My Big Fat Cuban Family: A Cuban-American Blog

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Ada's Story

Marta here: I have more stories than I could fit into just one month. I am going to share them once a week. Thank you all for having the courage to share the details of the most difficult time in your life. Today's story comes from Ada. Being able to leave Cuba after just having had surgery was worth the risk.

by Ada Owens

My mom, my dad, my two brothers and I left Cuba when I was just 4 years old.

It was not our time to go, as we were nowhere near the number that was to be called next, but the government got a hold of the fact that my father had just been operated on. They decided to give us our number then, because since they only give you three to four days to prepare to leave, and they figured we would have to stay given my father’s condition.

Once the police officer on the motorcycle left our house after giving my mom the news, she immediately went to the hospital to inform my dad.  To her surprise, he said “Get everything ready; we’re leaving.” He had to sign a paper given to him by the doctor saying that he was leaving on his own free will and that he understood that due to the altitude on the plane, he could hemorrhage. He had his deviated septum operated on, so he had to fly with his head tilted back the entire flight.

Thank God he was ok.
 
We lived in Puerto Rico for a year with relatives then moved to Hattiesburg, Mississippi where I lived for the next 17 years. After that I moved to Miami Lakes. I now reside in Tampa with my husband and two children.  I often think about how different (and bad) my life would have been had my parents decided to stay and commend my parents for their bravery.

Ada's family.
 
Thanks for the chance to tell my story.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Edilia's Story

Marta here: My heart was aching as I first read Edilia's story. Imagine being a newlywed in Castro's Cuba and looking for a chance to get out and start a new life. 

By Edilia Beltran Pinero

My full name is Josefa Edilia Beltran Bermudez de Pinero.  I was 13 years old when Castro came into power.  I did not understand much of what was going on, but quickly learned that life as I knew it had ended. 

I had been born late in my parents’ life, therefore they were hesitant to leave Cuba and had hoped that the Castro regime would be defeated and life would go back to normal, but it was not be.

I had spent my childhood and early adolescence in a private school and had enjoyed every second of it. Our summers were spent in Varadero. We also visited Soroa, Hanabanilla, Valle de Viñales, Valle de Yumuri, Trinidad, Cienfuegos, Santiago de Cuba,  Santuario del Cobre, among others.  I had a wonderful life thanks to my parents! 

Now, my school was no more and indoctrination permeated every aspect of public school.  lt was 1961 and rather than being subjected to the brainwashing and a year away from graduation, I decided not to go on with school and found my first job.  I had met a young man while still in private school and we started so see each other, first as friends and then we became engaged.  We got married in October 1962 and started our life together. 

Varadero, 1965. Edilia, Manolo y Manolito.

I became one more among the young women of my generation who got married looking forward to the start of a new life abroad. At first, I was adamant about not leaving my parents behind but they were encouraging us to leave as the situation was getting worse and worse.  

To make a long story short, my husband was not allowed to leave when we first attempted it. Men between the ages of 14 and 27 were not granted the required permit. They had to put a stop to the droves of young men that were leaving the country to seek a new life abroad. Consequently, we had to wait until he reached the appropriate age.

When we requested permission to leave, it was still a nightmare. He lost his job and was sent to several forced labor camps. I was able to escape the forced labor because I had two small children, but life for me was not easy either. People knew we were “gusanos” (worms) as they called us and we were under constant surveillance and and suffered a lot of public and private humiliation. 

The least of mistakes could send you into limbo and your permit to leave Cuba would not be granted. We lived our lives in extreme fear. This feeling of living in constant dread, day in and day out, is one I will never forget.

Finally in March of 1972, we were granted the long awaited permit and boarded an Iberia flight to Madrid at 9 am in the morning. I left with mixed emotions as I was leaving my parents behind and did not know at the time if I would ever see them again. They still had hope and thought our absence would be temporary. 

Everyone was extremely quiet as the plane lifted off – fear does paralyze you. Finally, someone broke the silence and said, “We are not in Cuba anymore!” and we all laughed and cried at the same time. Food came and it was lobster salad! We started to see that there was definitely a different life out there.

When we got to Madrid we had friends waiting for us. It was 1 am the morning of the next day and the temperature outside was 33ºF.  We bundled up as well as we could, especially the children, and descended the stairs to get into a bus that would take us to the terminal. The next day we went to Catholic Charities and they provided us with warm clothes, coats, and even boots. Life in Spain was good. Within a month we moved to the Canary Islands where friends had found us both good jobs and we enjoyed our time there.   There was still a problem: the only family we had outside of Cuba was in the U.S. So finally in May of 1974, we arrived in Miami.

Miami, 1978. Edilia, Manolo, Manolito y Janely.

By the time we came here, we were experts in “starting a new life.”  We immediately found jobs, I got a college degree. We changed jobs several times - always looking for improvement, and I have to say that we could not complain. We were able to provide our children with a great education, which was our number one priority. 

Sadly, I did not see my mother ever again. She passed away in Cuba in 1981 while we were trying to bring her and my father to the U.S.  My father made it a year later and lived with us until his passing in 1984. I am eternally grateful to my parents for the life they gave me and for the sacrifices they made so that we could give our kids a better life.  Now that I have grandchildren myself, I totally understand.

Edilia, Manolo, Janely and the four grandchildren. Boca Raton, 2012.

My husband and I are retired, enjoying our four grandchildren - born to our daughter - and we are celebrating our 50th Wedding Anniversary this year.  Our son passed away in 1981, he was 17, but we have the consolation that he too was able to enjoy a good life until God decided he needed one more angel. He lives on in our hearts.

All the tribulations and suffering that we went through to become Americans were worth it.  Even though we still keep many of our Cuban traditions and have taught them to our family, we are undeniably part of the melting pot. We enjoy our afternoon cafecito, pastelitos de guayaba y cena de Nochebuena, while at the same time enjoying hamburgers, Thanksgiving dinner and apple pie.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Silvia's Story

Marta here: Silvia shares her story today for the first time. It was very emotional for her to travel back in time to those last painful years her family spent waiting for the Freedom Flight that would bring them to the America.

I'm grateful to Silvia's daughter, my online friend, Maribel, for convincing her mom to finally share her beautiful “Cuando Sali de Cuba” story. And to Silvia for being brave one more time.

