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.

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

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. 

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

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!

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

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 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

Cuando Sali de Cuba - How We Became Marielitos - Gracie'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 I want to introduce you to Gracie and her family, who left Cuba as part of the Mariel Boatlift in 1980. Gracie interviewed her family and pieced the story together according to all of their recollections.

There are two things I have noticed about the Cubans who came to America during the boatlift. Aside from the incredibly difficult conditions they endured at El Mosquito, the camp they were sent to while waiting for a ship to take them to America:

1. They all vividly remember the names and types of boats that brought them to freedom.
2. Their stories invariably include their amazement at the gracious treatment they received by the U.S. Military when they first arrived which cemented their love of this country.

125,000 Cubans came to the U.S. during this time. Most of them arrriving with nothing but the clothes on their backs. It's to their lasting credit that they've become, not just another historical footnote, but truly American success stories.

Here's Gracie's story.

How We Became Marielitos

I was 2 years old when my family and I left Cuba. Little did I know that my life was about to change as we boarded the Miss Mona Rose, an 80 foot long shrimp boat.  We were among 280 Cubans who boarded that boat at 2am on September 3, 1980.

Gracie and her parents

That was the day we left all of our possessions and everyone we knew behind. My family migrated to the U.S. during the Mariel Boatlift in 1980, along with approximately 150,000 other Cubans. During that time Castro had rid his country of what he considered to be “antisocial elements” including: gays, Jehovah Witnesses, non-political prisoners, and those who didn’t follow his communist regime. When boats went to Mariel to pick up other’s family members, he would add additional passengers that he no longer wanted in his country

The first of my family to leave Cuba were my brother Ruben, and my sister Miriam, who were 18 and 20 at the time. My father typed a letter stating my siblings were both gay and he then forged the signature of the revolutionary committee president. 

Ruben and Miriam took the letter to the police station. The head of the police said that he needed their parent’s authorization to leave the country and proof that Ruben was released from military duty. He took them aside and said he knew our late grandmother and family well, and although he did not believe they were antisocial elements he would approve the leave from Cuba.

5 days later, a police officer went to our house and told them to report to the police station at midnight. A bus would pick them up to take them to Cuatro Ruedas, where antisocial elements or “Escorias” ("scum") as Fidel called them, were held while they were waiting to leave the country.

My brother and sister were at Cuatro Ruedas for one week without any outside contact.  There, Miriam passed out one day from lack of food. Eventually, they were sent to El Mosquito, the final holding camp in Mariel. Prior to entering El Mosquito, the guards took their watches, jewelry, and other valuables. They took advantage of the situation in any way possible, including sexually harassing people. They asked my sister to bend over to search her, putting their hands in her pants as well as her underwear. Miriam vividly recalls one guard grabbing his genitals over his pants as he asked her, “So you don’t like this?” since her paperwork stated she was gay.

Miriam, Mireya, Ruben and Gracie in Miami

Once word spread that my siblings were leaving, my parents were hassled by neighbors, co-workers, and friends for not following Castro’s regime. Our neighbors threw rocks at our house and yelled profanities at us. My father lost his job and wasn’t able to find another.

My aunt, Cristina, lived in Miami for over ten years at that time. She listened to the radio every night as they listed all the names of Cuban immigrants that had arrived to Key West. After two weeks of my mom not hearing from my siblings, on June 3, 1980, my aunt called with news that Ruben and Miriam arrived to Key West safely.

Gracie, Mireya, Miriam & her daughter, Diana, and Ruben 2009

The events that follow are the reason I am forever grateful to Ruben and my Tia Cristina. Ruben was willing to risk his freedom and life at the age of 18 to ensure the rest of us could leave the country. Tia Cristina and her husband fronted over $10,000 for us to come to the U.S, over $30,000 in today’s standards.  

