Hybrid

A while back one of my favorite people emailed me asking if I could translate something for her.  She works for a school and needed a sign to be in both English and Spanish.  Somehow that simple request led to one of our wonderfully, soul-satisfying conversations, a LOT of memories from my childhood and this post. My friend and I were talking about how she wished some of the parents would learn English and that way they could help their kids with their homework.  We were talking about how when my parents, when their generation, arrived in this country, they (1) were REALLY happy and grateful to be here and breathe freely; (2) willing to work at any job available just to put food on the table; and (3) learned English and set about assimilating into the American culture, while still retaining our traditions, but they melded them, there was no "us" and "them." This was what set me off on memory road and these lines.

I am a hybrid.  Born in Cuba, raised in Hollywood, California. Have lived in Miami for decades now, having moved here when my Dad's parents arrived from Cuba, but L.A.has always been, will always be "my" hometown.  Actually, the time we spent in California was relatively short, but I went from little girl to teenager while living there, so it has always felt like home to me.  Maybe because from the minute we landed in L.A. we felt safe, welcomed, free. We landed in L.A. not really knowing the language.  Oh, we had started learning English back in Cuba, but it is one thing to see words in a book (even one with phonetic spelling) and actually hearing that language spoken. We left Cuba as tourists flying to Mexico on a PanAm plane, that has remained my favorite airline, even now that it is defunct.  In Mexico, I fell in love with the food, the music. We stayed with family friends and the first night they had mariachis come sing at their home.  I was enchanted.  The next day we were off exploring, they took us to the zoo where I ran away from my parents and bought a cherry snow cone.  Paid dearly for it the next day.  As a matter of fact, we almost missed our flight to Panama the day after.  All I can remember is my Dad saying "This is what happens when you scare us to death and EAT SOMETHING WE TOLD YOU NOT TO!"  Still like cherry snow cones.  We arrived in Panama, where we lived for a few hellish months.  My Dad somehow got a scholarship for me at a Catholic school which was also an orphanage.  What I remember about Panama is that school, I loved the old nuns, reminded me of the ones that had taught me in Cuba and then had disappeared overnight, I remember going to the Hilton hotel near our apartment, where my Mom and I would sit by the pool and drink icy cold Coca Colas and I remember a little girl whose family lived in our apartment building and had these new American dolls called Barbies. And I remember my uncle's wife taking me to an American supermarket one day and when I wanted to buy a little jar of mayonnaise (Hellmann's, I remember the blue bow), her telling me "No, it is too expensive. You have to remember, you were rich in Cuba and you are poor now.  You can't have it."  When I got home and told my Mom, we walked back to that market and she bought me that little jar of mayo.  To this day, there is always a big jar of Hellmann's in my fridge.

Then one day, freedom.  We flew to the U.S.  Actually, our first flight was rescheduled and the airline (again, Pan Am) put us up in a hotel for the day.  That night a taxi picked us up and took us to the airport where we got on a plane and flew to Miami.  Miami was no picnic at first.  We were put up in an old, musty-smelling hotel in downtown, full of other Cuban refugees.  I remember one little old lady who had made the voyage, like so many countless others, in a rickety boat, saying "The moment I got in that little boat, all my aches and pains went away!"  A few days later, my grandmother's best friend from grade school showed up and told us to pack up, we were going to stay with her at a  hotel on the beach, where she was working.  I was so happy to see her!  It was like having a little piece of my grandmother with me.  I really missed my grandparents.

We arrived in Los Angeles on a sunny summer afternoon.  The sun was shining and a cool breeze blew.  My Dad kissed the ground, just knelt and kissed that asphalt, giving thanks for getting us there safely and swore he would never fly again and he didn't.  My Mom kept hugging and kissing me, saying "We are safe, we are safe, we are safe!"  Family friends were waiting for us, they had a little furnished apartment all set up and ready for us and we set about settling in and getting to know our new home. A lovely lady, Miss Lucille Richards, from the Episcopal church was key in getting us settled. I will always remember her kindness. My parents were told to go to a place called Culver City where there was a Tootsie Roll factory (we had no clue what a Tootsie Roll was) and apply for work there, because the manager of the factory, Mr. Gardner (God bless that man) would give a job to any Cuban who applied for work. Pretty soon they were both working there, getting a ride from a co-worker who lived close by.  We were the only non-American family in our apartment building, but our neighbors took us in as one of their own.  It was the early 60s, 1964 to be exact.  We lived across from a high school and my parents started going to night school to learn English.  When they were at work, I stayed with one of our neighbors, who spoke no Spanish, but I started learning English with that family.  Watched a LOT of t.v., soap operas and the Mickey Mouse Club. Soon another Cuban family, Berta and Jesse, moved into our apartment building.  They already spoke English, I started staying with them while my parents were at work. They had a baby girl called Janice, who I fell in love with and kept pestering my parents about getting me a baby sister or brother for Christmas.  My parents found out the night shift at the factory paid a little bit more and asked to be transferred.  They hired two high school boys, Dana and Bob, to come to our apartment Saturday mornings and teach them English.  They were learning Spanish.  It worked out nicely.  School started. I was in Mrs. Little's third grade class, Woodcrest Elementary.  My first little friend was a little black boy by the name of Kenneth.  His mom walked him to school at the same time my Mom walked me.  We were in the same class.  Integration was just starting.  Kids picked on him because he was small for his age.  We heard the "N" word a lot.  To this day it makes my hackles rise.  I had a tutor for half the school day, the other half I was in class.  Another girl from Cuba came into my third grade class, Ana.  She already spoke English fluently and helped me with my spelling.  We are friends to this day.  And there was a little American girl called Rhonda who wore braces on her legs.  She got picked on too.  We all glommed into a tight little group.  Kenneth, Ana, Rhonda and me.  I loved my English tutor.  He loaned me books and told my Mom to have me read out loud and watch a lot of t.v. so I could develop an ear for the language.  Within months I was fluent and started translating for my parents and their friends.  My favorite new word?  Daddy.  My Dad went from being called "Papi" to "Daddy" the rest of his days.  Mom was "Momma" or "Mami." Regardless of what shift they were working, whether they were able to do it at night or early in the morning before I went off to school, my parents reviewed my homework with me.  My Mom helped with my spelling, having me spell out the words in English and Spanish.  My Dad with math, which I never liked or excelled at.  The one time I got a "C" in algebra in junior high, my Dad threw a barbecue for our friends and family.  Mind you, he was one of those weird (to me) people who could do huge sums and percentages and all that stuff in his head.  So could my grandfather (my Mom's dad) who lived with us all my life.  So, I have math genius on both sides of the coin, but nope, didn't get that gene. The teacher would be blathering on about square roots and negative and positive numbers and I would be doodling in my notebook.  Or passing notes to my friends.  Ooopsies!

