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.

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Roland today with his very clever and brave mother.

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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.

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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!!!

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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:

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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 - "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 - 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

The Best of MBFCF in 2011

It's that time of year when I look back and see what has transpired in my life this past year. And it's moments like this when I realize how grateful I am that I started blogging.

Here's a time capsule look back at 2011 - MBFCF style. I also did this for 2010 and 2009 and I'm so glad I did. It's quite a compilation of stories I've got going on here. Do I sound surprised? The truth is, I sort of am.

If you're a regular reader, I thank you for hanging out here and keeping up with the "relajo" that is my online life here at MBFCF.

If you just recently joined the party, the following posts will give you a glimpse of what life is like here in my cyber-world as I walk you through my favorite posts over the last year. Welcome!

And if you'd like to connect with me on Facebook, please go "like" My Big, Fat, Cuban Family there.

Without further ado....here's the best of MBFCF for 2011. (NOT 2012! Not yet, anyway...)

1. An Historical Day - In which I celebrate my sweet Desi Arnaz Jr.'s birthday. *sigh*

2. On a clear day, you can see Havana - In which I tell about my Dad's amazingness as a storyteller on what would have been his 100th birthday.

3. El Bix - A Cuban cure for all that ails you - In which I celebrate the magical properties of Vicks VapoRub.

4. For the love of guava.... - In which I discover (thanks to a dozen or so online friends) the amazingness of Conchita GuavaBites!

5. The Hawk Walk - in which my three men have a wonderful adventure together involving a hawk named Mariposa.

6. Always Right - in which my kids hijack my blog on Mother's Day which leaves me in a puddle of tears.

7. N-E-S-T-L-E-S ... A Giveaway - in which I get to bake in the Nestlé Kitchens and was out-of-my-mind excited to be making REAL Nestlé Tollhouse Cookies in the Nestlé Kitchens. I know. Shut up.

8. It's a Small (Cuban) World, After All - in which my daughter, Amy Kikita and I inadvertently meet up with some long lost relatives.

9. How to make Cuban coffee with KILLER espuma. You're welcome. - In which my daughter, Amy Kikita reveals her secrets to making espresso.

10. Cooking with the Troops or Meet Team Cubanaso - the absolute highlight of my year, in which my big, fat, Cuban family and I  fly to Texas and get to make a Cuban Nochebuena-style lunch for 300 wounded warriors and their families.

11. Fricase de Pollo - a lo Cubano - in which I continue my quest to share my love of all Cuban food.

12. Cuando Sali de Cuba - stories of courage and hope - A series I began for Hispanic Heritage Month (Cuban Style) in which ordinary people show extraordinary courage as they began new lives here in the U.S. I'm quite proud of this. And by the way, if you have a "coming to America from Cuba" story to share, please email me.

It's funny, but I sometimes wonder if anyone is reading my blog (statistics tell me you are, but that's not important right now) and if anyone cares about the silly things I write about. But there is one thing I know for sure and that is that I'm so happy that I've documented all of these stories, both mine and yours, and all of the happenings of this past year (technically, years - I've been blogging for 5 - count 'em!- years now).

MBFCF has become my personal legacy, and of that I'm quite proud. (Get the sandpaper! Pa' darme lija!)

Happy New Year!

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 - Video Giveaway Winners

I hope you are all loving the Cuando Sali de Cuba stories as much as I am. I feel so honored that I can give so many of you a place to share. It is my hope that the stories of how and why we are exiles will finally be told and get some traction.

The films I'm giving away today are a must-see for Cubans everywhere. Please visit the Voices from Mariel website to learn more about Dr. Jose Garcia and his family's exodus on the Mariel Boatlift. Or follow Voices from Mariel on Facebook for more information on upcoming screenings of the film.

These two winners will each receive a copy of the Voices from Mariel DVD.

Congratulations to:

and

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For more information about Carlos Montaner and  The Grandchildren of the Cuban Revolution film, please check out their website or follow them on Facebook. Prepare yourself! It's quite an eye-opening film.

The Grandchildren of the Cuban Revolution goes to:

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Congratulations!

Please send me an email with HEY, MARTA! I WON STUFF ON YOUR BLOG! in the subject line (so I don't accidentally delete it) along with your snail mail address so that I can send the DVDs out to you ASAP.

Muchos besos to you all and thank you for sharing your stories!

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

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

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

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

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

Dr. Jose Garcia and Carlos Montaner with me and Amy

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

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

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

Check their Facebook page for dates, locations and times.

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

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

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

Today I have 3 DVDs to give away.  

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

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

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

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

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

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