Every 4th of July, while fireworks light up the sky and the smell of barbecue fills the air, my heart swells with gratitude and humility. This holiday is more than a celebration of independence for me—it’s a reminder of the courageous choice my parents made to leave their homeland, families, and everything familiar to start anew in the United States. Their story, rooted in sacrifice and resilience, shaped who I am today: an American born of Cuban parents, molded by faith, hard work, and an unyielding love for freedom.
Backstory of my Cuban Roots
My parent’s lives in Cuba were worlds apart, yet their paths converged thanks to Divine Providence. I don’t know much about my dad’s upbringing or history. I know that my grandmother came from a very wealthy family in Spain, married my grandfather, a middle class banker, they moved to Cuba for reasons unknown to me, and they had 7 children, my dad being the 5th. His parents died when my dad was a young adult; hence I never met them. I don’t recall what my dad did for a living in Cuba, although I did find some diamond cutting sketches many years after his death, and my mom mentioned briefly that he worked in that field for some time.
My mom’s story, however, is vivid. Both her parents came from a family of bakers, so it was natural that my grandfather would work for Pillsbury (yes, that Pillsbury) overseeing factory operations across multiple regions. He traveled extensively all over Cuba, Latin America and the United States. They weren’t wealthy; however, they lived comfortably. The middle child of 5 children, my mom was doted on, more accurately – spoiled! She was brilliant, finishing high school early and graduating from the university with a degree in office administration. At 17 she married, and at 18, she welcomed my eldest brother. That marriage didn’t last; the reasons will remain private as it is not my story to tell. Reflecting on this now, it must have been so difficult for a young, divorced mom to navigate her life in Cuba in the early 60s. Knowing my mother, she did so with dignity and carried on with faith and grace.
Due to her circumstances, she took a job as a secretary while my grandmother cared for my brother. Her office job placed her in the heart of turbulent times, where the office was managed by the communist party. Her biggest frustration was working under a regime that did not allow for differing points of view. On more than one occasion she valiantly expressed her opinion, and her superiors were very clear that she did not agree with their political views but tolerated her because she was very good at her job.
She was particularly skilled in shorthand, a lost art of rapid notetaking with symbols and abbreviations. One day, her talent landed her in a meeting with none other than Che Guevara. I remember her describing him as rude, condescending, and arrogant – an impression that stayed with her forever. Another story that she once shared was that her office faced the bay, and during the Cuban Missile Crisis, she and her colleagues were confined there, watching the U.S. Naval Fleet in the distance. She recalled the fear of not knowing if she’d survive to see her son or family again. That moment solidified her resolve to leave Cuba.
Life Under Castro: A Stifling Reality
My parents met and married amid Cuba’s growing chaos under the Castro regime. Life was oppressive – food shortages, long lines for basic goods, and constant surveillance by “committee” members who inventoried personal belongings and monitored social circles. They weren’t allowed to express their beliefs freely, for fear of being executed or imprisoned, as so many were victim to firing squads and jail cells at the time.
These are just some examples of what they went through during the Castro regime. The romanticized view that some have of post-Castro Cuba angers me. Although I didn’t experience their struggles first-hand, my parent’s pain and sacrifice was an integral part of my upbringing, and I feel a deep responsibility to honor and respect it. We take for granted our liberties and freedoms. When that is taken away, your life as you know it, changes and never for the better.
Determined to escape, they applied for the Freedom Flights, a program that allowed Cubans to flee to the U.S. In 1966, they left with little more than a small suitcase each. My mother and 8-year old brother arrived in Miami first, followed by my father two weeks later. At the Freedom Tower (now a museum in Miami), they were greeted with coffee, a donut, and permission to start anew. With help from my father’s brother, Elio, and other Cuban exiles, they settled into a tiny furnished apartment, sharing a single plate setting for meals.
Humility + Hard Work = The Price of Freedom
In the U.S., opportunities for immigrants were limited, so they accepted whatever work they could find. My father worked nights in a sugar factory plant, then later in auto body shops, prepping cars for paint jobs. He usually worked 6 days a week and accepting as many extra hours as possible. This is the work he did until he passed away in 1980.
My mom had to take the only work available for women at the time, sewing in a factory. She didn’t know how to sew and was honest about her lack of skills to the factory owner, a compassionate American man. He gave her the chance, and she always spoke of him with much appreciation. She learned on the job, crying in the process, and although she didn’t like the work, she was thankful to be able to speak her mind, practice her faith openly, and live in peace. That alone outweighed the hardship.
I was born in 1968, two years after their arrival, followed by my younger brother, 2 years later. We grew up in a modest home in a rough Miami neighborhood, alongside my caring uncle, Elio, and my father’s eldest brother in a triplex they bought together. My parents’ stories of Cuba fueled my curiosity about their past, as I longed to connect with the family and heritage I never knew. What stood out most was their singular focus: FREEDOM. They never spoke about money, career opportunities, bigger homes or fancier cars. All they ever talked about was being FREE. As a result, I grew up being very patriotic and grateful that my parents were bold enough to leave all they knew and come to this country. That decision changed the trajectory of their lives and as a result, mine.