Saturday mornings while waiting for Dana and Bob to arrive, Daddy and I would walk around the block.  Neighbors would be out washing their cars, mowing their lawns, always saying "Good morning!" and "How are you today?"  We never felt different or looked down on.  We assimilated quickly into our new life.  Here no one banged on our door at any hour of the day or night, turning our house upside down.  To do that here, we learned, they needed a warrant and could only search where the warrant said.  But no one ever banged on our door, warrant or no warrant.  Here we felt safe.  Here we could go to church and worship, freely, without having to hide.  Sunday mornings we walked to our nearby church and attended services.  My favorite part of that was Americans had coffee after church and they served these wonderful things called donuts!  Oh, I loved going to church here.  My Mom would gently remind me why we would go to Mass and it was NOT for donuts.  But still I did love my donuts from the get-go

One night there was a knock at the door and when I answered it, a woman wearing a stocking over her face and wearing a crazy wig, barged into our home, waving a bag and saying something about a tree.  My Dad freaked out, telling my Mom to get me, go into their bedroom and lock the door.  The woman kept waving her arms around and shaking the bag ... then we noticed our neighbor, Jesse, outside laughing like a loon, my Dad was NOT happy.  Jesse was doubled over laughing, the crazy woman pulled the thing off her head and it was Berta and she was saying "Trick or treat!"  That was our introduction to Halloween.  They wanted to take me shopping for a Halloween costume and explained what Halloween was.  People dressed up in costumes and went from door to door asking for candy.  Do I have to tell you I loved the idea?

But my favorite new holiday was Thanksgiving.  We made elaborate artwork at school, there were pumpkins and turkeys everywhere.  Mr. Gardner sent each and every one of his employees home with a turkey, boxes of Tootsie Roll pops (which my Mom sent to school with me), cans of something called cranberry (to this day I love cranberry in a can).  We felt so blessed and so grateful to be here.  There was a massive blackout that Thanksgiving, we had dinner by candlelight, somehow it made it even more special.  Weekends we explored, my Dad had managed to buy a very old Studebaker (an entire family could have lived in its trunk) and we'd go off, Mom with map in hand.  We discovered Olvera Street (one of my favorite places in the world) and Griffith Park.  We learned our way around L.A.  The U.S. was home.  We were home.  I don't know what our neighbors thought of this little Cuban family dropped into their midst, but they always made us feel welcome, safe.  Safe, to feel safe is such a gift.  To be able to walk, talk, breathe without fear of repercussion, is such a blessing. We assimilated.  There was never an "us vs. them" vibe.  Something which seems to run rampant in our society these days.  We just were.

Maybe because, at least as far as we knew, there was no channel in Spanish, but the only t.v. we watched was American t.v.  The Ed Sullivan Show, Gilligan's Island, Bonanza, The Rifleman, The Munsters, The Adams Family, The Flintstones and The Jetsons.  The Patty Duke Show!  Those are the shows I grew up watching.  In black and white, mind you, and no remote.  You wanted to change the channel, you got your rear end off the sofa and changed the channel.  Manually.  My point being, there was no "they are Americans, we are Cuban" thing going in our home.  We took to the "American" way of life like fish to water.  It really was not different than what our lives had been before Castro.  Around Valentine's Day my grandparents arrived in Los Angeles and my world was, once more, complete. We had all lived together in Cuba.  Now we were together here.  The day my grandparents arrived, by train, in L.A. I took off so fast, I ran right out of my shoes, leaving them on the train platform, running to my grandfather, who hugged me and said "So, here you run in your stocking feet?"and laughed and my grandmother opened her (always capacious) purse and said "I have discovered the most wonderful thing, they are called pancakes!" and pulled some out of an aluminum foil packet.  I told her "Wait until you taste donuts!"

We assimilated.  We learned the language. We celebrated the new holidays with gusto.  We loved this country.  When people asked me where I was from, I would say California. To this day, I feel more at home in an American environment, than I do in a Latin one. My childhood soundtrack is populated by The Beatles and Beach Boys, Rolling Stones and old Cuban music, old as in the original Orquesta Aragon. If you ever watch The Lost City by Andy Garcia, the soundtrack of that movie which always makes me cry because he captured a feeling, a lost world, perfectly, is the soundtrack of my early childhood, right along with the sound of gunfire and people banging on doors demanding entrance.  We went from feeling safe to feeling persecuted, unsafe, unsure of who was overhearing us and what would happen, to being searched to being here, no gunfire, no banging on doors, no searching.  And we were together, the five of us.  Safe.  Together.  Free.  Blessings all around.  Everyone around us, who had come through similar circumstances pretty well much felt the same way.

