Miami Transformed. Manny Diaz

      MONEY WAS A RECURRING issue for my family. While growing up, we were forced to move several times, all within Little Havana. I remember the dinnertime conversation: “They’ve just raised our rent twenty-five dollars a month, so we have to find another place.” Imagine that: a twenty-five-dollar increase and we had to pack up. It was more than they could afford. With a very limited income, any increase was hard. Fortunately, our landlords were decent people; they understood my parents’ plight and tried to work with them as much as possible. They were not trying to take advantage of my parents, but increases are inevitable: taxes go up; the cost of living goes up. This is why, a year after I graduated from law school, I bought my parents their first house. I surprised my mother on her birthday with a warranty deed to the new house. Thirty years later, she still lives in the same house. She has never had to move again.

      Although we were poor, poverty was not a status that dominated my formative years. In fact, I never really understood the fact that I was poor. We had a very happy home life. We were proud of what little we had and took great care to protect it. We blamed no one for our circumstance and believed that being poor was not a lifelong condition, but one of life’s challenges that we or anyone in America could overcome. I never heard my parents complain.

      Through all this, my parents always emphasized education. My dad especially would drive this point home to me when I worked with him at the auto parts warehouse. We would fill orders for auto parts retailers, who were buying alternators and carburetors—nearly any car part you can imagine—and pack those parts in boxes, many of which were extremely heavy. This did not present a challenge for me. I was young, playing sports and in good physical shape. I enjoyed the additional exercise. But my father? There he was, every day, packing and picking up these boxes. He would always say to me, “You don’t want to do this the rest of your life; it’s not where you want to be. You have got to stay in school. The only way you’re going to move ahead in America is through education. No one will ever be able to take that away from you.” He understood the value of education. All our parents did.

      This is why I am so annoyed and frustrated by much of the debate on immigration. It is absurd to hear statements like “immigrants don’t want to assimilate,” or “immigrants don’t want to become part of America, learn English.” On the contrary, when you are a recent immigrant, your love for America is possibly stronger than anybody else’s. You chose to come to America. You are not here because your parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents preceded you. It is the classic immigrant story, true just as much for Cuban Americans, Mexican Americans, Salvadoran Americans, as it was for Irish, Germans, Italians or any of the many other immigrant groups that have helped build this country. You choose America, you choose to leave your home because something went wrong. This country opens its arms to you, and you want to fight for your country. This is your country now; you belong to it, it belongs to you, equally as much as it does to your neighbor. Those who argue to the contrary should perhaps take a trip like mine to Alabama and Texas. There is much they can learn from such an experience.

      Over 60 percent of Miami’s residents are foreign born. Our success can largely be attributed to this diversity. In fact, American cities with strong immigrant populations continue to outpace other cities in terms of economic growth. It is these cities that continue to serve as the economic engines of America. In my travels throughout the United States, I have been blessed with the opportunity to meet numerous immigrant families from all over the world. I have never heard any of them suggest that they want anything less than to be proud to be Americans, learning the English language, studying hard, and working to achieve the American Dream. And that’s the way it should be for all first generation Americans.

      My parents were no different. Sure, they always wanted me to retain Spanish, to not lose other aspects of my culture, but they very much wanted me to become an American: to speak English better than anyone else, to win the spelling bees. If you believe otherwise, you are suggesting that these immigrant parents do not want the best for their children or that they do not want them to succeed, because in America if you tell your child not to bother with learning English, with education, with any of that stuff, just stay in your enclave—then you’re holding that child back. You’re not pushing that child to take advantage of all the opportunities America offers. The notion of a parent taking that position is ludicrous.

      There is no doubt that the process of assimilation can be tough. When we first arrived in Miami, we went to “El Refugio,” the Cuban Refugee Center. The building, now called the Freedom Tower, is in public hands and has recently been designated a national historic landmark, two actions I led as mayor. It is Miami’s version of Ellis Island. At the Center, we were given army rations that included huge blocks of cheese. Not individual, Kraft-sized American cheese slices: these were huge, bigger than a brick. We were also given powdered milk, powdered eggs, and Spam. To this day, many Cubans refuse to eat Spam because of the connotation that “this is what we had to eat.” Of course, my mom, one of the greatest cooks in history, learned to make all kinds of dishes from Spam. It was our meat substitute. Instead of beef or pork chops, it was Spam. So we adjusted and were grateful that we had something to eat. By the way, I am one of the few who will still eat Spam.

      When I was in second or third grade, my teacher, as part of the assimilation process, must have believed that every good American must like cottage cheese, celery, and biscuits. I could deal with the biscuits. The cottage cheese didn’t taste like much to me. The celery: forget it. The Cuban diet doesn’t include a lot of vegetables to begin with, let alone celery. The teacher, however, went around the class and instructed us to eat a stalk of celery. I refused. She grabbed the back of my head, stuck the celery stalk in my mouth, and said, “Bite!” So finally, I bit the crunchy stalk. I then ran to the bathroom and vomited. I was sent to the principal’s office since, of course, I was not being cooperative. To this day, I will not eat celery. If you cut it in tiny pieces and put it in a tuna sandwich, I will find it. I have built in radar that goes off anytime I’m within five miles of it.

      The process of assimilation should not include the stripping away of your customs and your culture. Rather, it should welcome them.