Maribel writes about her own adventure-filled life on her blog Stroller Adventures.

by Silvia Estudillo

We all have a story to tell from our past, some are happy and some are sad…

For us Cubans or at least for me it is very sad. Deeply in my heart it is something that I don’t like to bring up as emotions take me over. Cubans we are very passionate and I’m not the exception to the rule. In fact, in my case, it feels like it is double.

I had started to write my story a long time ago, but never finished because of the memories brought that came back to me and believe me, they were not pleasant to confront. Even so, I must say that up to this date I give thanks to God for how my life was irrevocably changed life. As I always heard from my family and in my father’s owns words: “Thanks to Castro we are living in a country that believes in freedom and everyone has the same rights.”

He and President Kennedy gave us the opportunity as he came up with the great idea of los “Vuelos de La Libertad” (Freedom Flights).  Yes that is how I got my Ticket to Freedom.

I was only 5 years old when Castro took over; I still remember every detail.

Life changed abruptly for us. You could feel it in the air. Stores were closed. My parents had started a small laundry business out of the house. My mother took care of it while my father was a retailer at a “sombrero” store on Reyna and Galiana. Practically overnight the businesses were closed down by the government, which left my father out of a job.

Furthermore, one day they came to the place where my parents had established their own business. It was now a Dry Cleaner, fully equipped. They had one employee whom I loved very much. Her name was Inez - oh what sweet memories! Then suddenly we had nothing. I remember my father would stay in bed all day long in a dark room. My mother had to look for a job and she could only find a housekeeping job, where she used to take me every day.  Our lives took a turn that no one expected. 

When Fidel gave the speech that we all love: “EVERYONE THAT WISHES TO LEAVE THE COUNTRY IS ‘FREE TO DO SO,” my father jumped on the opportunity and that how it all started...

Everyday I dreamed about The Day. But it did not come until November 3, 1970.

My father kept the airline tickets up to his last day with these words: “The Day of Our Freedom.”

In the years we waited to leave we were constantly taunted and called names. The kids on my street would sing to me: “Oye gusanita, no saques los pies, pues si los sacas, te los carta el comité.”

For this reason my mother spanked me every day as she would not want me to play with these kids because she feared for my life. But I was a child and I could have cared less. All I wanted to do was play. So, I would leave the house every day to play, while hiding from my mother. When I came back home I knew what was coming to me.

In my middle school years, more trouble came to me since I had a big mouth - which I still do - I would get into trouble every day, especially with my Spanish teacher who was a big Castro supporter. Needless to say, she and I did not get along.

Finally one day as I was on my way home from school, someone told me that The Man With the Motorcycle {if you are a Cuban, you know what I mean} was in my home. In my own home! I was so very happy and ran as fast as I could. As I got home, my mother saw me and gave me The Look.  Being afraid that we could lose our chance, our One and Only Chance - The Big One - TO BE FREE! Imagine life with no more Castro, no more harassment from the Comité, no more being afraid.  Yet, even at that point, we all knew very well that they could detain us for any little thing and deny our request.

The inventory went through and we had to leave our home. The government took everything we owned. We were only allowed to take some personal belongings. But for us, who had been waiting so long for that Big Opportunity, we were ready. We had our “gusanos pack” waiting for when that moment came.

After they had confiscated everything and taken our home, there were 15 long days of waiting. We were all scattered to different houses where good friends let us stay until The Big Ticket Day.  I was 17 and my sister was 6. Our parents stayed at one house, my sister in her friend’s house and I was with another family. That made it a little more bearable to make the transition, knowing that we were moving onto a new life. It was sad that our friends were not leaving and I could sense how much they wanted to be in our shoes.

Well the big day finally came. Our little family of four had gathered at a friend’s house. The dad saved my father’s money for the taxi - it was about $300 Cuban pesos. It was done this way, because if they found that money on you, the government would take it like they took everything else. You had to have a personal banker who arranged for your trip to Varadero where the Freedom Flights would arrive. Only the crew members would fly every day from Miami to Varadero. They would then fly back to Miami with a plane full of Cuban refugees.

We arrived in Varadero, all nervous and quiet, afraid that if we spoke a word, they would change their minds about letting us go. It was a rainy day and there was a hotel for us to stay overnight since we had to wait for the next day. That place was full of families.

There was one particular family that broke everyone’s heart. They had been there for 15 consecutive days. Can you imagine the experience of not knowing what to expect the next day? All of us who were gathered there from different parts of the island, sharing the same dream, from the same country could not say much to each other. We could only mutter very few words as we were surrounded by the militia who were sadistically just waiting for the right moment or the wrong word to take you in. We all knew very well what it meant: it meant the possibility of loosing our Ticket to Freedom. Or, ‘Going to Wonderland,’ as I still call it. No one was willing to take that chance.

We were there for 3 days and every day would be the same for almost everyone, get ready to be at the airport by 6:00 PM. The first 2 days for some reason that I don’t remember, we were sent back to the hotel and I will tell you that when you got to that airport it was not like getting to an L.A airport or New York or even the smallest airport in the United States. It was more like a military zone. The militia was all around. You could not see the inside from the outside because there were big walls all around. 

We were made to wait in line outside for hours and when the time came to open the big gate to let you in, they would call your family name or the number you were given at the time you applied for the request. My father had that number saved with the airline tickets. I still remember that we were somewhere in the 190,000's. I don’t recall the rest.

I think my father prepared beautifully for all of this. He had saved the money to survive the days that we had to stay there. We ate very poorly at a local restaurant for people like us. You did not know how long you were going to be there, so the money you had, had to last. 

And every day before your trip to the airport, if you had any money left, you would give it to a family like the one that was there for 15 days so that they could survive. Because once the motorcycle police came to your house and the government took all of your belongings and “la libreta,” which gave you the right to buy food, you were on your own. Can you imagine the agony of the families that were there, waiting day after day, for days without end?

On the third day, we went on to the airport and it was raining again. It was also cold and we had to wait in line again hoping that our name would be called. Finally we heard it - they finally called our name.

We were so surprised. We cried as we could not believe that it had finally happened. We felt very lucky, and our prayers had been answered. “Virgencita de la Caridad, we love you more than ever!”