During the next two months, Tia Cristina paid two individuals on separate occasions, $1,500 for each family member that she wanted brought back from Cuba. First, she paid a man who promised to pick up the family in Cuba within 15 days.  After a month passed without him leaving to Cuba, a number of disregarded phone calls and house visits from my aunt, Miriam and Tia Cristina spent one night in Tia’s car watching his house. Their persistence paid off and they were able to get the money back.

Mami, Tia Cristina,  & Gracie's daughter, Ruby

My aunt later found a man named Jim; an American who was picking up other families. We were desperate at that point, as the Port of Mariel had been open for several months and everyone feared Castro would soon close the port. Ruben then decided he would return to Cuba to pick us up with Jim, who did not speak Spanish and my brother knew little English. He went for two reasons: to make sure the man would keep his end of the bargain and to ensure our family would go on the boat first, rather than those chosen by the Cuban officials.

Gracie and Ruben

Ruben returned to Cuba the 2^nd week of July.  Since he could not legally leave the United States, once they reached Key West, Ruben hid under mattresses in the van he traveled in. That evening, he snuck into the boat and they sailed off. Once they arrived in Cuba, my brother risked imprisonment and his life the moment he dared to touch Cuban soil. A line of boats awaited them when they reached Mariel with others who had gotten there prior to them.

Ruben lived in the boat for seven weeks. That is how long it took them to reach the front of the line and have the paperwork completed for the rest of the family to leave Cuba. He slept on a comforter on the floor and ate canned food that he had brought to survive during those several weeks.

We boarded the boat September 3^rd.  We left Cuba with only the clothes we were wearing. The weather was not in our favor that day and when one of the boat’s stabilizers broke, water started to enter the boat as it rocked. I was seasick and vomiting. The women and children were told to go to the cabin.   My brother says it was like a scene from the movie, The Perfect Storm. The waves were enormous. People were falling into the ocean and drowning. The crew members tied a number of passengers to a rope to keep them from falling, including my dad, Mireya (my other sister), and Ruben.   

My father recalls a small boat, with 9 people, leaving Cuba just a few minutes ahead of us. Once we were in international waters, we lost sight of the boat, which had been traveling close to us. Our captain called for help and soon after, the American Coast Guard had two boats and a helicopter searching the waters. My dad says he’ll never forget how impressed he was with the Americans for their thorough search for people who weren’t from their own country. At that moment he said he knew we had made the right choice in risking everything to go to America.  

Finally, September 3, 1980 at 7pm, we arrived in Key West. Along with me came my parents, Mireya, Tia Ana, and her two daughters Aniutka and Anabel.  My brother was questioned after they realized he had left the U.S. illegally. He was told he had to go to court and explain why he left the country.

Aniutka, Gracie, and Anabel

One of the most fascinating things about putting this story together is how everyone has different memories of the same event. Luckily, I don’t remember our awful 15 hours at sea, how scared my mom was when Ruben and Miriam left without us, or the three month ordeal my family went through before we left Cuba.

This story is a collection of my family’s recollections of how we became Marielitos.  Although, I will never forget where I came from, I am now proud to be an American and forever grateful to this country.

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

Marta here.

I'm so grateful to Gracie for sharing her family's ordinary courage and the difficulties they encountered. There are thousands of stories just like theirs that have not been told.

It's not too late to tell your story. Send me an email with "Cuando Sali de Cuba" in the subject line to mdarby(at)cox(dot)net. I will keep posting them as long as you keep sending them.

Thank you so much. Que Dios los bendiga.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Jorge'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 I want to introduce you to my friend, Jorge Carmona.

He is one of the Cuban masterminds behind Dos Cubanos Pig Roasts (Texas, you are so darn lucky!) along with Joey Lay, who's story I will also be sharing in the coming weeks. I had the privilege of meeting Jorge and his amazing family in San Antonio during the Cooking With the Troops event.

In his essay, he celebrates the hardships of being new immigrants to this country and also the fun of being Cuban in America. As far as I'm concerned, the Carmonas are just like family to me. Please enjoy.

