It was January 1967. I was 1.5 years old. I remember nothing.
But I have it from very reliable sources – my parents – that I was carried into a plane with my older brother, my older sister, my mom and my dad. We were on one of the final freedom flights off the island of Cuba. Why did we wait so long? My dad was tirelessly trying to convince his sisters to flee Castro’s communist regime. They wouldn’t budge.
Clearly, though, we had to leave. By the time I was born (mom says I was a surprise), my parents were in financial straits. Dad’s refusal to join Castro’s militia spelled the end of his lucrative career as an accountant and bookkeeper. My mom baked and sold cakes to help us survive. I didn’t have a crib or a bassinet. I had a dresser drawer and hand-me-down blankets.
I don’t remember anything about Cuba. Well, that’s not entirely true. There are images in my head: My father sitting on the back porch of our middle-class home overlooking the ocean. He’s on a rocking chair, legs crossed, and I’m perched in the nook of his thighs. There we would sit for hours soaking up the cool ocean breeze. Dad told me this story so many times that I feel like I lived it, like I remember it clearly.
That fateful plane landed in Miami, Florida. We took that infamous 90 miles trip. We were immigrants searching desperately for a better life. I’ve heard the stories of my dad working two jobs, one as an all-night security guard, while my mom had her hands quite full with a toddler and two adolescent kids. I was told about a dilapidated apartment, factory work, government cheese and milk handouts, the seemingly unending struggle to make enough money to reach the next destination in the long journey.
We were immigrants and we had to prove our worth. We were in a new city, a new state, a new country. My dad, a proud and very generous man, refused to just give up. I know that even my mom did some factory work for a little bit because every dollar counted.
It is during times like these, when immigration is at a heightened state that I think about my early years. What would my life be if dad hadn’t urged us to board that plane? Where would I be now? Not a day goes by that I’m not grateful for my father’s sound decision, for the values that my parents instilled in me, particularly the one about hard work and dedication getting you far up the ladder. I am thankful for the opportunities this country afforded me.
I became a United States citizen when I was 12. So did my father, and so did my brother. I remember succinctly dressing up in a suit and tie and heading to the courthouse. I still have my certificate with a black and white, passport-style photo of a chubby kid smiling. I signed that certificate in my best penmanship. I knew this was important.
Throughout my life, I always called myself a Cuban-American. I embrace both cultures proudly. I speak, read and write English as if it were my native tongue. I speak, read and write Spanish with a sense of history and satisfaction. I am bilingual, the product of two rich cultures, and I wouldn’t change a single thing.
My entire existence, just about, has been spent in this country. I went to school; I bust my butt for good grades. I earned an Associate in Arts degree and a Bachelor of Arts degree. I worked from the time I was in 9th grade, a part-time gig at a mom-and-pop pharmacy. I worked all through college, paying taxes to Uncle Sam every step of the way. I vote. I have a passport. I live the American Dream full steam ahead.
About 52 years after a blond, unaware and innocent baby heard pilot engines roar, he feels deeply for every single immigrant that crosses a border by car, by plane, or by foot. The decision to make that grueling journey, to sacrifice all that you know in hopes that what you don’t know will be a marked improvement, is life-altering.
Is seeking exile pretty? Is it neat and clean with T’s crossed and I’s dotted? Not at all, not even close. Remember the Statue of Liberty did say to give her the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Masses are messy. The finer details, presumably, are to be sorted out later.
But the desire is fierce, the risk-everything need to escape pain and suffering and embrace soothing prosperity consumes you. This is exactly why families drag wide-eyed boys and girls, and unsuspecting babies, to a brave new world.
I made that journey in 1967. I was 1.5 years old. I remember nothing. But today, I feel everything.
Mario's Musings 
Thanks for sharing your story. I can’t begin to imagine the pain, desperation, and sorrow of the people trying to escape the horrors that are driving them from their homeland here and in other parts of the world. Lately, my heart breaks every time I look at the news.
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Thank you so much, missourichild. I couldn’t agree with you more, sadly. But a huge part of my purpose for writing this is to shed light on the fact that we are all much more alike than we give ourselves credit for. Appreciate you reading and commenting.
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Thanks for your story Mario! I wish more people could see this to help “remember to never forget” the foundation that our country is built. We are stronger together than even a few of the parts. I have the pleasure of calling you a friend and I am richer for it! Thanks again Mario!
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Exactly, Jim! You hit the nail on the head. We can all do this together. Once we get divided, we’re heading down a slippery slope. I’m so glad you are my friend, that’s for sure!
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Love it Mario, we are all immigrants, whether ourselves, our parents, or our grandparents. Can you imagine for just a second the terror you will feel if after all that ordeal you arrive here and were separated from your parents, the only people you know in a brand new land. If after your family have made that sacrifice, they were punished for it? —Immigration is not a crime!—
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I couldn’t agree with you more, EPR. It is a travesty what is happening. Seeking asylum is not a crime at all. Thank you so much for your comment.
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My Brother and Friend. as I read this Story that you have written about us great tears are falling from my eyes. Your true and inspirational words are incredible. This is what our Father and Mother did for us and for our Country without a doubt. True sweat and hard work starting from nothing to surviving and giving us everything to grow up, with opportunities and the true American Dream that only comes from all of this. I am truly honored that you my brother have poured out your heart in this story. Our Dad from heaven is so proud of you, and our mother and sister here on earth will read this. Thank you!! Like always I love you to the moon and back!!!
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My dear brother, I’m so happy to read your own words. I’m even happier to live this life with you as my brother. We have experienced a lot in this world, and always supported each other along the way. Just a little background on this very personal essay: It was brewing inside my head for weeks before I sat down at the computer. I will even tell you that the first two paragraphs danced in my mind pretty much intact. When I finally sat down to write this, it took me just an hour. It came out as what you read. That tells you I needed to say this. Thank you for reading. Love you very much!
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We have been through a lot together. Thankful to God and our Parents for so much in our Lives. Praying for so many that their families are separated from immigration. Love you very much also!!!
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Thank you for sharing your story my friend. As I always say, good, bad and other, we all have a story and it’s what makes us who we are. Like most, yours is some good, some bad and some other. How wonderful it is that you appreciate its entirety. Your pride as a Cuban resounds with every word, your pride as an American is its echo. We all have a story. Just two years ago I had to explain to my then ten year old son that, “No, we didn’t come through Ellis Island,” like his classmates. Our passage doesn’t diminish the pride I’m teaching him as an American, even in these days that are too reminiscent of the past. Days where I stand with my hand proudly across my heart, and days where I kneel. It’s perplexing, a bit of my own story, we all have one. What most people who don’t get it fail to accept is that we are all immigrants, some by choice, others of consequence.
But, no matter the tale, we all have a story.
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This is so powerful. Thank you, and thank YOU. Because your story, your reflection shines just as brightly. Yes, we are all immigrants in some way and how sad that many today can’t seem to see that. This remains a great country and I am always proud to live here and thrive here. This is my home. But my cultural melting pot is also home. It breathes and beats inside me every day. I wouldn’t trade that melting pot for all the money in the world. That’s my DNA.
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