Today, however, I no longer see that.  Instead I see a fractured family unit, disrespect to our elders, the flag is no longer respected, the pledge of allegiance is elective.  Which blows my mind.  Now, mind you, I totally get and respect freedom of speech.  One of the reasons we are here and one of the many, many freedoms a lot of people take for granted.  I see people who have emigrated here because they were persecuted in their countries, turn around and demand what they did not demand in their own countries, criticize this country for not providing enough, for being too hard to make a living here.  Granted.  Life is not easy these days.  Especially if you don't speak the language.  Or are perceived as "different" from those around you.  But, life is not easy for many born here, whose families have been here for generations.  For our vets.  For our police officers who these days must walk around feeling like they have a target painted on their backs.  I see division, derision, negativity.  Sometimes during this presidential election I have wished we were a monarchy.  Because, my goodness, I have never seen a more disgusting scenario.  We need to remember we are first and foremost Americans.  Be it Republican or Democrat.  We are one nation.  Under God.  With liberty and justice for all.  Remember those lines?  So faithfully recited during our childhoods?  I respect the freedom of expression of those that refuse to stand during our national anthem.  I don't understand it or particularly like it, but I respect their right to do so.  But, here's what puzzles me.  This is my dilemma.  They do not see that it is that very flag, that very anthem, they refuse to acknowledge or show respect to, that gives them the right to do so?  Hello?  Society seems so hell-bent on out-shouting each other it is forgetting we are all one.  Supposedly.  As long as we allow this divisiveness to rule, we are failing each other, our families, our country.  Yes, we can have differences of opinions, but we have to remember we are Americans.  We are the ones who are running in, when everyone else is running out.  When 9/11 hit, there was no partisan poo flying.  We all pulled together.  Because we, our country, had been attacked.  We came together as a country.  Flags were everywhere.  We reached out to each other.  I remember the mass where all religions came together, to pray.  There was none of this "I'm this and you're that" and "You're wrong, I'm right" business.  We just came together as a people, as Americans, and prayed.  Together.

Tonight, that same friend who started me on this post sent me a text about a group of people getting together across our country, to pray at the same time every night.  At 8:00 p.m. Central Standard Time.  I set my alarm. I believe in the power of prayer.  Oh, we may not always get the answer we want.  But I believe prayer is a great unifier.  It crosses race lines, religion lines.  It brings us together as one.  We need prayer.  Our country needs prayer.  Our world.  Which can be obliterated with the touch of one single button.  Something people tend to forget.  We need prayer.  Not "my church is better than yours" prayer.  But real, true, from the heart, from the soul prayer. Prayer that unites, fortifies, gives us the strength to go forth and keep on going in this ever more confusing and scary world.  I truly do not see how people can function without faith in their lives.  I know that even in my darkest moments, when I have felt the most vulnerable, the most "turtle without a shell," it has been my faith that has gotten me through and kept my focus on the little faint faraway light shining through at the end of the tunnel.  I read somewhere today that darkness is just an opportunity to bring forth light. I love that concept.  It flies in the face of all the negativity winging its way around today.  We have to remember to see the good, the joy, the wonder that life truly is.  The gift that life is.  We have been given so much.  To have been given the opportunity to live in this country is such a wondrous and fragile gift.  We may not be at our best these days.  But, really, we ARE the best.  What other country do so many risk their lives to be able to live in?

I am a hybrid.  I was born on a little tropical island.  I was raised in Southern California.  I may not have been born here, but my roots are deeply and firmly planted in American soil.  I refuse to let demagogues and rabble-rousers sully my flag, my country.  I already lost one country, I refuse to lose this one.  I have faith, I believe and I pray.  A lot.  I sometimes whine about things that really are of no importance.  Then I realize, like my Dad used to say, "You could be getting shot at in Afghanistan" and I realize I am blessed, I am blessed, I am blessed.  Then I pray some more.  When I see the Cuban flag I well up, same goes for the American flag.  I cry when I hear the national anthems, they stir up very powerful emotions. I am grateful every single day for my parents having brought me to this country.  I am grateful to all the strangers who opened their doors to  us and welcomed us to our new country. Who introduced me to American history and folklore.  I pray for everyone serving in our armed forces, protecting innocents, fighting for their safety, their blood sometime spilling, their lives ending on foreign soil.  I pray for all their families.  I pray for all the innocents losing their lives every day trying to reach safe haven. I pray for a day when I will no longer see pictures on the news of dead babies who drowned when their families were fleeing their country. I pray for a day when there will no longer be images of terrified children on the news.  Children should be free, happy, innocent.  Not terrified and bloody, screaming for their parents.  I pray for those who are vilified merely because of their nationality, their faith, the color of their skin.  I wonder, had my family and countless others not been welcomed, had we not been allowed safe haven, where would I be.  And I pray that those who wish to make their lives here, to live in safety, in peace, to contribute to this amazing country, are allowed to become part of our tapestry.  To become American.  To become hybrids.

Okay, I have vented and spouted. Time to leave the soapbox.  Until next time, keep the faith and God bless!

Venting ...

