The Quiet Trauma Of The Uprooted: Confronting The Origin Myths Of Cuban Refugee Families

Refugees and immigrants usage caller root myths to fortify themselves successful overseas lands. Flawed, inaccurate, and perchance delusional, nan stories they show themselves are indispensable endurance tools.

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But successful our family, nan stories we told ignored nan symptom of losing family, neighbors, culture, language, identity—our lives, successful a sense. There would beryllium a costs for those omissions, but we wouldn’t recognize it until good into our Cuban American lives, erstwhile nan past came calling and demanded a reckoning.

I grew up successful a emblematic multigenerational exile family. Ours was tally by women who’d gotten america nan hellhole retired of postrevolutionary Cuba and knew really to rotation stories for illustration nobody’s business. Gracias a Dios for that, because nan stories my mother, aunt, grandmother, father, and uncle—the viejos (elders)—spun successful our early days arsenic Cuban refugees successful 1967 New Hampshire saved us.

Until they didn’t. But we wouldn’t cognize astir nan anemic spots successful our family’s caller root communicative for decades. Just erstwhile we thought we were nicely assimilated—and yet utilized to American nutrient that tasted for illustration it had been washed first—we’d recognize that awesome chapters had been ripped retired of our story.

The past had travel to cod payment. A reckoning laic up for anyone honorable capable to look it.

But, successful those early years successful nan US, nan viejos’ tales of becoming Cuban American gave america nan foothold we needed to build caller lives successful a sometimes-unwelcoming America. We were Cuban working-class superheroes! Yes, we’d been duped by nan 1959 gyration our family of forklift drivers and teachers had erstwhile supported. It had landed connected our heads and punched america successful nan heart.

But look astatine america now! We’d escaped Castro and Castro-communism and landed connected our feet, thigh-deep successful nan snowbanks of nan Live Free aliases Die state. Who could person travel up pinch specified an apt authorities moniker? Another motion of our superhero destiny.

Proof of our luck piled up quickly. A benignant landlord fto america rent his rickety farmhouse pinch conscionable a mini deposit. He was a foreman astatine nan rubber footwear mill and offered nan adults jobs connected his assembly line. “Wait till you get your first paychecks. Then you tin salary maine rent,”

And we kids were sidesplitting it astatine nan grammar schoolhouse crossed nan street. We were nan only Latinos successful sight, a novelty worthy examining alternatively than ostracizing—for astir students and teachers. My cousins and I made friends quickly, and nan location started filling pinch them.

Somehow, we were getting bully grades contempt our English deficiencies. Someone gave america crystal skates and, wrong hours, we were whisking astir nan rink crossed nan thoroughfare successful our Salvation Army coats.

The viejos soon learned really cardinal heating worked, what a furnace was, really to dress successful layers. They kept telling america we’d won. True, we’d ne'er again spot our barrio aliases nan 4 generations of family we’d near behind. That would beryllium hard.

But we could nonstop them attraction packages each fewer weeks. We had airmail, letters from nan barrio we publication truthful often they were soft arsenic Kleenex successful nary time. If we saved carefully, we could spend monthly long-distance telephone calls that brought america nan voices we longed to hear.

The storytellers insisted that Castro wouldn’t past long, not pinch nan wide discontent we’d seen, each those Cubans escaping connected rafts, nan counterrevolutionaries hiding successful nan hills, brave Cubans sabotaging what they could to topple nan revolutionary government. Maybe our relatives would beryllium capable to get out. Maybe 1 time we’d beryllium capable to return, spot our grandparents, awesome grandparents, each nan aged friends.

In nan meantime, our scrappy exile family could grip anything! The twisted caller connection afloat of consonants [that Americans said without opening their mouths]. A civilization founded connected values that Cubans considered suspicious: independence, privacy, minding your ain business, speaking softly, making love without chaperones—even sleepovers.

All insignificant mysteries to see later on, not now, arsenic we created our Cuban American selves. Ánimo y adelante! Spirit and onward. Let’s go. No victims here!

In Cuba, we were gusanos, worms, nan caller government’s word for group for illustration america who opposed nan revolution. Gusanos couldn’t springiness distant their possessions erstwhile they near Cuba. The time nan defender had arrived unexpectedly pinch our exit visas—we’d waited 3 years by then, not knowing if aliases erstwhile nan damned permiso would arrive—he kicked america retired of our location and sealed nan beforehand doorway unopen pinch a banner that read: Property of nan Revolution.

So what? nan myth-builders asked.  We didn’t person overmuch anyway. We were successful America now. The gusanos had turned to butterflies.

Our superhero myths fortified america erstwhile we faced racism aliases were shunned arsenic outsiders. Mami, Tía, aliases Abuela held our hands and turned nan bad guys into idiots. They are ignorant seborucos (blockheads). Focus connected nan bully Americanos. There are plentifulness of them.

When you fell, you sewage up, nan communicative spinners said. You made yourself brave. Ponte guapa was my mother’s conflict cry. Make yourself brave. I still perceive it connected bad days. Sometimes it works. Because you can make yourself brave.

In our family afloat of cousins, siblings, visiting americanitos, dogs, cats, and canaries, I was nan oldest girl, rather nosy, and skilled astatine pretending to beryllium playing while nan viejos told each different truer stories. My grandma was nan only elder who grounded astatine pretending everything was fine. She wept often. The viejos consoled her, but nan underlying connection was, up and astatine ‘em, ponte guapa, let’s go!

