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!