We went inside the building and walked through halls until we got to a big waiting room full of nervous people walking around. No one could be still, but again, no one spoke a word. It was like we were our worst enemies, but I guess that is how terror affects you.

The night wore on, and since the flight would not be coming until the next morning, we went through very tight security. They called each family to a private room where we were then interrogated by different officials over and over again. They would ask the same questions trying to catch us saying the wrong thing so we could possibly lose our Ticket to Freedom.

They would search your belongings, taking things away from you, like family pictures, jewelry (if you had any with you). You were only allowed to leave with a certain amount of clothes that they had given you permission to take, but no more. Lucky for us, my father had sent our family pictures, Virgen de La Caridad, San Lazaro, whatever precious things he was able to, to the states ahead of time. He knew what he was doing. Once we got to this juncture, there would have been no possibility of saving any of the things that were dear to us.

The night dragged on and it got later and later, with the no change in the scenery. I was getting so hungry, but there was no dinner (Nada de nada!) offered to us as we waited through that very long night. As dawn approached, our expectations grew. I'm sure the same question was on everyone's mind, although we couldn't voice it: “When is that plane coming for us?”

The morning air was broken by the noise of a airplane. A plane was landing! I couldn't believe it was actually happening. This would be my first time on an airplane and I did not know what to expect. I was a teenage girl that had lived all of my young life in a country with tight boundaries, sequestered from the outside world. All I had known up to that point was what was happening in Cuba. Castro, daily misery, standing in line for hours at a restaurant or store to get what they allow you. By the time it was your turn and you get to the front of the line, you find out there is no more food or there are no more shoes. You would slowly turn to go back home, with your head down and your hopes completely dashed.

It hurts so much, as I write down those memories. The pain and the memory of hopelessness will always be with me, for the rest of my life. I am almost 60 years old and an entire lifetime has gone by. My parents are gone, but these memories of that difficult time in my life are stronger than my blood. I wonder if, when I die they will follow me to heaven? Virgen de La Caridad, please don’t allow that to happen! Let me be free forever of my past. And I don’t mean my Cuban past, because, as I always say, I am very proud of being a Cuban. My family and my Mexican husband very well know, that as a Cuban I am always right and perfect, and as he says “nunca he podido vencer a la Cubanita.”

It was finally time to board our flight. We started to march like soldiers toward the plane. We were greeted by some nice ladies. I later learned they were called ‘stewardesses.’ We sat quietly as we were trying to be as normal as possible. When the plane took off the moment came when we were finally up in the sky, everyone started to scream, “WE ARE FREE!” Most of us were crying from the mixed emotions we felt.

I remember taking a look around and being amazed at what I was seeing: big men, crying out loud. My eyes could not believe what they were seeing. As we continued on our short flight to Miami, one of the nice ladies came to offer us a small breakfast. Woohoo! Food at last!

Another thing surprised me as we landed in Miami’s airport. This was all so new to me, and remember, I didn't speak any English. As we went through the halls from one room to another there would be signs that said, EXIT, and I thought to myself , “Wow! These Americans are so nice to us. They are even wishing us “EXITO*” in our knew lives. How generous of them.” That was me and my wide-eyed Cuban innocence taking in my very first impressions of the U.S.  (*Success.)

Finally the time came for us to go. My uncle that lived in Miami was waiting for us. He would be taking us back to his home for a miraculous and emotional reunion. Can you imagine?

As we drove, we looked at the beautiful city around us and thought, “This is Wonderland!”

We arrived at my uncle’s house where they were waiting for us, with dinner, of course. We felt like mice in a trap! There was a decorative bowl of fruits on the table; grapes, apples, and oranges. It looked so very nice. My little sister had never seen fruit before, since she was born in 1963.  After Castro took power, all of that disappeared. My sister took one of the fruits and started trying to eat it. We all started to laugh as she struggled with it, looking  at everyone with a question mark on her face. It was finally explained to her that it was not real. They immediately replaced the plastic one with the real thing. 

As for me, we were taken to a local store where they bought us ice cream. I had an ice cream sandwich bar. It was the very first time I had ever had one. I loved it so much that I went to eat one more, and one more and one more. I got so sick that, to this day, I have never eaten another one.

After being in Miami for a week, we finally flew to California. I fell in love with my dear West Coast from the first moment I arrived. Life was not always easy the first few years. It took me about two years to learn the language. Of course, eventually I met new friends and life went on. California has been my home since then.

Our dream life became my real Wonderland. My dreams, little by little, with lots of effort from everyone came true. Everything we went through has made us all stronger.

I miss my country. Inside of me there is a Cuban which I love, but at this point in my life, I feel more international. I’ve been married to my Mexican husband for 39 years and have been exposed to a mix of cultures. So if you were to ask me where am I from? My answer is: “I have no boundaries. I am free as can I be. A mix of congri, hamburger and mole and I am proud of it.”

Remember, I am Cuban. Proud. Perfect. And always right.

If you know me from my past, I would love you to get in touch with me. My maiden name is Silvia Caballero Garcia.

Cuando Sali de Cuba (or not) - Christina's Story (MBFCF Giveaway #4)

Marta here: I first met Christina, author of The Red Umbrella, a couple of years ago at Cuba Nostalgia in Miami. My first impression of her was that she was "the real deal." She cares deeply about her subject matter because, in the case of The Red Umbrella, it is very close to her family's story. She has been gracious enough to share her inspiration for writing this beautiful novel.

by Christina Diaz Gonzalez

Technically, I can’t say or write about “Cuando Sali de Cuba” as I have never been to the island. However, since I was a little girl, I have been hearing stories of how my parents left Cuba through Operation Pedro Pan.

The heartbreak of saying goodbye at the airport’s pecera, the pain of leaving everything behind and the fear of an unknown future in a foreign country was repeated countless times.  Yet, the magnitude of this exodus of children was lost on me.  Growing up I would roll my eyes whenever the topic was brought up.  To me, it was old news.  In fact, we all have those family stories that we so often take for granted until those who tell the tales are no longer with us.  Thankfully, I had a wake-up call before it was too late.