My story is not unlike the countless stories of Cubans who came to this amazing country in search of freedom and opportunity. Many Cuban families have a similar tale as is evident here. Anyone who knows me knows that I do not take for granted the struggles and sacrifices my family went through to provide a better life for all of us. 

Before my parents left Cuba, my grandmother, Bertha, informed them she would be coming along. She wanted to make sure I was well taken care of and she wanted to be there for her daughter and son in law. Unfortunately, my father’s parents would not leave. As much as my father tried to convince them they just couldn’t leave Cuba. I imagine they all felt it would be temporary and that eventually we would all return.  Heck, I expect many Cubans felt the same. My father would say it all the time “Once the Castro’s are gone, we would return.” 

My family arrived in Miami in 1970. “Una finca.” A farm, as my parents called it. So you know, if not for us Cubans, Miami would still be a “finca." 

 My parents had nothing but a small suitcase and some personal belongings. They had lots of ambition and drive though. Fortunately for us, some old friends who left Cuba before them took us in until we got settled. They also provided my parents with much advice and support. As my parents would say, “Los Oliveras are a gift from heaven”. 

After a few years in Miami, and coming to the realization that no jobs were available, my parents made a decision to pack their bags again and move north to Chicago, Illinois. Why Chicago, you ask? Well as my parents put it, that’s where the jobs were and they would be forced to assimilate into this new world.

When we arrived in Chicago, A Cuban Pastor, Roberto Millan learned of my parents and immediately helped us get settled. It seems that in those days if you were Cuban, other Cubans who went through the same were eager to help. 

Chicago has some harsh winters and coming from a tropical island my parents had no clue what they were going to experience. They had been warned, yet they didn’t know. As with many immigrants, regardless, they worked their tails off. Both my mother and father worked in factories and worked at anything they could. My father, a barber in Cuba, saved enough to buy himself some barber equipment and he soon found a part time job as a barber. They saved everything they could with the ultimate goal of buying a house and a car. In less than three years in Chicago, through hard work, sweat, and determination they accomplished their goals. 

Even though my parents worked all the time and saved money like it was going out of style, they always managed to provide us with anything we needed. We always had food on the table, provided by my grandmother.  We had a roof over our heads, nice clothes and we were able to do things that other Americans enjoyed.

I played little league baseball. We went on vacations. We had picnics at Santa’s Village.

Speaking of Santa, my parents learned of this amazing guy and had him bring me all sorts of gifts on Christmas. Luckily, Santa was around because as my father would always inform my sister and I, money did not grow on trees. This Santa guy brought me almost all the toys from the Sears catalog and it didn’t cost my dad a dime! The point is, we never felt like we were any different than other kids. 

While my parents wanted to assimilate, they never forgot their roots. They would always tell us how proud they were of being in America and having all these amazing opportunities. But like many Cubans would tell you, they still did things, well...like Cubans.

You see my parents were like every other Cuban I know, they were loud, I mean why-you-yelling loud.

 They partied. They moved their arms in rapid motions when talking and yes, they caused a scene almost everywhere we went.  Just imagine the look on the nurses and doctors faces when all these Cubans congregated in the hospital to celebrate the birth of my little sister, Carmensita. I guess a sign informing guests not to bring a cooler would have been appropriate. 

Speaking of crazy, one of my favorite stories was when I was about 8 years old. Cubans love to roast pigs so on Thanksgiving, in addition to a Turkey we roasted a Pig. What could go wrong?

Well in November, Chicago is cold, real “coño que frio” cold. So some crazy liquored up Cubans roasting a pig was a recipe for some good times right? Roasting the pig outside was out of the question. So my father and his other Cuban friends had a brilliant idea. “ Let’s roast it “en el garaje” (the garage). Well you can imagine what happened next. The neighbors immediately called the firefighters and a few minutes’ later firefighters were on the scene. Let’s just say it took a miracle and lots of pleading and yelling when they arrived. Luckily one of the firefighters spoke Spanish and the pig was spared.  

After several years in Chicago, the weather and the crime was starting to get to my parents, we had a nice house, yet our neighborhood was becoming infested with gangs. As my parents tell it, you could hear gunfire at night.

