Cuba is on my mind tonight

While I was in middle school I had to write a paper. I chose to write about my experience of leaving Cuba as a five year old girl.  As I wrote that paper I was surprised at how easily my tears flowed putting down words that had been held captive in my heart for some 6 years.  I realized then that expressive writing could be my therapy.  It felt very good to be able to put into organized sentences the mixed emotions and the fuzzy memories that a young girl protects until such a moment when they are released into the light.

Today, as a much older person, I sometimes feel that same sentimentality. It still surprises me that I can tap into the aroma of sadness  of that dark clear night when our family crammed into the back seat of a taxi bound for the airport; destination: Miami, Florida. My beloved abuelos were left standing on the street curb waving good-bye, I still can see my mother, holding my younger brother on her lap, and I sitting in between her and my dad, while she was crying into her handkerchief. We left with nothing but the clothes we wore.  At the airport, after humiliating strip searches by mean looking people, and removal of any other possessions that belonged to the state, we were not so kindly told we free to leave.  These images of that night,  I don’t believe can ever be erased. In a way, I am glad because I never want to forget the conditions under which we had to leave our native land. (Another future blog perhaps, I will go into those details).

Many people think that Cubans left in the early sixties to come to the US in order to find a better life, a better economy (since Socialism was beginning to take shape in the new Revolution imposed by Castro), and a prosperous future.  Yes, I suppose that is part of it:  but more than that really. 

You see, I was born in 1961, a time when a Cuban was seriously constrained of any freedom.  This was not the Cuba of my parents or grandparents.  My father had seen what the dim view of our future would be in Cuba and we were one of the lucky ones to be allowed to leave because he was over the age of males who were being forced to enlist into the new revolutionary army. We were deemed indispensible and in actuality, we were thrown out because we did not agree with the ideals of Socialism.  I was “expatriated”, as it is stamped clearly on my old, useless Cuban passport. 

When I turned twenty three, I willingly studied for and took my US citizens test and passed, actually surprising the man who  was verbally testing me. He was impressed that I knew so many historical details….I was even able to tell him where our National Anthem was written and what battle inspired it.  (It was last year of the War of 1812, during an attack on Ft. McHenry on the evenings of Sept. 13-14, 1814. Francis Scott Key was inspired and wrote the poem, which later became our anthem. I always liked learning history. )

Anyway, when we were banished from our country, our citizenship was removed.  Our choice at that time was stay in Cuba and help fight for the new revolution or leave but you will never and can never be a citizen again. There was no grey area in that choice and no grey area in knowing what we had to do as a family.  We had to leave because my parents knew that the human person cannot flourish, a family cannot be truly whole, and a child cannot reach its potential if it is forced to believe in an ideal that is not in accordance to their conscience. 

So, to set the record straight, my family was exiled from Cuba because we did not believe that the Socialist ideals were the best for our human dignity. My parents probably would have done better professionally in Cuba.  Both of them had attended college there and received professional degrees but they would have been forced to have joined the Communist Party as was mandated for all its citizens, no doubt my life would be much different today.  Had we stayed, I would have had to join the young “Pioneers” movement at school and I would have been rewarded for betraying any family members or friends who had thoughts that went against the Castro regime. I would not have been allowed to attend college if the school found out that we practiced our Catholic faith and attended Mass regularly.  I would have had to learn to live a dual life, which is what happened to all my cousins who were not as fortunate as I was. My parents would have had to be vigilant that the block captain (Committee for the Defense of the Revolution) where we lived did not suspect us of being “counter revolutionaries” because of having family who were already living in the states. 

So tonight, I am thankful that God opened a door for my family and we had the courage, hope and faith in God to take advantage of it. Through much sacrifice my parents did what was right for all of us and for the future of their grand children. 

Tomorrow, Dec. 10, 2011 is the 63rd anniversary of the Declaration of Human Rights….I think I shall read those articles again, articles that in 1948, many nations signed, including Cuba.  No. I don’t want to forget how much work there still is left to be done in our world, and in particular, in my exiled land of Cuba. 

 “Article 1-All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason and conscience and should act towards one another in the spirit of brotherhood.”  

Tonight, again I light my candles and prayed.  I prayed for peace and freedom for all those living in oppressed lands. I pray for all those who strive daily to be peace makers and defenders of freedom….these are the prayers on my mind tonight.   Lord, send me.  Amen.