Broken but not Shattered
Although they didn’t have much in terms of material things, my parents were focused on giving us the best life possible, with lots of love, care and values. I still don’t know how they did it, but we went to Catholic school from elementary to high school, and every Christmas we had a decorated tree, nativity set, and the toys we asked Santa for, on Christmas morning. We also got a special gift twice a year – one on Easter Sunday and another at the end of the school year (only if we got straight A’s). That was the extent of our luxuries, however. We didn’t take yearly vacations, nor did we get to buy whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted it.
Sadly, my dad died, from an aggressive cancer, when I was only 11 years old, my younger brother, 9. My older brother was in his early twenties and married with a child, so as a result, my mom was left alone to raise us. Our uncle Elio, promised to take care of us and help her, but sadly he passed 18 months later. My dad’s other siblings took advantage of his illness, stripping my mother of the few assets that were meant for us. In doing so, they left my mom, a poor widow, to fend for herself and her children. We never heard from them again.
Losing your dad at an early age, is like a chapter of your life is missing. You don’t really process it at the time, but as you grow up, you realize that something is misplaced, and you’ll never find it because you don’t even know what you’re looking for. 45 years after his death, I can’t say that I miss my dad, but rather, I miss the idea of him. I often wondered what my life would have been like if he had lived longer. Today, I know that God’s plan is perfect, and our lives were exactly as they were meant to be.
Faith Built us Back Up
My mother’s deep faith was our anchor. The Sacred Heart of Jesus image, my dad’s first gift to her when they arrived in this country, was with us all along our journey. It’s the one material item that my mother never let go of, and now that she is gone, it sits in my home, as a symbol and reminder of her hope, and our story.
She believed that “God helps those who help themselves”, and as such, she kept working hard sewing full time in a factory and then at night with my aunt, at her house. She worked 18 hour days and once we became teenagers, she asked that we begin working as well, so we could help her with the bills. Candidly speaking, we were not keen on the idea of having to work at the local McDonald’s, but we accepted our reality.
My mom never remarried focusing her life on raising us and trying to be the best mother and grandma possible. Thankfully, both my brother and I had very good friends who had supportive parents and this community helped my mom tremendously. In moments of trouble, they were there to help, and they became an extension of our family.
Their Success Became Ours
Although my parents lives were turned upside down at the hands of a flawed political system, they found an opportunity to escape and start over. Their dream of freedom became a reality, and their sacrifices allowed my brothers and me to thrive. We worked hard, inspired by their example, and built the lives they had hoped and prayed for.
My parents, like so many other exiles and immigrants who come to this country, are brought to their knees in humility. But their fortitude kept them going, because the price of freedom was worth it.
Although communism tried to break them, they were built back up, stronger and with more courage than they ever thought possible. Their story is just one of countless Cuban exiles who turned sacrifice into success.
Made in the USA of Cuban Ingredients
As I reflect on this today, sitting in my beautiful home in a quiet suburb of South Florida, my heart is filled with gratitude, and my eyes filled with tears. Sharing this story has made me even more aware of all the graces and blessings I have received in my lifetime. I am an American, born and raised in this country, of Cuban exiled parents. I grew up in a city filled with people who were just like me, and together we embraced our parent’s culture while also living the American dream. This reality molded the person I am today – a woman of strength, resilience, courage and cultural duality.
My Mother’s Daughter
My mother never looked back after her final glance at Cuba through the plane window in that Freedom Flight. She rarely, if ever, spoke about that time, but one day she shared how she felt in that moment as the plane was taking off. She would never see her mother, sister and two of her brothers again. As she opened her heart, her story broke mine.
My mother died in October of 2024 of sudden heart failure. In this time of deep grief, I’ve come to realize that not only did I lose a gem of a mother I also lost my best friend. We had a special bond and although we were very close, I’m now learning so much more about her life that she never shared.
As I go through old letters from my grandmother and aunt addressed to her, I see the pain of forced separation in a different light. As I found her Cuban passport with a seal saying “ANULADO” meaning “NULLIFIED” I realized that my mom had nowhere else to go. She was kicked out of her country for her beliefs and wouldn’t be able to return. The United States of America was her only option, because they were the one welcoming and offering her a new life and possibilities. She became a U.S. Citizen in 1976, a special time since the country was celebrating its Bicentennial (200 years of independence). Since that day, she proudly considered herself an American and loved the USA.
Dose of Wisdom: Embrace your Freedom
In a time when many criticize this country, I share my parents’ story to remind us how much we have. Is this country perfect? No. Nothing in this world is. But the United States is a land of opportunity, where my parents found freedom and built a legacy. Their journey – from oppression to opportunity – fuels my gratitude for being “Born in the USA”.
Are you feeling doors closing right before your eyes? Don’t fret – turn around and find a window! For my parents, that window was America, and I’m forever grateful they were bold enough to step through it!