I was an aspiring writer searching for inspiration to write my first novel. It wasn’t until I heard another author talking about her book (Erika’s Story written by Ruth Vander Zee) that I realized the powerful story that I had within my own family which was being lost to the sands of time. 

I saw that if my own kids didn’t grasp this important part of American history (over 14,000 Cuban children being sent to the U.S.,  by themselves, is a HUGE part of American history… not just Cuban-American history), how could I expect others, who didn’t have a family connection, to even know about Operation Pedro Pan?

That’s when I decided to write The Red Umbrella.  I guess this was, in a way, my “Cuando Sali de Cuba” moment because I gained a deeper understanding of what it was like for these children of Operation Pedro Pan to leave their home, their parents, their friends. I tried to imagine myself being placed into those circumstances and then I put my main character, Lucia, into similar situations. 

It has been with great joy that I have received countless emails and comments from many Operation Pedro Pan kids saying that they are grateful that their story is finally being shared with a new generation. I am so very proud to have had a small part in sharing their “Cuando Sali de Cuba” story.

***********************************************

MBFCF Readers, please say hello to Christina Diaz Gonzalez. I was personally floored when I read her debut, The Red Umbrella. She so perfectly captured the conflicts and fears of what it must have been like for an unaccompanied minor to come to a new country and how they might react in that frightening and difficult situation. She is as talented as she is lovely.

Christina has recently completed her 2nd novel, A Thunderous Whisper, set in the sleepy Spanish town of Guernica during World War II.

MBFCF Blogiversary Giveaway #4:  

The Red Umbrella and A Thunderous Whisper (both autographed by the author)

One person will win both books, autographed by Christina. Please leave a comment on this post for a chance to win the books. Answer one or both of the following questions:  

• Do you know (or are you related to) any Pedro Pans?
• Did you ever have your own "Cuando Sali de Cuba" moment? (The realization of what an enormous thing had happened to your family.)
  

I'll choose a winner at the end of MBFCF Blogiversary Giveaway Week on Monday, October 8th, 2012 at 11 am.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Elena's Story (MBFCF Giveaway #2)

Marta here: Most Cubans are familiar with Santayana Jewelers. They are a mainstay of the Cuban exile community in Miami. I'm delighted that Elena Santayana has graciously agreed to share her family's stories. Her memories of growing up Santayana are both hilarious and poignant.

(Translations to her Cubanisms are marked with a red * and are at the bottom of the story.)

Also, don't miss today's amazing giveaway at the end of this post. Gracias, Elena. You humble me.

I was born en la saguesera. That’s the southwest area of Miami, on June 8, 1978. I have three sisters, Marisa, Miriam and Patty and a twin brother, Rudy. We grew up in a split plan home in the beautiful Westchester area of Miami, Florida.

Santayana loved taking totem-pole pictures. 

Both of my parents came to this country alone. My dad, known as Santayana, was Peter Pan (pronounced with rolling r’s). I thought that meant he wore green tights and fought pirates. Later, I learned it meant he came to this country without his parents and stayed at a home for boys until a cousin or uncle picked him and his brother up. But I never really “got it” until quite recently. When I was 17 years old and in high school, I never took a moment to imagine, “What if right now, I was sent away to live in another country, indefinitely, with little money and alone?”

Mom arrived in the United States on the Freedom Flights. In 1961, the day before Halloween, she was supposed to board a plane with her brother and sisters but there was a problem with her visa and she was made to stay an extra couple of days in Havana. She was 17 years old and didn’t speak much english. She lived in a house with 12 other people in the northwest area of Miami or, as she says, “la casa del nor’wes’ ”.

Elena's mama. The original hipster.

My father, Santayana, was a hard working man. Every morning he would dress in a fine suit and take his maleta* of jewelry to visit clients at their homes. Before he opened the jewelry stores, my dad was known for his maleta. I still hear stories of people who remember my dad showing up at their house, opening his maleta and revealing tray after tray of sparkling jewelry.

In the 80’s my dad had three really cool things in his possession. Number one, Santayana owned a beeper. Not the beeping kind we know now, the kind doctors still use. Dad’s beeper was like the speaker at KMart. Here’s how it worked:

• Step 1: Call the beeper.
• Step 2: Wait for the tone.
• Step 3: Convey the message for all to hear over the speaker/beeper strapped to his belt. Twice.

The messages were to be coded at all times so that random strangers on the street wouldn’t suspect he was carrying a maleta of jewelry and give him the proverbial, “Palo por la cabeza.*” 

An example of an acceptable message would be: “Santayana, llama la tienda. Santayana, llama la tienda.*”

However, if you said, “Santayana llama la joyeria.*” - that got you in big time trouble. Similarly, if you said, “Papi llama a mami,*”  you would get banned from beeper detail. Singing Happy Birthday into the beeper was also not warmly received.

Second, Santayana had a car phone. His car phone was super cool, space-age stuff. Imagine a rotary phone bolted to the center consul of his wine colored Caprice Classic. The advanced car phone technology also required the Caprice to sport a subtle, 6 foot long antennae on its roof. Phone calls were ridiculously expensive but dad was a gadget man and had to have it. No one had a car phone.

Well, some people had carphones - drug dealers. In third grade some kid asked me, “Is your dad a drug dealer? Why does he have a car phone?”  We’re talking about Miami in the 80’s, this kid was not asking an illogical question. So I told him, “Noooo, my dad is not a drug dealer, he’s a jeweler.”

The third, neato thing Santayana had in the 80’s was a beautiful, brand-new, wine-colored Caprice Classic. On the rare occasion that Santayana took me and Rudy to school, he would pretend that his car was an airplane; he was the captain and we were his crew. I was the flight attendant offering peanuts and Rudy was the mechanic. There was always something wrong with the plane and we would have to rush, rush, rush to fix the problem. This game probably explains my fear of flying.

Although it had been over 20 years since our parents’ flight from Cuba, growing up in the 80’s, we were raised to believe that our residence in Miami was temporary. Every Christmas Eve someone proclaimed, “El año que viene en Cuba!*”  Then everyone would toast and cheer and give each other big hugs.

    

The Santayana Family. Circa 1980.

