Miami Transformed. Manny Diaz

from the care packages she intended for my dad. After the failed Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961, my mom was no longer allowed to enter the prison during her visits. She could only speak to my dad from outside the prison fence.

      My dad begged my mother to take me out of Cuba. Rumors had begun to spread that the government was taking kids from families to work camps to cut sugarcane. It is important to understand that under the Cuban constitution as revised by Castro, parental rights are nonexistent. Children are wards of the state, and the state can determine where they go. This concept is difficult to understand, and almost impossible to relate to, by those of us who have been raised in America. As such, its real significance was lost on many in America during the Elián González debate (something I will address later in this book).

      My father wanted me out of Cuba. Understandably, my mom did not want to leave her husband’s side, not knowing if she would ever see him again, not knowing if he would end up executed like so many of his friends. This difficult conflict, common to so many Cuban parents, even led my dad to threaten her with divorce if his wish (perhaps his last) for his son was not honored. My mother honored my father’s wish. This is why I left Cuba to join my uncle’s family for a “summer vacation” in Miami.

      MY AUNT AND UNCLE, my three cousins, and my uncle’s mother-in-law all lived in a small apartment in Little Havana. There were only two bedrooms, so my mom and I had to sleep on the sofa in the living room. During this time there was one day I will never forget. In those early years, there were no Spanish language radio or television stations, a fact that may seem hard to believe for some today. However, one local radio station broadcast in Spanish for a couple of hours every afternoon. Much of the broadcast was dedicated to reading the names of the Cuban prisoners who had been executed by the Castro government. One day, while playing outside with my cousins, we heard screaming and crying from within the apartment. Obviously something was terribly wrong, and watching our parents cry we too began to cry, not really knowing why. It turned out that one of the names announced that afternoon was Manuel Diaz. We believed my father had been executed. Fortunately, after much effort and despair, my mother was able to place a call to family in Cuba who confirmed he had not been executed.

      Thankfully, my father joined us at the end of 1962. Because of his “counter-revolutionary” activities, Castro’s government refused to issue him an exit visa. Nevertheless, my mother was able to secure a “fake” visa. Apparently, someone in the family had a relationship with a Cuban government official, and probably paid to obtain the visa that allowed him to enter the United States. I was also able to be reunited with my grandparents. In fact, my grandparents always lived with us, maintaining the long-standing tradition of multiple generations living in the same home. With my parents forced to hold several jobs at a time to make ends meet, my grandparents played a major role in my formative years.

      I became very close to my grandfather. He had a huge influence on my life. While not a political person, as an educator he was very active in promoting educational opportunities for all Cubans. To this day, I am regularly approached by so many people in Miami whose lives he had touched in his beloved town of Regla, always eager to share with me just how much they loved and admired him. I truly enjoyed hearing his stories and understanding his perspective on life, politics, and his beloved country. I was particularly impressed with his ability to keep an open mind on issues. That was especially noteworthy growing up the way I did in a community of people who had just received the shock—and what greater shock can there be other than death?—of being uprooted completely from your way of life. It was important for him that I use his life’s experience not to become bitter or angry, but rather to fully understand the underlying reasons for the events that would shape my own future. No doubt he was sad; no doubt he had plenty of reason to be bitter and angry; but now, looking back on those years, it is clear to me that he wanted something more for his first grandchild.

      He was an idealist who opposed all forms of dictatorship. He was never a Batista supporter, and resented the multiple coups and the corruption so prevalent in Cuban politics. He was intensely honest and a strong advocate for providing educational opportunities and human rights for all people.

      We continued to live with my uncle’s family until my dad arrived. We then moved into an even smaller apartment just a couple of blocks away in Little Havana. The apartment is still there and I often drive by to see it, by myself or with my family, as a reminder about where it all started. One of those visits occurred during my mayoral campaign; this time I introduced myself to the current tenants and explained that this is where I had first lived in Miami. They were, of course, an immigrant family, but not Cuban. Little Havana has become the “Little” capital for a number of Latin American and Caribbean countries. Because Miami continues to be the entry point for so many in search of the American Dream, immigrants from all over the Americas, not just Cuba, now call Miami home.

      Immediately after his arrival, my dad went to work. He parked cars and worked as a busboy and a dishwasher. A proud man, I remember vividly the stories of how he would have to run in the pouring rain to retrieve a car only to be tipped a nickel—a tip he would refuse. Though very poor (and soaking wet), his sense of integrity would not be compromised by others who held him in such low regard. Few things would anger him more than to see a person treated with anything other than the respect any human being deserved, rich or poor. He would later find work at a bed manufacturing company, where he accidentally cut off a portion of one of his fingers, and spent the balance of his years working in a series of factories and warehouses.

      When we first arrived in Miami, my mom could only find work cleaning houses. Subsequently, she worked in a wholesale book warehouse in Liberty City in Miami. She would ride a bus to and from work every day. Practically all her coworkers were black, and to this day she reminds me of how fond she was of them. They befriended her, walking her to the bus stop and waiting for her bus to arrive. For years, she maintained a very close personal relationship with one of them. Despite the efforts of many in the community, including the media, to foster divisions between blacks and new immigrants, I have always found very little division when there is person-to-person contact. For it is not color or language that divides us, but economic status and dreams for our families that unite us.

      After some time, my dad secured a job at an auto parts factory. Because they could only afford one car, my mom also got a job at the same factory doing clerical work.

      I grew up in Little Havana and began my education at my neighborhood school, Shenandoah Elementary. In Cuba, I had been enrolled in a bilingual school. Morning classes were taught in English, afternoon classes in Spanish, or vice versa. Regrettably, we have a very parochial notion about language in our country—how we’re all supposed to forget whatever language we (or our ancestors) used to speak, and speak only English. When you travel the world, it’s often different; people are encouraged to learn the language not just of their country but of others as well. But we Americans expect everyone to speak English.

      Shenandoah was not predominantly Cuban. My memories of recess involved a ritual: fighting with the American kids. We would go out to the school yard; the Cuban kids would form one line and the American kids would form another line. For reasons yet unknown, we would fight during the entire recess (or until someone stopped the fight). We did not need a reason. It was just simply a ritual.

      Elementary school was fairly uneventful. I did well, picking up English rather quickly; in fact, most of us did. It would bother some of the American kids that we would win spelling bees. “You just got off the boat, what are you doing winning a spelling bee?” they would ask incredulously. Our parents taught us to work hard, study hard, learn English, and that in the United States everything is possible. My focus during my elementary school years, however, was baseball. I would wake up in the morning and fall asleep at night with a ball in my hand. It was my love.

      IN 1967, as sixth grade was ending, I was selected to play on a baseball team that had been invited to participate in the Bronco division of the Boys’ League World Championship. Our team, made up exclusively of young Cubans, would be called Miami Cuba Libre (Free Cuba). No one had given