Cuando Sali de Cuba - stories of Courage and Hope

Every year around this time, I start to get requests for a story or a recipe to celebrate Hispanic Heritage Month. It struck me that it would be fitting during this month of heritage celebration to tell the stories of Cubans who had to flee their island home to make a new life here in the U.S.

So, I put out the request to my readers and you have responded with the most amazing stories. I am honored to share them here.

Some of the "Cuando Sali de Cuba" stories I have featured in the past:

Christina's Story

Jorge's Story

Gracie's Story

From now until the middle of October, it gives me great pleasure to share the stories of Cuban immigrants and refugees.

I'll also be doing some really fun and fabulous giveaways, so stay tuned. (No, really. You're going to love them!)

Thanks to all of you who have participated already. To those of you who have not, it's not too late! Please send me your stories, along with some photos. My email is mdarby (at) cox (dot) net.

I am so very excited to get to share these beautiful stories. Thanks for trusting me.

~Marta

Why it's weird to be me sometimes...

I love blogging.

And I love that I have a certain amount of fame (little tiny "f" - I'm not completely delusional, but that's not important right now).

So I went to my regular checkup with my dentist last week. After the hygienist completed the ex-rays and cleaned my teeth, the dentist came in to look at everything which is when I saw this in my open file:

 

That's my Coming to America Story that was in the OC Register last year. It's peeking out from underneath my dental ex-rays. Yes, my DENTAL EX-RAYS.

I'm thinking it's actually more Twilight Zone-ish than accidentally cool.  =D

Refugees. Not immigrants.

My dad would have been 96 today.

It is his birthday.

Although we celebrated so many wonderful birthdays with him, I distinctly remember the year he turned 50.

Because it is stamped on a passport. And forever in my memory.

My Cuban Passport

I know it is stamped the 12th. But the flight didn't take off from Havana until after midnight.  We waited for hours in "la pescera" (the fishbowl) to be allowed to board.

We didn't tell anyone we were leaving.

There were no goodbyes.

My mother never saw her own mother again.

My dad had left Cuba months earlier and was just waiting until my mother could get visas for the 5 girls.

My brother left Cuba as an unaccompanied minor on December 26, 1960.  One of the original Pedro Pan kids taken in by Father Bryan O. Walsh in Miami.

So it was my mom, and us girls, and 13 suitcases on that midnight flight.

Back then, in early 1961, Cubans would still go to the airport to greet other arriving exiles.

I remember being oh-so-tired and happy.  I remember seeing my dad on the other side of the customs counter and not being allowed to go to him.  I remember that he and my brother were yelling directions to my mother: "Ask for 3!  Ask for 3!"  I later found out that it was for the length of the visa. I remember the cheering and clapping when we finally made it through customs.

I remember wishing my dad a happy birthday and thinking how very old 50 was. I can only imagine the relief that was in his heart that day as the eight of us were reunited.

The next day we got red heart-shaped boxes filled with chocolates.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Welcome to America.

Oh, and... Felicidades, Papi. Gracias por todo.