My uncle Marcelo, who exiled to the Canary Islands after serving 9 years in a Cuban prison, had a really short index finger. His index finger was literally shorter than his pinky. Don’t imagine that his finger didn’t have a nail. It totally did. The whole thing was intact, it was just short. Like a baby finger. As a kid, that finger was the freakiest thing I had ever seen.

He waved that finger around like there was nothing wrong with it. I once asked him about it, he loudly proclaimed, “Porque este año, este año cae Fidel!*” while slamming the tip of his freakishly short index finger on the table. I totally believed him. I mean, it made sense to me that slamming that finger down every day for the past 20 years would make it a whole phalanx shorter.

Every year was the year Fidel was going down. Every Christmas we were spending the next one in Camaguey. I worried about what I should pack in my luggage. Should I take a bathing suit, a sweater, boots? Should I start packing today? Was there going to be horseback riding? Whose house would we be staying at? How would Santa know where to leave the presents? It was all very confusing.

Elena's Mom (far left) with 8 of her 11 siblings. Tio Marcelo (not pictured) died this year, 2012, on her dad's birthday.

In 2007, my father was diagnosed with a horrible form of cancer. One night, as I was sitting with him at the hospital, it came over the TV that maybe Fidel Castro was dead. I wondered to myself, “Do I wish death on Castro now?” I wasn’t sure if I wanted Castro to be dead just then because my father was, at the time, on his own death bed. On this night, facing the uncertainty of my father’s life, I wasn’t sure I could wish death upon anyone. Not even on the person who had caused so much misery to thousands of people.

I also did not want my dad to live in a world where Castro was finally dead. The one reason he had not visited his childhood country after all these many years was the fact that Fidel Castro was alive, and finally, right when it was too late, the son-of-a-bitch up and dies? I didn’t know what to do. So I did the first thing that came to mind, I went to La Carreta.

I have celebrated many major life changing events at La Carreta. I sounded the horn of mom’s minivan from our house all the way to La Carreta both times the Florida Marlins won the World Series. I made sure to find parking far and early both times the Heat won the Playoffs because getting there late meant being stuck in traffic. Once, the day after Halloween, my friends and I dressed up in costumes and strutted our stuff carrying a boom box from the entrance, all the way to the back, then right out the front door. But this night, the night we thought Castro was dead was different. The energy in the air was celebratory, but nostalgic. It was both happy and sad. And I watched, completely covered in goosebumps, as a group of 20 or so teary individuals sang and danced in unison to Willy Chirino’s “Ya Viene Llegando” (video below) until the police came and broke up the entire party.

I don’t have to tell you, but I will anyway, Fidel Castro was not dead that night. Nor has he been dead any night since. My dad wasn’t happy I danced in the streets. He didn’t want me to go La Carreta to celebrate that man’s death. He didn’t want to be duped by the Castro regime. But I wanted to pass the joy in my heart to my dad. The joy I felt from being his daughter and the immense sense of pride I feel of being Cuban.

A few days or maybe weeks later my father passed away. He died in a world where Fidel Castro lived, his beloved Cuba, still existing under the foot of a tyrant. But, in the end, the only thing that ever truly mattered to him was his family. When my dad died I understood, for the first time ever, what Cuban nostalgia was really all about.

* Translation of terms used in Elena's story:

• Maleta - suitcase.
• Palo por la cabeza. - Blow to the head with a large blunt object.
• Santayana, llama la tienda. - Santayana, call the store.
  
• Santayana llama la joyeria. Santayana, call the jewelry store
• Papi llama a mami. - Dad, call mom.
  
• El año que viene en Cuba! - Next year in Cuba!
• Porque este año, este año caie Fidel! - Because this year, Fidel will fall!

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Today's giveaway is sponsored by Santayana Jewelers (of course!). They've generously partnered with My big, fat, Cuban family to bring you this beauty. (No, not the colada. Although, that's a beautiful thing too, but that's not important right now.)

MBFCF Blogiversary Giveaway #2:

Santayana's Habana Collection Bead Charm Bracelet.

This beautiful starter charm bracelet from Santayana Jewelers comes with four (4) charms: Corazon de melon, azucar, ñ, and the cafetera. A $200 value. It's the most perfectly perfect of Cuban accessories. Be sure to check out the entire Santayana Habana Collection of Charms.

Leave a comment on this post for a chance to win this Habana Collection Charm Bracelet (with 4 charms) and please answer one or all of the following questions:

• What's your favorite charm in the entire collection?
• Do you have a suggestion for a cool Cuban charm design? Please share.
• Do you have any personal memories of Santayana?

I'll choose a winner at the end of MBFCF Blogiversary Giveaway Week on Monday, October 8th, 2012 at 11 am, so you have all week to enter.

If you absolutely can't wait for a winner to be drawn next week and you want to go ahead and order your own Habana Collection Charm Bracelet immediately, Santayana Jewelers is very graciously offering an online promotion for My big, fat, Cuban family readers. If you buy 4 beads, the fourth is free when you enter the promo code MARTA at checkout. (I feel sooo accidentally cool.)

Habana Brand Clothing - The Winners!

I hope you've been enjoying all the "Cuando Sali de Cuba" stories from the various contributors. I know I certainly have. I always tell people that there are as many amazing escape-from-the-island stories as there are Cubans in the U.S. Thanks for proving my point. I'll be sharing more stories in this space in the coming weeks.

A great big Thank You to Roland Vega for sharing his story and to Habana Brand Clothing for hosting the giveaway. Here he is rocking that classic Cuba men's design. Isn't it beautiful?

Thanks to all of you who entered the giveaway for the Habana Brand Clothing. I have looked through their entire catalog and have seriously fallen in love with their genius designs. 

Congratulations to the winner of the Men's tshirt in the size, color, and design of your choice.

And the winner of the Women's tshirt in the size, color, and design of your choice.

For those of you who did not win, but would still like a fabulous Habana Brand tshirt, please go to the Habana Brand Clothing site and when you purchase the tshirt of your choice, please mention My big, fat, Cuban family in the comments and they will send you a Habana Brand tote bag with your purchase. Isn't that a sweet deal? Go! And represent! And as usual, tell them Marta sent you. ;-)

Thank you for continuing to support Cuban-owned businesses and for all the Facebook "liking" you've done in the past few days. You guys seriously rock.

