and education. In the late 1930s, Batista built vocational boarding schools for poor children throughout Cuba. For the inaugural class, the government chose 250 of the poorest students on the island to attend. My dad was one of them. After graduating from the vocational school, he worked as a physical education instructor at a school where the administrator’s daughter taught first grade. That’s how my mom and dad met.
I was born in Havana a year later in a clinic. Cuba had the precursor of what we now know as Health Maintenance Organizations, or HMOs. My parents would pay a flat rate of approximately $2.50 a month for services, from the delivery of a child to brain surgery.
In 1959 our lives changed dramatically when Fidel Castro came down from the hills and ousted Batista. My mom and dad were not political—although, in a way, every Cuban is political. They love to talk about politics and are very passionate about it, but they were not active in any political party or cause.
My dad, however, quickly ended up in prison as an enemy of the state. After Castro nationalized the electric utility, my dad, an employee of the utility and a member of the electrical workers union, formed part of a group that organized and conducted a strike, refusing to work for Castro. He also secretly helped several friends find safe haven in foreign embassies, facilitating their escape from Cuba. For these activities, he was thrown in jail as a political prisoner.
His prison term was served in “La Cabaña,” within the Morro Castle, and possibly the worst prison of its time in Cuba. My dad was lucky: after nearly two years, a friend “paid” the authorities to release him. Most of his union colleagues were not so lucky—they were executed at the Paredón.
Mom would regularly take dad food. On her way to see him, the guards would purposely escort her through the Paredón, where she would be forced to walk over the fresh blood of those who had recently been executed. Often, as she walked past the Paredón, the guards would carry out a mock execution, shooting blanks at the men lined up against the wall. In an effort to further humiliate her, they would randomly strip-search her. The guards would keep whatever they wanted from the care packages she intended for my dad. After the failed Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961, my mom was no longer allowed to enter the prison during her visits. She could only speak to my dad from outside the prison fence.
My dad begged my mother to take me out of Cuba. Rumors had begun to spread that the government was taking kids from families to work camps to cut sugarcane. It is important to understand that under the Cuban constitution as revised by Castro, parental rights are nonexistent. Children are wards of the state, and the state can determine where they go. This concept is difficult to understand, and almost impossible to relate to, by those of us who have been raised in America. As such, its real significance was lost on many in America during the Elián González debate (something I will address later in this book).
My father wanted me out of Cuba. Understandably, my mom did not want to leave her husband’s side, not knowing if she would ever see him again, not knowing if he would end up executed like so many of his friends. This difficult conflict, common to so many Cuban parents, even led my dad to threaten her with divorce if his wish (perhaps his last) for his son was not honored. My mother honored my father’s wish. This is why I left Cuba to join my uncle’s family for a “summer vacation” in Miami.
MY AUNT AND UNCLE, my three cousins, and my uncle’s mother-in-law all lived in a small apartment in Little Havana. There were only two bedrooms, so my mom and I had to sleep on the sofa in the living room. During this time there was one day I will never forget. In those early years, there were no Spanish language radio or television stations, a fact that may seem hard to believe for some today. However, one local radio station broadcast in Spanish for a couple of hours every afternoon. Much of the broadcast was dedicated to reading the names of the Cuban prisoners who had been executed by the Castro government. One day, while playing outside with my cousins, we heard screaming and crying from within the apartment. Obviously something was terribly wrong, and watching our parents cry we too began to cry, not really knowing why. It turned out that one of the names announced that afternoon was Manuel Diaz. We believed my father had been executed. Fortunately, after much effort and despair, my mother was able to place a call to family in Cuba who confirmed he had not been executed.
Thankfully, my father joined us at the end of 1962. Because of his “counter-revolutionary” activities, Castro’s government refused to issue him an exit visa. Nevertheless, my mother was able to secure a “fake” visa. Apparently, someone in the family had a relationship with a Cuban government official, and probably paid to obtain the visa that allowed him to enter the United States. I was also able to be reunited with my grandparents. In fact, my grandparents always lived with us, maintaining the long-standing tradition of multiple generations living in the same home. With my parents forced to hold several jobs at a time to make ends meet, my grandparents played a major role in my formative years.
I became very close to my grandfather. He had a huge influence on my life. While not a political person, as an educator he was very active in promoting educational opportunities for all Cubans. To this day, I am regularly approached by so many people in Miami whose lives he had touched in his beloved town of Regla, always eager to share with me just how much they loved and admired him. I truly enjoyed hearing his stories and understanding his perspective on life, politics, and his beloved country. I was particularly impressed with his ability to keep an open mind on issues. That was especially noteworthy growing up the way I did in a community of people who had just received the shock—and what greater shock can there be other than death?—of being uprooted completely from your way of life. It was important for him that I use his life’s experience not to become bitter or angry, but rather to fully understand the underlying reasons for the events that would shape my own future. No doubt he was sad; no doubt he had plenty of reason to be bitter and angry; but now, looking back on those years, it is clear to me that he wanted something more for his first grandchild.
He was an idealist who opposed all forms of dictatorship. He was never a Batista supporter, and resented the multiple coups and the corruption so prevalent in Cuban politics. He was intensely honest and a strong advocate for providing educational opportunities and human rights for all people.
We continued to live with my uncle’s family until my dad arrived. We then moved into an even smaller apartment just a couple of blocks away in Little Havana. The apartment is still there and I often drive by to see it, by myself or with my family, as a reminder about where it all started. One of those visits occurred during my mayoral campaign; this time I introduced myself to the current tenants and explained that this is where I had first lived in Miami. They were, of course, an immigrant family, but not Cuban. Little Havana has become the “Little” capital for a number of Latin American and Caribbean countries. Because Miami continues to be the entry point for so many in search of the American Dream, immigrants from all over the Americas, not just Cuba, now call Miami home.
Immediately after his arrival, my dad went to work. He parked cars and worked as a busboy and a dishwasher. A proud man, I remember vividly the stories of how he would have to run in the pouring rain to retrieve a car only to be tipped a nickel—a tip he would refuse. Though very poor (and soaking wet), his sense of integrity would not be compromised by others who held him in such low regard. Few things would anger him more than to see a person treated with anything other than the respect any human being deserved, rich or poor. He would later find work at a bed manufacturing company, where he accidentally cut off a portion of one of his fingers, and spent the balance of his years working in a series of factories and warehouses.
When we first arrived in Miami, my mom could only find work cleaning houses. Subsequently, she worked in a wholesale book warehouse in Liberty City in Miami. She would ride a bus to and from work every day. Practically all her coworkers were black, and to this day she reminds me of how fond she was of them. They befriended her, walking her to the bus stop and waiting for her