I took to drafting maps of our beloved barrio for Abuela, which ever made her smile. I would show her stories astir Pancha, nan neighbour pinch a foul-mouthed parrot, arsenic I drew her house. “You retrieve that?” Abuela would ask, marveling astatine really overmuch a kid could understand.

My stories could make our sad and tired abuela laugh. Rather than scolding maine for mimicking Pancha’s swearing parrot, Abuela would conscionable giggle. We were safe wrong a Cuba story. As I drew nan streets and nan houses of our barrio, I’d sanction nan families. When I was wrong, Abuela corrected me, wrote nan correct sanction successful nan correct spot. So I’d remember.

Abuela wove her ain stories astir nan barrio pinch mine. How Ofelia shared her potatoes pinch us, moreover erstwhile she had conscionable a few.  How Antonio el bodeguero would prime maine up erstwhile we sewage to nan beforehand of nan nutrient statement and put maine connected 1 of nan quiet barrels successful his bodega. How Nery washed her sons’ apparel successful our alley sink, because we had a washboard and her boys’ apparel were ever filthy.

The viejos’ stories resurrected nan world we’d lost. They tore holes successful nan coming truthful we could sneak backmost to nan past. We could return location whenever we wanted. These weren’t conscionable words, they were pearls passed from 1 rima to another, gifts. I was hooked. Listening to nan viejos’ stories was moreover amended than watching nan Flintstones.

As nan years passed, caller stories astir who we were entered our house, uninvited. By 1980, during nan Mariel Boatlift, Cubans fleeing nan aforesaid subject dictatorship we’d fled became “boat people” successful nan American media. More than 120,000 Cubans had rushed to nan oversea erstwhile Castro, for nan 2nd clip since nan revolution, announced he would waive exit visas for anyone who wanted to time off nan island.

He did it again successful 1994, triggering what became known arsenic nan Balsero (rafter) Crisis. I was penning astir Cuba by then. I noticed that U.S. officials were referring to nan fleeing Cubans arsenic “migrants,” not refugees, arsenic they had successful nan past.

I interviewed a interaction astatine nan State Department. How could he telephone nan 35,000 Cubans who were fleeing nan subject dictatorship migrants, erstwhile they had nary volition of “migrating” anywhere? They were begging for imperishable shelter successful nan US, escaping 1 of nan only governments successful nan world that denied citizens nan correct to emigrate.

“These group aren’t for illustration you, for illustration your parents,” he said, lowering his voice, arsenic if telling maine a secret.

“How do you know?” I asked. His reasons—his stories—didn’t person me.

So who were we really? Cuba’s dictatorship hadn’t changed. Repression and hardship had intensified complete nan decades. Weren’t we freedom-loving refugees worthy of being sheltered, fixed a caller chance successful a free country?

We were exile warriors, tin of moving hard, buying a location wrong a fewer years, assimilating but honoring our past, contributing to our caller communities, becoming teachers, constabulary officers, agency workers, chemists, writers. Had nan U.S. forgotten that?

I had not. My individual life was solid, meaningful. I’d graduated from Smith College, started my package career, joined my husband, and had 2 beautiful children. I was a exile warrior. Capable of tackling anything. The viejos’ root stories had taught maine that.

But erstwhile my girl turned five, a heavy slump parked itself successful my bosom and wouldn’t leave. Natalia was nan aforesaid property I’d been erstwhile we mislaid our Cuban lives. I worried astir her starting kindergarten.

“Why?” a therapist asked me.

“Because life…the world…can beryllium truthful hard.” I don’t outcry easily, truthful nan activity of sobs that burst retired of maine felt foreign.

When I yet looked up, nan shrink handed maine a tissue. She wondered if nan trauma I’d knowledgeable astatine Natalia’s property was down my depression. “What trauma?” I asked her.

And truthful began nan reckoning. The stories that had saved america had besides ignored nan truth that being uprooted from 1 world and crashing into another—within hours—is traumatic aft all.

Terrifying, long-buried memories of our first years present slow returned, demanding explanations. The nightmares. Terror that a occurrence would break retired astatine nighttime and time off america bum again. Holding Abuela astatine nighttime successful furniture arsenic she sobbed. Finding Mami and Tía crying successful their rooms, being told their backs hurt, aliases they had headaches.

How had each this sadness and symptom been buried successful our American root stories? I thought we’d won, that we were invincible, but possibly I’d replaced excessively galore truths pinch feel-good myths to understand nan value we each paid. Now I didn’t cognize what was existent and what was imagined.

I pieced events together, asking nan viejos for specifications that helped maine spot nan full picture. We were some winners and losers. We had been some brave and terrified.

The new, much truthful stories taught maine that refugee-dom ne'er ends, moreover erstwhile you’ve scrubbed distant your accent and learned to for illustration mashed potatoes. Immigrants, and particularly refugees, travel to our caller countries pinch thing of worldly wealth.

We don’t get to walk on a grandmother’s beverage set, an uncle’s warfare medal, a mother’s doll to our American children. We get to regale our children pinch nan astir powerful heirlooms of all. Our stories.

They thatch america who we were, what we cherished, and punctual america really we survived.

They are weightless and infinitely portable. They costs thing but are priceless. And nary revolution, nary war, nary governmental upheaval aliases earthy disaster tin ever return them from us. They are location for nan finding. All it takes is time.

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Property of nan Revolution by Ana Hebra Flaster is disposable via She Writes Press.