Congratulations, Ody and Rosalina, please send me an email to mdarby@cox.net with HEY, MARTA! I WON STUFF ON YOUR BLOG! in the subject line so I don't accidentally delete it. Send me your snail mail address so I can forward your information to my friends at Habana Brand Clothing. Yay!

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Roland's Story (and A Giveaway)

Marta here: This story is really about Roland's mother. I love how totally genious she was in preparing her young son to leave Cuba at any given moment. (Also, we have a really cool giveaway today.)

as told to Lucy Vega

In 1966, little Roly Vega was just 4 years old, born in Habana and living in Camajuani, Las Villas in Cuba.

Castro had been in control of Cuba for over 5 years and his parents knew that it was time to leave their beloved homeland.  His parents had already seen their nephew Henri sent to the United States as part of the Peter Pan Project and with President Lyndon B. Johnson opening doors for Cubans they saw their opportunity. 

Being allowed to leave Cuba was challenging; you had to leave everything behind and be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice.  This would be difficult as the entire family needed to stay close to home and each other, ready to go and with two small children there would be additional challenges. 

One of those challenges was the fact that Roly was afraid of airplanes. Really afraid of planes and if he caused a scene when it was time to leave, well, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. So, everyday his mother would take him to the small airfield they hoped to leave from to see the planes and watch them take off.

“Look Roly, look at the planes! We will be going on a trip in one of them soon.”  Every day they followed the same routine until they got the word that they were given clearance to finally be able to leave Cuba.

Roly was, by now, used to the planes and didn't make a fuss when it was time for the family to leave on the airplane that would carry them to freedom.

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Roland today with his very clever and brave mother.

Roland's dad wearing one of the most popular Habana Brand Clothing designs.

Many years later, (okay over 45+ years) Roland Vega lives in California and still thinks about his beloved Cuba. In 2009 he joined his love of his heritage and his love of art to create Habana Brand Clothing.  A family run business specializing in men's and women's vintage style t-shirts with a Cuban and Caribbean feel. He hopes to show the music, history and nostalgia of the old Cuba that Roland and his family left behind 45 years ago.

Roland and Lucy Vega with their handsome sons.

Visit Roland and his family at www.habanabrand.com and yes that is Roland singing to his parents! He will always be grateful for their struggles to give him and his sisters a better life.

P.S. Roland Vega is still afraid of planes, really afraid of planes!!!

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Marta here:

I found Habana Brand Clothing through the Wassup en LA? page on Facebook and I immediately fell in love. So, I shared the link on the My big, fat, Cuban family Facebook page. And I said to my fans, "Go like them. And tell them Marta sent you."

According to Roland, what happened next was crazy....their "likes" started climbing and they couldn't understand what had happened, until they saw the posts on their wall that looked like this:

Habana Brand Clothing quickly contacted me to thank me and offered some of their (delicious!) shirts as a thank you. I quickly thanked them, and asked if they would be willing to host a giveaway here for My big, fat, Cuban family. (By the way, thanks, people! You made me look sooo accidentally cool.)

Lucy & Jonathan rocking their brand new and totally gorgeous Habana Brand Clothing.

So, today's giveaway is sponsored by the generous folks at Habana Brand Clothing (who are my newest best friends forever, but that's not important right now). We have TWO items to give away today:

• One Habana Brand Clothing men's shirt
• One Habana Brand Clothing women's shirt

Usually, I would only ask you to leave a comment to enter the drawing for the giveaway item, but I want to give you each a couple of chances, so....

1) To enter this drawing, please leave a comment on this post and answer one or both of the following question:

• What Cuban design would you love to see on a tshirt?
• Which design from the Habana Brand Clothing catalog do you love most?

2) For an extra entry, please go "like" Habana Brand Clothing on Facebook and come back and leave me another comment telling me:  

• "I like Habana Brand Clothing!"

So that's not one, but two entries apiece. Yes, I'm generous like that, but that's not important right now, either. (Also, I'm completely in love with the shirt that Lucy is wearing with the cafecito. Gracias, Habana Brand!)

Remember that if you want to enter the drawing for one of these beautiful shirts, you must leave a comment (plus the 2nd comment if you do the Facebook liking thing) on this post and I'll choose a winner on Sunday, September 30th 2011 at 8pm PST. (Also, you must be in the United States to enter the drawing.)

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Estrella's Story

Marta here: Estrella was 10 years old and part of the historic Mariel Boatlift which happened 32 years ago and brought more than 125,000 (!)  Cubans to America's shore and to freedom.

Mariel:  Remembering the Boatlift

By Estrella Diaz-Quibus

My parents and I were part of the Mariel boatlift, where hundreds of thousands of Cubans took to the seas seeking freedom. 

On a May afternoon in 1980, all the students and faculty from the Augusto Cesar Sandino in Fontanar were led to Gaspar’s (a fellow classmate) home to scream obscenities and throw stones. I remember how sad I felt at his fate while I managed to stay far in the background, hoping to be invisible. You see, it was rumored his family was going to leave the country. In the eyes of the revolutionary government, that made him "escoria" - scum. That same week the same thing was done to Ramona, a teacher who, as far as I know, never got to leave.
 
Some days later a patrol car had stopped in front of my house. I ran home curious to find out why they were there.  My mother let us know that my uncle Mario had sent for us.  This was a complete surprise, even to my parents who had never planned on leaving Cuba. I remember begging my mother to please let us stay.    I feared I would suffer the same fate as poor Gaspar.
 
On May 28th my mother woke me up at around 2am asking me to rush and get dressed... we were leaving.  I was terrified. That evening my cousins Frank and Miriam who lived with us were patrolling the streets doing their obligatory neighborhood watch when another police car approached them asking where the Diaz-Quibus family resided.
 
I give Frank (my cousin/Godfather) full credit for encouraging my parents to leave.  He made my mother realize it was the best thing to do if they wanted me to have a chance at a better future.  I will forever be grateful to him. I knew it wasn’t easy for him to see us leave. He had said goodbye to his parents, two brothers and three sisters when his visa was denied because he was of “military age."  He bravely told his parents he was not going to sacrifice his siblings. He insisted they leave so that they could be free. Here he was sacrificing himself once again. I will forever be grateful and indebted to him.
 