My abuela Carmen always had a plan

Today my father gave me the black rosary that used to belong to my grandmother, his mother. It is funny how every year at this time, the anniversary of my abuela Carmen’s passing, her presence is felt by me in a special way.  As I held her rosary, I remembered how she caressed those beads every day and how I didn’t appreciate what she was all about until she was gone.

 She and I were close, I was her name sake. Although, many say I resembled her,  we had our differences.  First of all, physically she barely measured five feet tall.  Most of my life, since I possessed the tall genes of the family, I was looking down on top of her little round white haired head.  She was very round; she had round fingers, round cheeks, a round mouth that always lisped when she spoke in her Spaniard accent, big round eyes the color of Cuban coffee, the roundest part was her middle from which skinny  white muscular legs dropped to the ground and managed to hold her up- all together with age and grace.  Every day she woke up, praying  before her round toes touched the ground, then she washed, put on her stockings, put on one of her floral house dresses, pulled back her short straight hair, with Spanish painettas, one on each side,  and she would go into our family kitchen to begin the day.  Meanwhile, my abuelo Dionisio, would get up also, and his job, after making sure that abuela was in good shape, would be to consult with her before heading for his daily pilgrimage to the Cuban market. She might suggest a nice sword fish for our families’ dinner that night “Dionisio, mira ver si hay pescado fresco en la carniceria para esta noche”.  She never had to remind him to bring home the freshly baked bread from our Cuban bakery which was next door to the grocery store that he would walk to on the border of our neighborhood. I can still see my abuelo strolling towards that store down our long block, donning his black Spanish beret, a plaid shirt tucked into his long pants, and usually smoking a cigarette. That was my abuelo Dionisio, compliant to his wife, dutiful fulfilling the families’ need for that day: fresh bread and some daily special that would become a part of our evening meal. 

Supper was a very important part of our families ritual, no one ever ate unless the six of us were at the dinner table.  I learned early that the dinner table was the Lord’s table.  One dressed and behaved properly around our table, special moments were celebrated there, it was a holy place and when we gathered, it was a holy gathering.  Our meals were very Spanish/Cuban, usually always included one of abuela’s Spanish soups with chorizo or pollo or pescado.  It wasn’t until she became too old to cook that she willingly gave up this cherished role, being the one to provide for our home cooked meals.  She took care of it all, I could not even help her clean the dishes, that was included in her vocation!  I was not about to argue that with her!

Abuela Carmen was known for her strong Spanish character….but to me, she would show her soft side by doing things she knew I didn’t like to do. For example, although my mother always wanted me to make my bed before going off to school, I was very lazy and would not do so.  However, on many of those days, my bed would be made when I would arrive later. Abuela never mentioned it, and neither did I, but we both knew.  This was how she showed me her affection! 

Advent time is the season I think of her most, she passed away on Dec. 3^rd,  a few weeks before my second daughter was born, now 23 years ago.  In the end, she was in a nursing facility and I have sad memories of her crying out in pain for her mom.  She had not seen her mom in many decades….having left her behind in Spain when she immigrated to Cuba in the early decades of the 1900’s.  Holding her round fingers as she laid in her hospital bed, I noticed all the needle marks where she was being poked for blood work, I prayed that God would bring her peace.  She died quietly one night. No one was around her….but somehow I have a feeling that my abuelo was on the other side waiting to consult with her on what they would do that day.  Maybe she would say “vamos a ver si hay algo fresco?”  She always had a plan.

Tonight on my advent wreath, as I lit a second candle, I felt abuela's presence again, who taught me that what is important in life is not what we have, but what we are for each other.  Even in the end, abuela Carmen called out for her mom’s love, after many years of not having her.  She yearned for a maternal love that only  mothers and grandmothers can express.  Today  I also yearned for my abuela’s presence and I realized  it is the Solemn Feast of the Immaculate Conception.  My abuela was very close with our Lord's mom, Mary.  I wonder if perhaps that was to whom she was crying out to for comfort and rest?  How fitting that today  was the day my dad chose to pass on to me her rosary. I took it in my hands and remembered her love of prayer, her love of Jesus and his holy mother and her passionate faith in God. Tonight she would have reminded me to pray to our blessed Virgin Mary for comfort and guidance.  After all, abuela always had a plan!