52 years ago I arrived in America

Today, April 3^rd 2012 is the 52nd anniversary of my arrival in this country

I wish that I could tell you that I want to celebrate the event, but I don’t. First of all, I came as an unwilling minor with my parents who had to resort to an unwanted exile. Second, it was our expectations as were those of thousands of other Cubans who came about this time that our exile would be short. 

But coming to a strange and unwelcoming land, where I could not speak the language and where the customs and traditions didn’t even make sense. I found that these people celebrated something very strange called Halloween while they also frequented houses of worship. I found that they were allergic to the eñes and the accents of my mother tongue. This was so devastating to me because I prided myself in speaking correct Castilian Spanish unlike most of my fellow Cubans. Spanish was of no use to me for the next decades.

Then I found myself in the precarious position of having to divorce myself from my culture. Out the window went my music along with my language; my foods and my music because they were considered undesirable. Even my chivalry and my politeness were looked down upon as too submissive and too effeminate.

I had a lot to learn. I had to struggle and make adjustments. I used to sit in front of a tape recorder and read out loud the newspaper for hours. I would play it back to hear the mistakes and mispronounced words. Once I thought I had reached a point where my usage of English was acceptable it was expedient to do away with the tape recorder after about a year and I did so gladly only because my vocabulary was by then far more extensive than the average American’s and because I was getting so much criticism for my accent that I thought I would never speak without it, so fuck those who found it offensive, they didn’t even have as good a command of their own language as I did.

I came to a crossroads, a dilemma if you will: I had to reject my Spanish which was much more poetic and romantic than the stoic, bland English; I had to divorce myself from my favorite foods, which were tastier and not frozen or dispensed out of a machine or some fast food joint. I also had to do away with my music which was prettier, more meaningful and even more prolific. So at one point I said to myself: “I’ll get rid of some of the things but not all of them, I will cling to what I like and enjoy and the hell to those who disapprove, for they will never accept me for what I am anyhow”

I met a lot of discrimination along the way. I am not going to rehash a post I did on an earlier entry (February 20^th,2009) but I will tell you that it is a very disheartening thing to be the object of rejection and discrimination.

I believe the biggest irony I faced was that one during the Viet Nam War. I chose to be an American but I wasn’t a citizen then. I was subject to be drafted however and it would have been very easy for me to go into exile in Spain or Canada as my cousin Tony did. But I stayed and even though my own country needed me to fight against a totalitarian tyranny, I felt very much like an American.

Not everyone has been an asshole however; I have forged very lasting relationships and friendships along the way but they have usually been with souls that have a large heart and who don’t mind that I wasn’t born here. Hell, they are so used to me they tell me I don’t have an accent. I suppose this is part of their acceptance…there is so much love on their part that they don’t even notice the differences.

For the record, I consider myself an American now, perhaps I am a bit more patriotic than most people as I am very well informed in current events, politics and other pertinent subjects that may affect adversely this land I love.

In essence, the accident of my birth should not be anything to diminish my love for America…if anything, I think that it is because that I opt to love America as my choice as opposed to those who are born here and should love it because it is their country…they have no choice.