Man, I really dislike Presidential election years.  They seem to bring out the worst qualities in people.  Instead of uniting, they divide.  Frankly, I think our country could do with a LOT less yapping politicians.  I am up to here with the divisiveness and mud-slinging that seems to permeate our society these days. (I also think we could do without "reality" t.v.  Which is a prime example of the term "oxymoron."  But at least if you do not wish to see fake boobies and screeching matches you can just change the channel, there is no outrunning politicians these days ... but I digress and "reality" t.v. is a WHOLE other subject.)  Having lived through the 60s, I never thought I would see us as divided as we are now.  It is ugly.  Xenophobia has reared up its nasty little serpentine head.  It tries to disguise itself as "All American," yet it is anything but.  While I disagree with our President on a LOT of things, calling his race in as a factor is not acceptable to me. It bothers me to hear people describing it as a racial thing.  No, I do not disagree with him because he is (half) African American.  I disagree with him because I do not like the way he has proceeded on some things.  His race has nothing to do with it.  Stop playing the race card at every chance.  It sucks and we should have evolved beyond that.  If you are going to label me a racist for disagreeing with the President, then you must also label me a racist because I disagree with Hillary Clinton, so then ... if disagreeing with President Obama makes me a racist, what does disagreeing with Hillary Clinton make me?  'Cause she is as white as rice.  I also disagree on a lot of points with Trump, and Rubio, seriously, what is up with those booties, dude?  Cruz, I will never look at bacon the same way after seeing that infamous video, although I must say, he does have an offbeat sense of humor and I do appreciate it.  Wait, Rubio and Cruz have Cuban blood in them.  Gee, does that make me anti-Cuban?  But, but, I am Cuban-born!  Okay, labelers of the world, classify THAT one.  Does that make me, gasp, a traitor to MY people???  No, wait, I am American, they are American, WE are ALL American.  Not that we act it.  The truth is, I disagree with pretty well much any and all politicians running for President this time around.  Although I do have a certain fondness for Huckabee, because he tells it like it is and does not give a rat's rear end about offending anyone.  "The Army is there to kill people and break things!" I wanted to kiss him when he said that.  He is old school, maybe too old school for this day and age.  However, there is not one individual that I feel confident in saying, okay, THAT is the guy, or woman, I am voting for. Because each and every one (both Democrat and Republican) have made some truly cringe-worthy statements, that made me go "Oh, crap!  Please, please SHUT UP!"  So, there you go.

I agree with some points Cruz has made.  Rubio, not so much, Trump, oish.  Two steps forward, three steps back with him.  I do like the fact he is self-funded and not a career-politician.  Also one heck of a businessman and, yeah, he is bombastic and says some cringe-worthy things, but he holds his ground.  As to Hillary, I am not going down that road.  Too much. Okay, just a little. Yes, I would love to see a woman President.  Some day.  Just not her.  Although I did like Clinton and thought the Lewinsky affair was a waste of money.  Honestly, a bazillion dollars down the drain because he put the moves on her and she went for it.  I don't buy her "little ol' innocent me" bit for a minute.  She was of sound mind and certainly knew he was MARRIED.  Did that make it right for him to act as he did?  No.  But she was equally at fault for deciding to dally with a MARRIED man.  Hello???  He was a horn dog and she was a skank.  But, noooo, we had to air our dirty laundry in front of the entire world and look like idiots in the process.  And Ken Starr looked like he could have used that which Lewinsky theoretically did with Mr. Clinton.  Maybe that would have removed the stick that seemed to be perpetually up his rear end.  But I digress.  We were talking about Hillary.  Her flippant attitude regarding those infamous emails and Benghazi annoyed the beegeezers out of me.  Don't appreciate flippant attitudes about national security, ma'am, with all due respect.  I do not understand, nor is it any or my business to understand, what went on in that marriage. However, were it to have been my husband, he would have been singing soprano the rest of his days.  Sorry.  Homey don't play that.  But that is just me. Maybe that is why I am not married.  My last relationship did once call me a "little scary."  He is now living in Alaska.  But, again, I digress.

I do not appreciate hate-mongering and encouraging divisiveness.  We need to lose the "us vs. them" attitude.  Because the more xenophobic, wait, maybe that has too many syllables for some people, xenophobia means the intense or irrational dislike or fear of people from other countries.  Okay now that we have that cleared up.  The more xenophobic we appear, the more we encourage those loons that are dominating the headlines these days.  Because that is what they use to attract, entice, recruit, they promote the "us vs. them" attitude.  They hide behind "religion."  But their hatred-spewing rhetoric has zip to do with religion and everything to do with with destruction, annihilation.  That is one of the few things I agree on with Mrs.Clinton.  Trump's blustering about building a wall and saying no Muslims should be allowed into the country (oy, oy, oy!), encourages the hatred.  People rally and cheer him on, not realizing, you know, go back a few generations and hello, their forefathers and mothers were foreigners too.

Ah, now comes the kicker.  But those forefathers did not run around killing innocents and setting bombs.  They did not shout "Death to America!"  True.  But that does not make every immigrant a potential terrorist.  We must not lose that which makes us the one country in the world that everyone wants to come to.  There is a poem inscribed in the Statue of Liberty with the lines "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore."  No, I do not believe we should allow everyone in, willy-nilly.  And, trust me, there are plenty of evil ones already here, living the All American life, blending in perfectly.  Case in point, the San Bernardino terrorists.  Even with heightened security measures, which I profoundly hope are soon put into practice, evil ones will continue to infiltrate and arrive.  Our military will be attacked both here and abroad, sometimes from within our ranks, which I believe is the vilest form of treason.  But we cannot, must not, just arbitrarily decide, okay, ALL immigrants are potential terrorists, so no more immigrants are going to be allowed in.  Timothy McVeigh was an All American boy and he perpetrated one of the worst attacks on our country.  Murdered innocents.  We sure as hell did not see that coming.  The image of that fireman carrying the broken body of that sweet child is forever etched in my brain.