We left the house before dawn. I remember them knocking at the neighbor’s house down the block asking him if he could please take us to Marianao. He refused, fearing retaliation if anyone ever found out he helped us. So off we went to the bus stop, wearing what was on our backs and just one set of clothing for changing. By the way, I still have the one dress I wore hanging in my closet. Unfortunatelly it stopped fitting me about a week after I got to Key West!
 
We arrived to the Abreu Fontan where we were registered and then we waited. The place had been some sort of a country club in it’s heyday. At the moment it housed what seemed to be an endless sea of people. We slept under the stars on the cold concrete for what seemed to be an eternity to a ten year old child.  I remember asking my mother if we could go back home if our names had not been called by my birthday (June 4th). 

I was so looking forward to the usual party… to wearing the new shoes they had bought for me, smelling the cake they always baked themselves.  Oh, what lovely memories I had. “Let’s wait and see,” was the answer I always got.  My poor parents were afraid someone would hear me saying I wanted to stay. It was rumored that kids who asked to stay were separated from their parents and lured by the idea of being given some sort of a heroic title.
 
Five or six days later our names were called. We were led like cattle to a shuttle bus that took us to “El Mosquito."  It was an awful place. I saw how they beat some defenseless looking men as the dogs were barking. I remember seeing the fear and sadness on people’s faces. We were stripped of any personal belongings and of our citizenships. We ended up being assigned to a tent that had many bunk beds.  My mother was able to find a can of sweetened condensed milk (“nectar of the Gods”).  I had some of it and fell asleep till dusk.
 
We were put on another bus and taken to the ship that evening.
 
A Rough Crossing

It seemed small to me… extremely crowded. We ended up sitting on a small bench on the outside deck on the left side.  My mother would joke saying she was afraid to lift up her foot because she’d end up stomping someone’s head when she’d put it down.

Estrella's parents on the right in the corner.
 
The boat was wooden. It seemed old and not sturdy at all. I was sure the thing was going to capsize before we reached Key West. I kept wondering how Christopher Columbus must have felt.  I would look out to the horizon and only saw the endless sea. Land was just an illusion and it seemed it was never going to become a reality.
 
The Gulf of Mexico has the roughest waters I’ve ever seen. At one point a helicopter came very near holding an SOS sign on it. We were handed life preservers. The smell of the fumes made me nauseous, not to mention the sight of people vomiting into the plastic bags they came in.

The Queen of Queens

My mother tells me it took 17 hours.  To me it seemed like a lifetime. The joy I felt when we finally saw land on the horizon was overwhelming. I can sincerely say the only other time I’ve felt anything bigger was when my son was born.  There were these uniformed men helping us get off the boat. I was so scared. Had we really reached the USA? We were lined up and handed a can of ice cold Coca-Cola. To this day, I remain faithful to Coke. I looked up and there was a sign in Spanish that said “the last one to leave the island, please turn off the lights.”  I think that was the first laugh I had in the USA.
 
My mother and I would reminisce about that day… what the boat looked like. She and I had different versions. From time to time I would do an internet search for “The Queen of Queens” but would be directed to beauty pageant pages. Last year it occurred to me to Google my maiden name (which I have proudly resumed recently) and had the great pleasure of finding a posting by Mr. Jorge Rodilles who was looking to reunite with the passengers he’d brought over during the Mariel Boat Lift on his boat The Queen of Queens.

 Jorge Rodilles and The Queen of Queens brought many Cubans to America and freedom.

Jorge Rodilles also remembers Mariel as one of the greatest experiences of his life.  He was able to bring a number of relatives on this voyage, including his parents, whom he had not seen in 18 years, and his maternal grandmother, who was then 97 years old. 

Rodilles remembered Estrella Diaz-Quibus as a little girl, who celebrated her birthday shortly after landing in Key West with birthday cake provided by the US Immigration Service.

Mr. Rodilles back in 1980.

Arriving in Key West

I remember that evening vividly.  We were in line waiting to be taken to Opaloca when my dad recognized a flag from the Bay of Pigs Troop his Godson had served under. Someone overheard him mentioning it to my mother and we were pulled aside and taken to an office as a courtesy to wait for my aunt and uncles to come pick us up.
 
At midnight my parents kissed me and wished me a happy birthday. (I’m crying as I write this. What a sentimental woman I’ve turned out to be.)

Again, someone must have overheard them, because shortly after that, they came in with a piece of coffee cake with a lit match on it singing Happy Birthday. I was thrilled. They gave me an apple, gum and a dollar.  They took some pictures, what I wouldn’t give to see those now!
 
I felt so special. The fears were now gone. I was now an 11 year old woman... Cuban by birth, American by choice.  A very good choice made my two loving, aging parents that put their lives on the line to provide me with a better one.

Estrella with Captain Rodilles in 2011.

Rodilles has been compiling a list of his passengers on that voyage, now having about 105 names out of about 200 people.  He still has over 100 photos of the Mariel phenomenon -- of the three weeks he spent at the bay of Mariel, picking up passengers, of the journey itself, and of his passengers, many of whom were children, like me, forever changed by this experience.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Carmen's Story

Marta here: Carmen tells a beautiful story about her family's many and painful losses after the Cuban Revolution and about their personal triumphs here in America. (Get tissues.)

by Carmen McPherson

I was born on July 23, 1960 in Santiago, on the beautiful island of Cuba.  My parents were born and raised in Cuba. My father had attended university in America and was employed as a research chemist at an American company in Cuba.

Carmen's parents on their wedding day - February 8, 1959.

My memories of my early childhood are happy and vivid. We visited my grandparents' homes often and my  younger brother and I enjoyed having my cousins as playmates during those soon to be very difficult political years.

Carmen, at her favorite place to be as a child: the beach in Cuba. This was taken shortly before her family came to the United States.

1966 was a turning point in my life. People we knew started to disappear, seemingly overnight. There were hushed tones by adults and the new  ever-present presence of military police.

My father lost his job because we were now declared to be “gusanos" - worms - because we wanted to leave the country.

I loved socializing and my world revolved around my school friends. Even though the school was not a Catholic one, we all wore uniforms. One day the military police came in the middle of the day and we were told that we now had to wear red bandanas in alliance and respect for Castro and the Revolution. That would be my last day attending school. From that point on, I would be home schooled by my father.

