Uno, Dos, Tres: One Visa, Two Countries, and Three cities: Part 1
By Adrian Palau
Part One: Una Visa
I call on Celia Cruz to give me the strength to write this story. Celia, lend this island son some of your lyricism.
This is a story that began in Havana but wound up in Madison, Wisconsin by way of Miami. This is the story of a visa, two countries, and three cities. It’s a story of the human experience, and so much more. With that, I will lay out my genesis as a person and the span of days that changed everything. Understand though, that this is an abridged version of what happened, that in many ways the longer story isn’t for me to tell. No; the longer story belongs to my mother, father, and to everyone who helped us along in our journey.
I was born in 1996 in Havana, Cuba to Adin and Yaelys, two young Cubans from very different backgrounds. My father a city dweller, my mother from the hilly province of Ciego de Avila, brought me into the world in the same hospital where my father had been born and his father before him. My parents didn’t know it then, but just four years later they would be permanently leaving their island home, boarding a plane for a new life in the North.
To give some background on the kind of people my parents are; my father was a bicycle-taxi driver before our family emigrated to the United States. Part taxi and part multi-lingual local guide, he helped ferry tourists around Havana. He was always honest and hustled to support our little family. My mother, God bless her heart, had the impossible task of raising children who could talk and argue by a very young age.
Despite making better money than a lot of other Cubans, by virtue of working in a tip-based industry in communism, my father dreamed of seeing the rest of the world. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t want to leave the island, apprehensive of becoming just another stranger in a strange land. It may seem outrageous to some of my American readers, the thought of not wanting to emigrate to the United States from Cuba, but home is home.
At this point, I’ll turn it over to my dad to provide some background on the Visa and his application.
The third time is the charm
The visa lottery was implemented by the US and Cuba in 1994, right after the balsero crisis, to propose an alternative to the raft journeys across the Caribbean. The registration period was open for 2 weeks; people had to go to specific mailboxes that were placed across the city, wait in line for hours, just to drop your letter in the mailbox. I, like many of the other Cuban with dreams of leaving the islands, mailed my application to the US Interest session of the Embassy of Switzerland in Havana.
Nothing happened, not a word on my application, not number to call, but you forget about it and time goes on. In 1996, I submitted a 2nd application, again nothing happened. In 1998, I wrote the letter just in case. We had one mailbox 6 blocks away from the house, it was kind of sad and insane, people fighting to put their letters in the mailbox. in reality, I really didn’t want to go through that nightmare experience to submit my application, but I had to take the chance.
When the yellow envelope for the Visa finally appeared, it was my late grandfather who woke up to my dad. My grandfather, who had always the dream of leaving Cuba. I think, in the end, it was his words that convinced my mother to go through with the application process. He would never get to see that dream actualized, but I like to think we carry his spirit with us now.
It should be noted at this point that if you win the visa lottery that you don’t just get a visa, rather we had to interview still and secure sponsorship. Additionally, you have to receive sponsorship from someone in the country you wish to emigrate to. The person who would arrange our sponsorship was my father’s friend Cynthia. My father had met Cynthia when she came to the island by way of Canada, making a life-long friend as he drove her to her hotel. She would stay at his grandmother’s house from then on, growing close to my parents. Before she left for the United States she vowed to get my father out of Cuba.
It was Cynthia that secured my parent’s letters of employment and it was her that sponsored our family through the process, connecting us with friends back in Madison along the way. One of those friends, Michelle, would end up welcoming us into her home where we stayed until we could get on our feet. My mother made special mention of the baskets of toys that Michelle left on us kid’s bed.
I will save most of the story of the Visa lottery application process, with all of its twists and turns, for another day. It’s a story that deserves a large touch from my dad, some photos from the island, a couple of rounds of interviews. For now, suffice to say that after months of paperwork and mountains of fear, we secured our visa and made our way to Havana International airport.
At the airport, for my sister and I, we were boarding a plane not quite understanding what it meant. For my parents, they were leaving the only home they had ever known, journeying a thousand miles with only two suitcases. Our family wasn’t alone though, standing behind us was our neighborhood, family, and friends. Against that, what chance do the problems of the world have?
End of part 1