Our society is broken.  Our military does not get the respect it should.  Or the backup it needs.  Nor do our veterans.  It boggles my mind that we have millions to give to Iran, a known enemy, but our veterans lack basic care and services.  There should NOT be a need for the Wounded Warrior Project.  There should NOT be one single homeless vet.  Hell, there should not be any homeless.  Period.  We are the richest nation in the world, why do we have Americans living in the streets?  Why does our military need to up-armor their vehicles?  Closer to home, why are there so many drive-bys?  Why aren't there marches when a 7-year old is killed playing in front of his house?  What, children's lives do not matter as much as thugs who get gunned down by cops?  Why are people allowed to march yelling "Pigs in a blanket, fry them like bacon?"  Can you imagine if people took to the streets instead yelling "Arrest the thugs, squash them like slugs?"  The press would have a field day!  Our police officers do not get the respect they deserve.  True, some have gone off the rails, and their behavior is not to be condoned or covered up.  But still when there is a shooting, who do people call?  Not Black Lives Matter, nope, they dial 911 quick as a lick and expect the police officers to respond and put themselves in harm's way ... for them.  The very people who will turn out and march against them.  Where, oh, where are the marches when little ones get killed?  Why don't the communities come together and turn on the very thugs that are destroying our neighborhoods from the inside?  I agree black lives matter, but so do white, yellow, red, mixed, ALL lives matter.  STOP making this about race and START making it about humanity. About taking responsibility for our actions.  Stop using excuses for criminal behavior.  If you knew it was wrong, then you knew what you were doing.  And you MUST be held responsible.  No excuses.

Why, why, why doesn't our President admit that it IS terrorism, that it IS radical Muslim militants committing terrorist acts, why are we so afraid of "offending" others?  Gotta tell you, if it was Cubans that were running around killing, maiming, putting off bombs and people called them "radical militant Cuban terrorists" I would so NOT have a problem with that or be offended.  Because, guess what, that is what they would be.  And the radical nut cases who are running around beheading, torturing, committing despicable acts hide behind the "religious" label.  Guess what?  I am damn well sure Allah is not sitting in Heaven going "Yes, that's right my children!  Surely that is the way to get into Heaven!"  Because guess what?  Allah IS God.  The Great I Am.  (That is a line from a wonderful movie I saw years ago, cannot remember the name, but it was a Biblical movie.)  You remember Him, the Father, the Creator?  Hello, does anybody GET THAT?  We are ALL His children.  He loves us ALL and, my gosh, I am sure he looks down with great sadness at the mess we have made of the world he gave us.  We kill, maim, pollute, destroy.  Sometimes I think He must want to bang His head against a wall going "No, no, noooo!  This is NOT what I made you for!"  Yet, He gave us free will and darn if we don't exercise that every single day.  Some to create beauty and do good. Some to destroy and do evil.

I have been shopping at a little market for years now.  It is owned by a family from Pakistan.  It is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week, holidays, weekends, come rain or come shine.  And I must confess, shortly after Benghazi, I found myself hesitating about going there.  I had a "them vs. us" moment.  A lot of times when I drive up, I overhear them speaking Farsi.  And I thought "What if they are talking about me?  What if the money I pay them goes to fund some terrorist faction?" and I was ashamed of myself.  Because I was buying into the xenophobia sweeping our country.  My parents taught me better.  In talking about this momentary lapse with a friend, they said "Well, you know, they COULD be terrorists!  You never know."  And I thought, no.  I will not live my life this way.  If they are, which I doubt, then on their heads let it be.  I am in my Father's hands.  I am exactly where I need to be.  Maybe it sounds hokey, but it is truly what I believe.  I thought about how when I was ill a while back my neighbors took care of me like I was family.  They really do not know me from Adam, they did not know my family, they only know me from living across from them.  But still they took care of me with as much love and care as they would show a family member.  My neighbors are a living, breathing, walking example of the "Do unto others" way of living.  They walk the walk.

Oh, how I wish I could sit down with President Obama and have a conversation with him. I voted for him the first time, I truly believed here was a man who could unite us, who did not see color, who just saw Americans.  Instead, I have seen our country become the most divided I have ever seen it.  People talking about race wars and about blacks vs. whites.  Good grief!  In today's vernacular, WTF???  You know what I love most about visiting one of my favorite people ever (and a Most Marvelous Fairy GodMother)?  The fact that when we sit down at one of her family dinners, you see every color of the flipping rainbow, from palest ivory to richest darkest brown and no one, NO ONE, sees anything odd about that.  There is no white/black, Cuban/Jamaican/American issue.  We are just family.  And THAT is what we should be aiming for in our country today.  Enough with the hate-spewing. Enough with the hyphen-happy description of ourselves.  We are AMERICANS.  We are FAMILY.  And it's high damn time we start acting like it.

Well, I have vented and raged, tilted at windmills once more.  I pray for us. I pray for our country, for our world, I pray that somehow, some way, we can overcome this hideous cloud of gloom and doom we are living under and see the sun that is hiding behind it.  Because it is there.  We are just too mule-headed to see it.  He is there, the greatest Light of all.  Waiting.  For us all.  Until next time, be blessed, be safe and keep the faith.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

by Emma Lazarus, 1883.  

