Uno, Dos, Tres: One Visa, Two Countries, and Three cities: Part 2
“The old man went out the door and the boy came after him. He was sleepy and the old man put his arm across his shoulders and said, ‘I am sorry.’ ‘Que Va’ the boy said. ‘It is what a man must do.’”
-Ernest Hemmingway, The Old Man and the Sea
“Could you tell me about how it was like when we first landed in the States?” I ask my mom. She had arranged this call to go over everything I had gotten wrong in my first draft and I wanted to make sure I had the complete story.
“Sure, I’ll try to remember.” She responded.
“Once we landed, we were forced into a small room with the other immigrants; people there were from all over the world. Everyone was forced to sit in these chairs, the kind you see at the DMV. You weren’t allowed to walk, or even stand, and if you needed to use the bathroom, they would escort you. No one could speak, not even to each other.
“Could you talk to us, you know, since we were children?” I asked
“No, we couldn’t even talk to you and Helene.”
My sister was six at the time, and I was four.
Mom continued “I remember there were two Asian men there, I couldn’t tell you where they were from, but they knew the same language. They weren’t there together, but they started talking to each other. When the custom’s agent heard, he started screaming. He yelled that he had already warned them, that no one could talk.”
“Just screaming in a quiet room. ‘I already told you. NO TALKING TO EACH OTHER, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’” She faked a screaming voice while keeping her own lowered.
“Were you scared?” I asked.
“Yes, we were scared.” She said as if it were obvious. “After a while, they called our name. They told us to fill out the forms to get a work permit, to come back another day.”
“That was it?” I ask
“That was it.”
Looking back now, I can’t imagine the level of anxiety my parents must have felt during our “arrival” to the country. I guess immigration is never really like the movies; instead of quick lines and stamped papers, our landing was two young twenty-somethings, with kids on their knees, in a silent waiting room. Maybe its part of the human experience to feel powerless at certain points in life, to be at the mercy of an outside force. Maybe we’re all destined to feel fear at some point for reasons out of our control, most just never imagine it will be their first impression of a new home. At least for us, a familiar face waited outside of the baggage claim.
Waiting to ferry us to the Cuban part of town was my mom’s childhood best friend, a huge smile on her face and open arms at the ready for a hug. Parked outside was her huge white crew-cab, a monster of a vehicle that was unlike anything in Cuba. To this day, I don’t understand the predisposition of Cuban families towards owning huge trucks, but down there in Hialeah, it comes with the territory. Racing across the Miami roadways, we settled into the guest space they had prepared for us, exhausted but excited to see our new country.
The first week went by in a blur. After a day or two, Cynthia flew down from Wisconsin, determined to show us around Florida and by extension the United States. Taking everything into consideration, the amount of money and time spent by her was something bordering on saintly. It was a hard contrast to the sterile room where my parents had filled out their work permit forms. Considering where we are now, and where other families who come to the United States alone end up, I think that a little more compassion would go a long way. I know it did for us. Even now, I can’t imagine the amount of love and empathy she must have felt, traveling some 1500 miles to see us.
After a day or two, Cynthia woke us up early. Waiting outside the house in her rented car, she spoke with my parents about the day ahead. She had planned a trip to the Keys and the Everglades after, what better way to introduce us to the country. Outside, It was still that dark, pre-dawn hour. It was the kind of time reserved for traveling, for those with somewhere to be, and more specifically for those in a hurry. First on our itinerary was the Florida everglades, a magical place full of wildlife and nature.
Sadly I don’t remember anything about the keys, my parents couldn’t tell me much either, but the beach we went to after makes for a better story anyway. After we made our way down the Florida highways, we breathed a sigh of relief when we saw the seashore. In my short life, I’ve never experienced anything like driving in Miami, except of course what I saw in Havana. I can only imagine that my parents, sitting in that rented-car, with their small children on the lap, must have felt at home in the roaring speeds and constant mergers. On the subject of food, I don’t remember what we ate that day, if it was anything like the last time I was in Florida, then it was sandwich heaven.
Have you ever had a Cuban sandwich? Its a combination of sliced ham, roasted pork, swiss cheese, mustard, and pickles. If anyone ever offers you a Cuban sandwich that includes anything else, you reserve the right to politely decline. If the person adds mayonnaise, you reserve the right to refuse said sandwich until they decide to make a Cuban sandwich. Typically, the sandwich is pressed and heated before serving. Closely related, though slightly different is the Medianoche, a sandwich with the same ingredients but a different bread. The Cuban sandwich, of course, is served on Cuban bread, while the Medianoche is served on a sweet egg dough. It’s highly recommended that you combine your sandwich with a cafe-con-leche.
At the beach, my parents were able to watch their young children playing together in the sand. Our clothes weren’t meant for the sand, we didn’t have swimsuits or beach toys, but we didn’t need them. Cynthia had brought her camera, committed to taking the perfect photo of the day. As my parents watched on, she told us to run to the water, snapping a photo at just the right moment. I like to imagine that sitting there on that beach, watching their children play, my parents were able to relax in their emancipation. Unburdened for the moment, not worrying about the job hunt or any of the details that were still to come, I hope they were untroubled. We all deserve peace, even if it’s just for a little while.
We didn’t have much at that point, all of our belongings fit into a single suitcase that was back at the house we were staying at. Yet, we had friends, and in our darkest moments, that has always been more than enough. It takes a village to raise a child and its that same village that helps us move past the hard points in life. So there we were, a small family sitting on the sands of a wholly-new country, not alone because we had someone beside us.“El Norte” they called the United States in Cuba, the ominous-sounding name that translates simply into the “The North” and yet it gave us our best hope.
When I named this blog Arrival at the City on a Hill, I was thinking about that day. My sister and I smiling and playing at the beach, running breathlessly into the surf. If the United States had its origin in the Massachusetts bay where John Winthrop gave his sermon, if the dream of America started in the Chesapeake, and if it was the waters of the Atlantic that carried the Mayflower, then I choose to remember that moment beside the water as our genesis.
Yet, all of these years later, beyond the significance of the scene, and past any biblical allusions I could make, I remember the joy I felt. Warm sand under our feet, happy and free.