Several of my parent’s friends had children who were recruited and became gang members so my family made another decision so I wouldn’t end up in that situation. They would return to Miami. 

I was now 11 years old at the time and my sister was 6 so it was difficult for us to leave our friends, but we had no choice, really. So we moved back to Miami in 1978. Just like everything else they set out to do, my parents accomplished even more in Miami. 

My mother went to school to be a stylist and my father worked on getting his barbers license. My father realized his dream of owning his own business, Carmona’s Barber Shop in the heart of Cuban territory, off Flagler and 38^th Street. Soon after that my mother realized her dream and opened up her own business, Lily’s Beauty Salon in Pinecrest.

Amazing, they accomplished so much in this country - they did it with hard work, sweat, humility, and pride.  My sister and I are what we are today because of them. You see, my parents are my inspiration; they came to a new country, with nothing and became successful Americans, just like they had dreamed of back in 1970 when they left Cuba. 

 

As with many Cubans they always spoke about the beauty of Cuba. They have watched Cuba go from a prosperous free country to one of oppression and despair. I know it hurt them to know that those who remained in Cuba were struggling while they were enjoying life. 

My dream was to one-day return to Cuba with my parents and my family, visit my birthplace and see all the beauty they so vividly described to us over the years. Sadly, my dad recently passed away and will not be able to return, but rest assured, one day, if God allows, I will visit Cuba and I will remember all the wonderful stories he shared with us. 

God bless you, abuela, for being there for us, for taking care of us when mom and dad were working.

God bless you mommy for always loving Carmen and I unconditionally and teaching us to appreciate life.

Papi, I miss you so much, but I am grateful that I have you always in my heart. I am grateful that you taught me what being a man is about. 

 ~Jorge A. Carmona

 Editor's Note: If you're in Texas and want a one-of-a-kind authentic Cuban party experience, contact Dos Cubanos and they'll show you how it's done, Cuban-style.

To get your mouth watering and inspire you for the upcoming holidays, please "like" Dos Cubanos Pig Roasts on Facebook. 

It's not too late to tell your story. Send me an email with "Cuando Sali de Cuba" in the subject line to mdarby(at)cox(dot)net. I will keep posting them as long as you keep sending them. Thank you. Seriously. Thank you so much.

(cross-posted on Babalú blog)

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.

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

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 salí de Cuba - Christina'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 one is from my friend and fellow blogger, Christina Gomez-Pina. Inspired by the book/film Julie & Julia, she has embarked on her own Project: to celebrate the Cuban kitchen — the food, the abuelas who prepared it, and the family who gathered around the table to enjoy every bite. For her generation — and for her childrens’  generation — she is cooking her way through Nitza Villapol’s 1950s classic Cocina al Minuto. Her blog is fittingly called La Cocina de Christina.

Enjoy.

Cuando-sali-de-Cuba-for-web

Cuando salí de Cuba...

Christina F. Gomez-Pina

Nunca podré morirme,

mi corazón no lo tengo aquí.

Alguién me está esperando,

me está aguardando que vuelva aquí. 

I wasn’t born in Cuba, per se.  But, I see that as a technicality.  From my very beginnings, I was taught about Cuba with heart.  Y mi corazón has been there ever since.  As I grew, I realized that the Cuba I know and love is actually a state in the heart.  It is the stories from your family and the stories you created in your mind.  

Cuando salí de Cuba,

dejé mi vida dejé mi amor.

Cuando salí de Cuba,

dejé enterrado mi corazón. 

I understand what our families left behind.  I cannot comprehend what they went through, or what they were thinking when they left their lives and loves behind.  But what I do know is that one of my grandmothers brought Cocina al Minuto to Miami – a foreign land, where she hoped she’d see her three sons upon arrival.  She brought her book.  There was no way our grandmothers were leaving behind their pieces of home.