Grateful

White Roses

Wow, just realized I have not posted since November last year.  My favorite time of the year, Fall, followed by Winter.  Cooler weather, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas.  New Year's, the Rose Parade and Valentine's Day.  Love, love, love.  It has been a pretty good year for me, 2015.  Some minor health bumps, all manageable. Still love my job, still in my little cocoon.  The garden is a bit, well, okay, a LOT, raggedy.  I am in the middle of an out with the old, in with the new furniture project.  Life is good.  Except for those presidential candidates, but, hey, they are politicians, one cannot expect them to not be annoying.  I really got into the political arena for a few weeks there, then decided it is way too early and way too contentious and really not a productive setting for me.  So, I am back to Hallmark movies and my usual peaceful, artsy-crafty routine.  This past week, actually, this past Friday, however, I got really, really angry. Not a pretty thing.  Took a political move personally and let's just say, well, I was not a happy camper.

The United States Embassy re-opened in Cuba on Friday.  It brought back a lot of memories.  Not all of them good.  Some of them sweet, innocent.  Others bloody, humiliating, violent.  Repressed for years.  All back in a second.  I understand we must move forward, not live in the past.  Yatta, yatta, yatta. But there is one very wise saying about if we forget our past, we are bound to repeat it.  I do not, cannot, am unable to, understand how the flag of a country that stands for democracy, for justice, for freedom of thought, freedom of speech, can be raised in a country where those very rights so many of us here take for granted are brutally squelched.  I felt like the President disrespected Cubans, our history, our struggle, our roots.  The sacrifices my parents' generation made.  The lives lost, at sea and in the country itself.  All those deaths by firing squad (after trials that were anything but).  It forced me to remember my father being taken away to jail, because he had been a member of the Batista army.  His words to the militiamen that came to get him "Please, don't handcuff me in front of my daughter."  The many times they banged on our door demanding to be let in, any hour of the day or night, to search our house.  Turning everything upside down and leaving a mess for my parents and grandparents to clean up.  Not that they ever found anything and thank the Father in Heaven they never planted anything either.  They were particularly fond of conducting those searches at night, after midnight, when everyone would be sound asleep.  Those searches became so routine that when we'd hear the pounding fists on our front door, I would automatically grab my little pillow and blanket and head for my grandparents' room.  I remember my grandfather putting the mattress on the floor, don't know why he did that. Maybe in case bullets started flying.  I remember one night they were searching for our neighbor's son who had taken part in an anti-Castro rally.  He was in his house, next door, ran and they shot him, right in the middle of the street.  I remember the shots. I remember the militiamen tromping through our vegetable garden and me yelling at them to "Be careful with the baby plants!" and my grandfather putting his hand over my mouth and telling me to be quiet.

There are good memories too.  Family memories.  Particularly of Christmas holidays and dinners with everyone sitting at the table, talking, laughing, singing. The men in their pristine starched guayaberas, smoking their cigars and the women beautifully dressed, jewels twinkling as they danced to old Cuban music.  La Orquesta Aragon, Benny More.  A huge Christmas tree in the living room merrily twinkling  with a thousand fairy lights and another tree in my bedroom.  Nativity scenes with real grass and mirrors taking the place of lakes.  Entire miniature towns with marketplaces and people. My Mom taking me to school on my horse.  The school was just a few blocks from our house.  But I wanted to ride him.  The nuns, being terrified of the Mother Superior who was really quite kind, but I thought she had a direct line to God and would tell him I bit my nails.  Going shopping with my Mom and my aunt.  Playing in my godmother's closet and flapping around her house in her heels.  My cousins who danced ballet, I thought they were fairies come to life.  For some reason those memories come to me on lemon-scented waves, I remember a round crystal bottle with bees on it, light green label, on my parents' dresser.  Maybe that is why I am so fond of bees.  Our family was never the same after leaving.  Maybe it was because we were scattered all over the U.S.  I don't know.  I just know that one day everything was fine and the next, it had all changed.  We had to watch what we said. People searched our house any time of day or night. My Dad was taken away and although my grandparents and Mom tried to make it all normal and would send me to my room to read, I heard things and knew my Dad was somewhere, the grown-ups just did not know where.  There was one day I woke up and my Mom was already gone.  Night fell and she still had not come home.  My grandparents and I were in the living room watching television and suddenly it all went dark.  We heard airplanes flying low overhead.  The front door flew open and there was my Mom, who went straight to the kitchen talking over her shoulder, saying she was hungry and she did not know.  The "did not know" was about my Dad.  Years later I found out she had been trying to find out where he was, but they kept sending her from one place to another.

Then one morning I heard his voice outside and ran to see him.  Did not look like my Dad.  He was skinny, bearded and filthy, but it was his voice and I latched on to his leg, you know, like you see on the commercials and in the movies, where the kid latches on to the guy's leg?  He kept yelling "Don't touch me, don't touch me, I'm dirty!" and "Abuela, Abuela, it's me, it's me!" Because my grandmother kept yelling "Get away from that man!"  She did not recognize him.  But I knew my Dad was somewhere inside that dirty, skinny, bearded man and darn if I was going to let go.  My poor father was unable to go into the bathroom for months without me standing watch by the door and periodically going "Are you almost done?" and "Okay, come on, I am waiting!"  After he came home he had to roll my bed into their bedroom for months on end.  We slept with mosquito nets over the beds and he had to poke his arm out of the one over their bed so I could fall asleep holding his hand.  Mosquito bites and all, I didn't care, I was holding on to my father.

