had already started working toward his goal of leaving the country, and when he learned of my mother’s similar intentions, they set toward that goal together. 

They were both sent to work in the fields - La Agricultura - for months, as punishment for declaring their desire to abandon their country.  Finally, in early 1968, my father received word that he would be leaving the country, heading to Madrid.  Quickly, he and my mother married and four months later, my father received his visa to leave Cuba for Spain in his first steps to obtain asylum in the United States. 

He went to Spain, and two months later, arrived in New York City.  They figured it would be a short period of time before my mother’s visa arrived, and she would follow the same trajectory.  However, it was two years before she reunited with my father in NYC.

The two years they were apart were difficult, to say the very least.  For years, I have been told the stories, so many times in fact, that I can recite them from memory.

Living in Brooklyn, my father spent two years doing his own laundry, which was all dyed blue, as he didn’t know to separate colors in the wash.  He also learned to walk on the street side of the sidewalk on his way home from work, to avoid hold ups.

One of my favorite stories is when he would pass a nun every morning and she would say, “Morning!”  He simply replied, “Sorry” and would continue walking.  I remember asking why he would say “Sorry” and he told me, “I didn’t know that she was saluting the day.  I had always learned to say ‘Good morning’ and I thought she was asking for ‘money.’  I felt terrible that I didn’t have any money to give her, so I would apologize everyday.”

When my mom arrived in 1970, my father picked her up at the airport and took her to a brand new apartment he had rented in Queens.  He withdrew all the money he had in the bank, took my mother to buy a coat for the winter and spent the rest on groceries. 

If it had been me, at this point, I think I would have been spent.  But for my parents, their journey was really just beginning.  With nothing to their name - no family, no money, no language - they dove right into work, trying to assimilate into this new world.

A few years later, my sister was born and a few years after that, I arrived.  By the time I came along, in 1975, they had traveled across the Hudson and settled in New Jersey.  I can’t imagine how they did it - they became citizens, they bought a home, they raised two daughters, provided the best they could for us, took us on vacations, celebrated our birthdays and holidays. 

They did it all - they did it with hard work, sweat, humility, and pride.  I am fortunate to have been raised with their example.

Years later, they have lived a full life, with joys, sadness, and everything in between that comprises a life.  A good life, overall.

They still talk about Cuba, about how it was when they were little, how it changed when the Revolution started, and how frightened they were when they left. 

They also talk about their visits back to Cuba.  In 1987, I had the privilege of traveling to Cuba with my mom for the first time.  I was 11 years old, and while my mother had been born there and I had not, it was a brand new experience for both of us.  I was able to witness my mother seeing her father for the first time in 20 years, witness the beautiful dynamic and love of family, even though they don’t know you or you them. 

Years later, I was able to travel to Cuba again, this time with both  my parents.  I was older this time, 23, and spent hours with my cousins (many which have been able to come to the United States themselves), aunts, uncles, and again, my grandfather.  I am fortunate to have parents who have continued to love their country of birth, even though that country closed the doors on them so many years ago.

But at the same time, they are American.  They have spent more than half their lives here, learning American customs.  Loving American customs. 

They taught me to be American - to have dreams and fulfill them. They opened doors for me, encouraging me to educate myself.  They always came around to my American thinking, even though sometimes it took a little more prodding and convincing than I wanted (I specifically remember my teenage years during this time - ha!). 

They encouraged me to stand up for myself, to take care of myself, and to never expect that someone would take care of me.

Now that I have my own son, I always carry the lessons they have taught me close to my heart.  For some, it’s a terrible nuisance to have immigrants for parents.  But for me, it’s their experience, their lessons, and their example that lead me to be a good daughter, wife, mother, and overall person.

I am grateful for my parents and their story on leaving Cuba - and no, I don’t roll my eyes when I hear it:  "Cuando salimos de Cuba..."

~Anna Tang Norton

{I'm collecting your stories! I would love to have you share your family's own Cuando Sali de Cuba story. Send me an email with the story and some photos. Send to mdarby at cox dot net. Please put Cuando Sali de Cuba in the subject line. Thank you!}