Around this same time, my mom told me that we would not be able to attend Mass anymore at our beautiful Catholic Church. Cuba was now under Castro's regime , an atheist country. The priests and nuns were quickly run out of the country.
 
My father using his  chemistry skills was now making everything from soap to shampoo and even ketchup  to sell for pesos on the black market. The entire country was now on food stamp rationing.

Castro's militia would conduct surprise inspections of our home and would take inventory of all of our belongings. I remember wondering “why does anyone care how many dolls or dresses I have in my closet?"

Summer 1967. I am at my maternal grandmother’s home when my father suddenly and excitedly appears in the courtyard. He is happy. My mother is crying. I am confused. I hear, "nos vamos." We are leaving. Our lottery visa number had come up!

At first our visas have us leaving and spending some time in Spain, then all of a sudden we get the news that we are going directly to America on a Freedom Flight sponsored by Catholic Charities. I would be turning 7  in July. 

August 1967 we spend the night in my mother’s childhood home and the next  morning, my aunts give us Spam sandwiches to take with us. We say goodbye and vow to see each other soon. My father gives the last of his pesos to the cab driver and we are at the airport for a very long time.

Our bags are checked and re-checked. Each child is allowed one toy and one bag. I have chosen a doll that is dressed like a bride, my grandmother had used part of my mother’s wedding gown to dress the doll. My brother is holding a red truck.

We sleep on the benches. We are stripped of our gold religious medals. My father has hidden family pictures  and sown them in different compartments in his suitcase. My mom's wedding band is allowed to remain on her finger. The bearded soldier has declared it to be "basura" - junk - not worth anything. My brilliant father had purposely tarnished it, hoping that the communists would think exactly that.

I sleep through the plane ride to America. We arrive in Miami and are “processed” at the refugee detention center. My father is handed a square box with a Red Cross on it. It contains toiletries and some American money.  Imagine the start of a whole new life... in a box.

We spend a few days there, in rooms with bunk beds and huge cafeteria style open rooms where I watch Bewitched and That Girl with other Cuban kids. None of us understand what s going  on.

We are served cold cereal to be eaten in small boxes. How odd is this America? We are served “hot dogs.” After months of eating a diet that consisted mostly of  bread and olive oil and  spam, the abundance of food is startling. I am shocked that food is thrown in the garbage.

Our paperwork is cleared and we are soon on the way to New York City. We arrive at Kennedy Airport and are met by my uncle, my mother's eldest brother and his family. We will live with them until my father gets on his feet. In the cab ride to Brooklyn, I am wondering why it is not cold or snowing  as I have been warned by my aunts in Cuba.  It is August 31, 1967.

The next few weeks would be a dizzying ride: new food, hand me down clothes, something called "Vietnam" is making my 18 year old cousin cry because her boyfriend is there. I am hoping we won't have to go there next.

September 1967. My brother and I are walked to a huge public school where we line up in endless lines and are lead into the huge building. My father has pinned this note on us: "I do not speak English." along with our names. Eventually we are put into a bilingual classroom.

Carmen, on the day of her First Holy Communion with her mom, dad, and brother, Rick. Montclair, New Jersey.

By Christmas, I am reading in English. Reading has opened new doors for me and a place to escape.

My father  found work as a research chemist thanks to his American degree and by Summer of 1969, he found a new home for our family in Montclair, New Jersey. Eventually, we would settle in West Orange, New Jersey, where I reside to this day.

I hope and pray that someday my family and I will be able to travel back to a free and Democratic Cuba. I value Education and never take the privilege of voting in a government election or practicing my faith for granted. I am grateful to America for the many opportunities it has offered my family.

Carmen and her husband, Ken.

Carmen's five kids (l to r): Russell, Robert, Camille, Coryne and Ken.

I have been happily married to my husband, Ken for 21 years and still think of my late fathers words everytime one of his  grandchildren receives a diploma. 

He would say, "M'ija, Fidel Castro took everything away from me, except what is in here." - and then he would tap his head.

Cuando Sali de Cuba - Henry's Story

Marta here: Today's entry in my continuing series of "coming to America" stories contributed by readers, Henry tells about his family, who are proud Americans with Cuban roots and his memories of growing up Cuban in Little Havana in the 70's.

by Henry J. Celorio

I was born in Miami, but my family was from Cuba. My mom and dad were part of the "Pedro Pan" exodus in the early 60's. My dad settled in Miami and my mom lived originally in Tampa before settling in Miami. My parents met while attending school at Miami Senior High.
 
I was born in 1971. I grew up being a American made with Cuban parts. I would visit my grandparents alot in my youth. Both sets lived in Little Havana. Little Havana back in the 70's  was what Cuba should have been in my opinion. I remember staying overnight with my parents and going to the "bodega" to get fresh Cuban bread, pastelitos and Cuban coffee. I remember the smell of the fresh food in the air and the friendship that all Cuban had when talking to each other.
 
My uncle showed his appreciation for this country as in 1969 he volunteered to go to Vietnam. He joined the army right out of high school. My uncle came back paralyzed from the waist AND never regretted the price he paid for the freedom America gave him. My father was drafted  for the Armed Forces in 1970 and showed up to his assignment. My dad didn't make the cut because of his high blood pressure but was ready to go if he had passed his physical.
 
My parents taught my sister and me to be proud to be American but to NEVER forget our Cuban roots and heritage. I feel very proud of the heritage I have with my family. My parents and grandparents struggled hard and succeeded here in America. My family has always been grateful to America for taking them in and for giving us the opportunity to succeed and for the freedom America gave them after it was lost in Cuba. My family has served in 2 foriegn wars and always followed the rules of this great nation. America is our home and we would die to defend her.
 
As for me, a first generation American of Cuban heritage, I hold my Cuban roots dear to my heart. I heard the stories of Cuba and Cuban life on the island from my parents and grandparents. Now its my turn to pass the stories and heritage on to my son. My son will be second generation American of Cuban heritage. I want him to be a proud to be a American and proud to be of Cuban heritage.
 
In honor of my departed Grandparents......I miss you all so very much to this day.
 
Henry J Celorio