From Cuba to America: A Journey of Sacrifice, Separation, and Resilience
Cuba, a distant island not far from my heart, holds the roots of my family—my parents and grandparents were born there. Growing up in Miami, the tales of this enchanting place were a constant presence in my life. My grandparents would often reminisce about the pristine, white sandy beaches, Sunday drives to Havana, and the tranquil life at the Ingenio (Sugar Mill) in Violeta, Camaguey. They painted a picture of a community where everyone who toiled at the Ingenio was not just a worker but part of a close-knit family, where homes and well-being were provided for.
Yet, strangely enough, I’ve never had the opportunity to set foot in Cuba myself.
The stories I’ve heard are not only of idyllic landscapes but also of mischievous childhoods. My mother, in particular, was known for wreaking havoc during her school days.My mother, born in 1945, spent her early years under Batista’s regime, a time of political upheaval and uncertainty. She was fifteen when Fidel Castro declared himself a socialist, and the country underwent a dramatic transformation.
She left Cuba when she was fifteen, and her recollections of education in her homeland are nothing short of awe-inspiring. By the time she reached middle school, she was already delving into trigonometry and calculus. The quality of education in Cuba, she insists, was unmatched. She often remarks that by the age of fifteen, you were more than ready for college.
The summers of her youth were spent at the beach, a time of freedom and joy, released from the confines of her boarding school, El Estonac.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard Cuba described as a magical place, where the middle class thrived, and there was no rigid class structure as in the rest of Latin America. In Cuba, your status was determined by your education, not the wealth of your family.
In 1961, as the political landscape in Cuba shifted, my mother’s life took a drastic turn. Her parents, seeking a better future, made the difficult decision to send her to live with a family in Mexico while they embarked on a journey to stay with relatives in Spain. It was a painful separation, a testament to their unwavering determination to provide their daughter with opportunities for a brighter future.
While in Spain, her parents began the immigration process to move to the United States, a land of promise and freedom. It was a journey fraught with challenges, but their hope for a better life never wavered. Eventually, they were reunited with my mother in Miami, where they could finally embrace their daughter after years of separation.
My mother’s story is one of resilience, sacrifice, and the unbreakable bonds of family. It’s a testament to the enduring love for a homeland left behind and the pursuit of a better life in a new land. As I reflect on these stories, I can’t help but feel the urge to write my own book—one that encapsulates the essence of being raised in a Cuban household, the unique experience of Cuba in the United States, and the indomitable spirit that defines our family’s journey. It’s a story of heritage, culture, and the enduring love for a place that holds the heart of my family, even from afar.
As I reflect on these stories, I can’t help but feel the urge to write my own book—one that encapsulates the essence of being raised in a Cuban household and the unique experience of Cuba in the United States. It’s a story of heritage, culture, and the enduring love for a place that holds the heart of my family, even from afar.