Finally the day came when we were leaving.  My grandparents were staying behind.  They would follow us almost a year later.  That day when I woke up my grandfather was already gone.  I had slept with him that last night, fell asleep with him telling me one of his wonderful stories about brave princesses and castles.  My grandmother lost her voice, she kept hugging me.  I remember she was wearing a green dress with white polka dots and her pearls.  Ever elegant, my grandmother.  Smelling of soap and talcum powder.  I remember my parents being taken away for a long while at the airport, I sat in a chair along with other kids also waiting for their parents to come back.  When they returned they were beet red and upset.  Years later I found out they were strip searched.  Can you imagine that happening here?  I remember my mother's blue leather necessaire and a militiaman pawing through it, then taking a knife and starting to peel the backing from it, where it had a little mirror, looking for anything hidden.  He looked at my Mom and smiled at her and she told him to keep going, rip it up.  He stopped.  Closed it and handed it back to her.  Smiling all the while.  

All of these memories I try so, so hard not to think of came flooding back this week.  Memories like mine are a dime a dozen.  We were not the only ones that lost.  Hell, we were lucky to have each other.  Many people my age lost their fathers.  Some both their parents.  Some were sent away by their parents on the Peter Pan flights and did not see their parents again for years.  I have one friend who was told her father had died by firing squad, but her family never saw his body.  She told me that for years she always looked for him in crowds.  Memories, so many memories.  Of Panama where we spent several months in sheer hell.  Of Mexico, where I fell in love with the food and the people.  Of arriving in Miami and staying in an old, musty-smelling hotel where my grandmother's best friend from school showed up the next day and said we were going with her to a hotel in Miami Beach she was working at.  Of finally arriving in L.A. where an apartment was waiting for us, furnished by friends already living there.  So many memories.  I felt like the re-opening of the American embassy was like spitting on all those memories, as if our collective suffering did not matter (it doesn't, it won't ... ever).  I was angry, offended.

It took me a while to realize I was looking at it from the wrong point of view.  Yes, I lost my birthright, I lost my birth country.  Yes, my family and world were shattered, beyond repair.  My country was broken, my flag and what it stood for was made a mockery.  But, you know, same thing has happened to many, many others around the world.  And in being angry and negative, I was giving the power to hurt me right back to those who caused my family to leave my birth country in the first place.  And I refuse to do that.  Humanity is not kind to itself.  We hurt, we kill, we torture.  Yet, we thrive, we fight on, we overcome.  We find beauty and music and laughter sometimes in the most dire of circumstances.  We, my parents, grandparents and I, were blessed in oh so many ways and for all that I am grateful.  We were welcomed in this country.  People who did not know us from Adam made us feel at home.  Americans who did not have a clue as to what this little Cuban family was like, went out of their way and took us in.  And we were together.  My grandparents lived with us until they died.  I lived with my parents until they died.  We had many years full of joy, laughter, travels, rose gardens, amazing meals, hugs and some tears. Our house was not the biggest and most luxurious, but it was always first and foremost, a home.  We may not have been the richest, but we always were together, had a secure roof over our heads and food on the table, clothes on our backs.  We traveled all over this country.  Had an amazing circle of friends.  Here no one searched our house at any time of the day or night.  We were able to worship freely.  We did not have to hide our faith.  That faith my parents and grandparents embedded in me from the cradle.  There is a Father in Heaven.  He loves us all.  We are all His children, no matter what we look like, no matter the color of our skin, or religion, He loves us all.  It is that faith that sustained me during the bumps in the road, during the loss of my parents.  That sustains me now.

So, instead of getting angry over something I have no control over,  I choose to be grateful. I refuse to give power to those who shattered my world once upon a time.  I am grateful for having been given the opportunity to live freely in the U.S.  Many have died trying to reach these shores.  I am grateful for being given the privilege of becoming an American citizen.  My roots may have been seeded in Cuba, but they are firmly and deeply planted in the U.S. Whenever I hear the Cuban national anthem, I cry.  Not a pretty cry.  I do the full-blown, red eyes and nose, swollen lips, red blotches on face and neck, what Oprah calls the ugly cry.  I cry for all that once was, all that was lost. A lost world.  Like the movie by Andy Garcia, The Lost City.  That anthem makes me just unbearably emotional and sad.  Whenever I hear the American national anthem, I cry.  But they are different tears, oh, it's still the ugly cry.  Trust me, I have never been able to do the pretty cry.  But, you see, the Cuban anthem brings sweet memories and great sadness, a sense of deep loss.  The American anthem brings me also sweet memories, but also hope, gratefulness, a sense of safety, peace. Of freedom.  Here I do not have to be afraid of speaking my mind and as anyone who knows me will tell you, that is one of my biggest faults.  Very little, if any, filter.

I am grateful for all the rights we are given in this country.  Freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of religion.  For the right to vote.  It really is a privilege, you know, the right to vote.  Democrat or Republican or Independent, we are Americans.  Some by birth, some by choice.  We just have to remember we are one.  One country, one people  Sounds so simple, doesn't it?  When it seems like the world is going to pieces, I pray and pray and then pray some more. I have hope. I have faith.  Watching the news, I was surprised to see how many people went up to Kerry and said thank you. Who knows what may come of this development of the embassy re-opening?  There is a plan.  The Father is in charge.  We only see bits and pieces, He sees the whole picture.  Be kind to each other, even to those we do not think deserve kindness, sometimes they are the ones that need it most of all.  Sometimes not.  But, it is amazing what one small act of kindness can do.  I always close by saying I am blessed, I am blessed, I am blessed.  Today I will close with one of my favorite poems and by saying, I am grateful, I am grateful, I am grateful. Be kind to each other and keep the faith!  Until next time.

