Thankful for my family

When I was about 5 years old, I walked down the stairs of a jet plane that had landed in an air strip in Indianapolis, in the dead of winter in the year 1966.  For the first time my nostrils breathed in the frigid air of freedom. The air felt cold, still yet fragrant.  It is too difficult to explain what that scent was like; there have been a few times in my life since then that I have come across an experience where icy air fills my lungs and the lingering perfume of frost reminds me of the little Cuban girl who I once was. Funny how memory works like that, how quickly  a sensory moment can stop you in your tracks and take you back to a place in your mind that had been cleanly and gently archived in a cerebral file.

When I think of being thankful, I think of that moment.  As a child, my concept of family and security was about to change in that instant.  My family, in order to protect my sense of safety I am sure, tried to hide the sadness and panic that had taken hold of our home life since the revolution that had occurred in Cuba.  My parents had started their young married life with their two children with hopes to raise us in their country.  Yet, in the early 60’s they found themselves facing a drastic decision, one which many other families faced.   Do they stay and risk living in a communist country, or do they flee? And if they decide to flee, how would they find a way out?

My brother and I under the Nativity tree in our home in Havana, Cuba.
 One of our last years celebrating as a united family.

Our story gets complicated here.  As I have come to find out later in my life, each one of us who were fortunate enough to leave then, or later, have our own unique circumstances.  Not every Cuban has shared the same welcome that I received when my feet stepped onto a snowy tarmac in the USA.  Many came alone and found no one to help them understand the “American way”.  Some had treacherous journeys, involved homemade rafts, near drowning, stashed away on boats, going through other countries. I was able to board a plane that basically took me straight to a warm home only about 600 miles north, that had a familiar pot of black beans and rice warming on their stove. 

My identity was threatened during the Mariel boatlift in 1980. It seems I had acculturated really well into my American experience.  My American cousins had adopted me and formed me into a gum chewing, hip-hugging jean wearing, meat loaf loving teen age girl, annoyingly and constantly tethered to my bedroom phone. Suddenly, I realized that my painful separation to my past was not as “frozen” as it had seemed in my young heart.  The frost was melting off the reality that I could be reunited again to those family members with whom the only contact for so many years had been long letters, written concisely on both sides of the paper, even along the margins, making me realize that paper was in scarce supply.  My grandmother would cram in details of her life in every letter; the struggles about our family, letting us know that they were getting by as best they could. She always made sure we knew that she remembered all the things we used to love and wondered if we still loved those same things. Each letter ended just like Cubans typically say goodbye to a loved neighbor at the doorstep…..never done as an epilogue, savoring every sentimental  form of saying how much we are missed and always ending with a hyper emphasis on their love for each of us. 

The other mode of communication, which was rare because it was expensive, was we would talk on the phone, knowing full well that every call was being listened to by Cuban operators.  As kids, we knew there were certain things we couldn't ask or say so as not to jepordize my grandparents lives. Mostly we called them. Because my grandparent’s house did not have a phone, the call would go to the back door neighbor’s house, whose name was Carolina.  I vaguely remembered this neighbor as a child, but I could recall the hill that was behind our house. That’s because I spent many days playing on the side of that hill.  On late summer days, my grandmother and I would pick green beans that she planted there and I’d help her peel them on her back porch.  It was on top of that slope that Carolina’s house was located.  If they were home to answer their phone, Carolina would get very excited to receive a call from the states and knowing how expensive it  was, she would send someone to run down and get my grandparents to come up to talk with us.  As a kid, I imagined my grandmother running up that hill, always excited to speak with us, maybe even trampling over those treasured beans sprouts.

My life would have been very different had it not been for my American family who sponsored us for the months it took my parents to get a low paying factory job. My mother, who had prepared to be a teacher in Home Economics, and is one of the craftiest and most creative people I know, became a seamstress eventually. She can sew beautifully, and working beside other immigrants, such as Chinese and Japanese laborers in the sewing room, she became good friends with them.  Yes, I was living a melting pot experience I read about later in my history classes at Harrison Hill Elementary School where in those years, I was the only spanish speaking non-Anglo kid in my classes!

My father, eventually landed a job at Jenn-Aire factory. I don’t really remember what he did, but it was an assembly line type of job. In Cuba, he had prepared and had been working as an accountant.  My dad is the most persistent and detailed oriented person I can think of, with a perfect accountant’s mind.  Now, he had to learn a new language and a new trade.  There are two outstanding memories I have of his job at Jenn-Aire.

One is the environment of the building he worked at. It was modern and very spacious.  At Christmas time a Santa Claus would bring all the employees' kids a present.  I remember sitting on the cafeteria floor with other kids, waiting for my name to be called as they pulled presents from under the big Christmas tree. This was a culture shock for a Cuban kid, who had neither seen nor heard of Santa Claus. In our tradition, Christmas gifts are given at the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6th, which commemorates the gifts that the Magi brought to baby Jesus.  This seemed to make more sense to me than Santa Claus. Yet the magical aspect of a jolly ol' elf with a sleigh full of toys and flying reindeer was too awesome for a kid like me to not buy into as part of the American experience I was beginning to gobble up.

The other memory is the Jenn-Aire club house out in the country.  We would drive up their impressive curving drive way towards it, and were greeted by a big rustic cabin-like structure with a huge stone fireplace on the inside, all nestled on  large open grounds next to a large lake.  At Easter time, families would go there for their annual Easter egg hunt. This became another new “American” experience for us.  My parents, even though were of limited means, always managed to make sure my brother and I had new clothes to wear for Mass at Easter.  Usually, my outfit was a crocheted skirt and vest that my aunt would knit for me.  They were very popular back then, and I was a bit competitive with the Easter egg hunt and would inevitably end up muddied and tangled up in a cluster of rose bushes. My poor outfit suffered for it, along with my exposed arms and legs. My mother was never too pleased with my “unlady-like” demeanor during those hunts.

The Mariel crisis did not reunite my family after all like we had hoped. Eventually, thanks to another turn in politics, both sets of grandparents eventually ended up living with us. One had left in the early 70’s through their Spanish citizenship and joined us in Indiana. The other set, the ones that lived on in a humble suburb on the side of the hill, they came while I was in college at UF in 1982.  They were allowed to leave Cuba with a visa to visit only but ended up staying due to my grandfather’s health. He died a year later, a month after my wedding.

These memories are important to remember, and they also allow me to reflect on how much I have to be thankful for.  I am thankful for my parents and my family and this country that became my home.  Through these experiences God connected to me in some way and my heart to Him. I realized that God makes himself present through communities of people.  My life has been a patchwork of cultures that came together in a zigzagged kind of way. Sometimes I could be very “Cuban” and other times I could blend in and be very “American”, thanks to my loving family and friends.  

Funny that when I think of January in Indianapolis, I don’t think of cold days, I think of the warmth of the family that greeted me and handed me my first winter coat and hat, and allowed me to know that God was always present in my family. God was my warmth in the midst of a winter darkness so far from home.