08

 The women of La Cocina de Christina, present day.  Daughter, Mom, me, Paternal grandmother (with her original book, the one she brought from Cuba) and my Mother in Law (with the copy I use for The Project, which she gave me as a wedding present in 2000).

Late y sigue latiendo

porque la tierra vida le da,

pero llegará un día

en que mi mano te alcanzará.

The heart keeps beating and the kitchen was where our grandmothers let it beat the loudest.  

Cuando salí de Cuba,

dejé mi vida dejé mi amor.

Cuando salí de Cuba,

dejé enterrado mi corazón. 

They left everything behind but they would not let their traditions, their culture, their olores a cocina disappear.  

Abuela teresa

Abuela Teresa, my dad's grandmother.  My great-grandmother.

Una triste tormenta

te está azotando sin descansar

pero el sol de tus hijos

pronto la calma te hará alcanzar. 

They taught us to cook.  After school, when our moms were at work and we were taken care of by our abuelas, they taught us to cook.  Carne fria, croquetas, flanes and arroz.  Whatever it was to both keep us busy and keep the meaning of what they lived for alive.

Ali + mom mariquitas

Daughter & me.  Making mariquitas for a photo shoot with The Miami Herald's Al Diaz, for a story in August 2009.

Cuando salí de Cuba,

dejé mi vida dejé mi amor.

Cuando salí de Cuba,

dejé enterrado mi corazón.

And I teach my daughter and sons to cook.  Because my abuelos left everything behind so that those children who became our parents and our own children would have a better life.  And I cook.  So that my children can learn where they came from – and where one day, they will return and make the reality they dream of in their minds.

Thanksgiving 2006 abuela mig aba midge mami mimi

Thanksgiving 2006 - Maternal grandmother, me, daughter and Mom.

Christina has been featured on The Burger Beast Blog preparing Cuban-style hamburgers and bacon-wrapped hot dogs.

Please visit Christina at her blog: La Cocina de Christina and if you want to help her out by commenting on the process of making her next recipe, go "like" her Facebook page, too. 

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!}

Voices from Mariel - a Giveaway

I'm often amazed at how little people here seem to know about the waves of Cuban immigrants refugees to this country.

The older folks seem to remember that in the early 60's there were some displaced Cuban children that needed homes. This they only know if one of the children ended up in their neighborhood. I'm referring, of course, to the Pedro Pan Flights, where 14,000 unaccompanied minors were sent to the U.S. by their terrified parents, hoping to save them from communism. They did. At great personal sacrifice. Read that story here.

But there are other stories. Some very dramatic, some with happy endings. As I start thinking about it, I realize that just about every Cuban has a "Cuando Sali de Cuba" story to tell.

The beautiful dvd Voices from Mariel tells the stories of those that left on the Mariel Boat Lift in 1980. They tell their stories. 125,000 Cubans were displaced. Their exodus was much different from ours (the first group), but super dramatic. And no, just because someone came to the U.S. via Mariel doesn't make them a felon. (You've watched Scarface a few too many times, but that's not important right now!)

I have a beautiful DVD that tells that story. It's called Voices from Mariel and it's just beautiful and oh so honest. So today's giveaway is a copy of Voices from Mariel.

To enter the drawing, please leave a comment and tell me your coming to America story.

• Start off with....Cuando sali de Cuba.... tell me about your travels and how you found things in this country.
• If you send it by email and with photos, I'll be happy to post it here, with your permission.
• In fact, I think everyone should write down their story and share it. I'd love to give you a platform here.

Please leave me a comment, here on this post and tell me 1) how and when your family left Cuba. (No matter the time.) 2) Tell me details you remember. 3) Send me photos. I want to know it all.

In turn, by leaving a comment or sending an email with story and photos, I will put your name into the drawing for the Voices of Mariel Boatlift DVD. 

It's a beautiful film. I promise you'll enjoy it. We are all one people. Cuban-Americans. And proud of it.

I'll pick a winner randomly on Saturday evening, May 21 at 6 pm Pacific.

Now, come on....Tell me your Coming to America story.

Happy 20 de Mayo!