Cultivo Una Rosa Blanca

by Jose Marti

Cultivo una rosa blanca,

en julio como en enero,

para el amigo sincero

que me da su mano franca.

Y para el cruel que me arranca

el corazon con que vivo,

cardo ni oruga cultivo.

Cultivo una rosa blanca.

Translation:

I have a white rose to tend,

in July as in January,

I give it to the true friend

who offers his frank hand to me.

And to the cruel one whose blows

break the heart by which I live,

thistle nor thorn do I give,

For him too I tend a white rose.

Being Thankful

 Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.  In fact, I believe we should celebrate it more than once a year. Because, as humans, we tend to forget to be thankful for the everyday miracles we are handed daily.  Like waking up to another day.  A hot cup of coffee in the morning to get you going.  For family and friends and friends who become family.  Working with people you feel safe with and make you laugh and think.  Having a safe, warm, welcoming home to return to at the end of day.  Cats who refuse to stop being kittens and perch on top of the armoire, batting at your head.  Friends who text you in the middle of the night because they are watching Wuthering Heights, yet again, and can't stop crying.  Sheesh. For friends' blogs whose posts arrive at just the right time. Thankful for having faith. Because, truly, at times it is the one thing that keeps one going.  Recent news items have brought back memories of a dark time and, to be perfectly honest, I went into a deep blue funk.  Which I had a really difficult time stepping back from.  But I am a "glass half full" type for the most part and I choose to be grateful for what I had, for what I have and for what will be.  As a very wise woman posted in her blog, I will trust the sky I am under ... This Thanksgiving I am thankful for ...

Bon Voyage Happy Hours - Fleming's, Coral Gables

Bouncing Baby Boys, Birthdays, Remission and Family Gatherings

My Dad and his Goofy Faces

My Beautiful Godmother

My Beautiful Mom and Godmother, Long, Long Ago

Flowery Teapots and Flameless Candles!

Memories of Little Ones Who Grew Up and Had Their Own Little Ones

Army Buddies Who Became Honorary Uncles
(Tio Juan and my Dad - Batista Army)

Pretty Peonies, Candlelight and Ivory Slipcovers

Fairy GodMothers and their Magical Spouses

Furry, Funny, Purring Children

Who Are Now Way Bigger, but Still Think They are Babies

Home

She Who Rules the Roost - Her Most Feline Highness

Family

The Three Who Once Were

Lovely, Comfy, Cozy Beds

Roses

Old Letters, Color Photocopies and Decoupage Medium ... I Love ModPodge!

Earl Grey Tea and Nutella on Toasted Pound Cake

Friemily Who Love Halloween as Much as Me

Miss Jodie's Cheesy Corn Muffins
and Kathie B.'s Chicken Pot Pie Recipe

Tall Friends Who Helped Decorate Really Tall Christmas Trees
a Long, Long Time Ago

Funky Settings on the Camera ... 

Speaking of Funky ... Remember Doing the Funky Chicken?

Vintage Type Ornaments that Remind Me of My Grandfather's Magical Toy Store

For family, memories, faith, friends (who are our chosen family) health, laughter shared and music played, even if off-key and especially ...

Thankful for Pie, Piping Hot from the Oven!

Wishing All a Blessed, Bountiful Thanksgiving.  Until next time, be blessed, be thankful and keep the faith!

Where Have Our Leaders Gone?

I have tried and totally failed to stay out of the political arena.  I do not like politics.  I do not  understand politics.  I do NOT trust politics, politicians, anything even remotely having to do with politics.  But at least, a long time ago, I respected certain political officials, or the positions they held. I respected the President.  I respected that title.  I may not have agreed with some of our Presidents, but by God, we had leaders.  We had leaders that stepped up at a moment of crisis, faced the nation, spoke to the people, let us know the situation was being handled.  But now?  Now we get mouthpieces that drone on about a "cautious approach" and "delicate situations" and "we must proceed carefully."  We are no longer respected, we are perceived as weak.  When the situation in Ferguson was going on the President addressed the nation, the Attorney General visited, the National Guard was called in. There were marches, demonstrations, protests. A few weeks ago, journalist James Foley was killed by cowards who cover their faces.  Today another American journalist, Steven Sotloff, was slaughtered.  Where are the protests, the demonstrations, the marches? Where is the outrage? I ask, again, where have our leaders gone?

Remember the Iran hostage crisis?  The failed rescue mission, when they tore our guys apart and paraded their bodies through the streets?  Remember what happened when Reagan was elected President?  As he was taking office, the hostages were released. A lot of people may not have liked him, but we sure as hell were respected.  So, I ask yet again, where have our leaders gone?

What is happening to us as a country?  We have become so divided along party lines we have forgotten we are first and foremost AMERICANS.  We need to present a united front, to come together, like we did on a terrible day in September 2001.  I pray it does not take another hideous day to once more unite us as a nation.  We are AMERICANS, we do not back down, we do not cower, we do not run, we do not hide.  When others are running out, we are running in to save the day.  We may not be perfect, but we are the greatest, the best.  We face our enemies, be they foreign or homegrown, we do not hide behind scarves, masks, among innocents.  If the terrorists have a message for us, rest assured we have one for them.  At least, I pray we do.

Until next time, be blessed, be safe and pray, the world needs prayer.