51(almost 52) years ago I arrived in America

On April 3^rd 1960 I arrived 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.

 Cuban composer Ernesto Lecuona whose music I just love

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 because I was told that I could never realize the American Dream unless I became totally Americanized. 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.

Me, your blogger Raulito then.

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 them and the hell to those who disapprove, for they will never accept me for what I am anyhow nor do they pay my rent”

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,  2010) but I will tell you that it is a very disheartening thing to be the object of rejection and discrimination.

Not everyone has been that way 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.