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.
