Life is a Carousel

Uncle Carlos and I were walking across the tarmac towards the airplane.  He was slightly ahead.  I was following nervously behind.  My uncle walked deliberately, perhaps grimly, with eyes focused sharply on the plane. I, on the other hand, shot glances at the trees beyond, and even once dared to look over my shoulder.  Even though it was a pleasant 72 degrees fahrenheit, I had to fan my shirt to cool off. 

Anyone observing us would have detected the expression of pain and sadness that I wore.  I was running away, leaving the security of home and taking the most decisive and defining steps of my life.

Just a moment before, we had been inside the airport terminal surrounded by hundreds of soldiers armed with machine guns.  I could not stop myself from studying them.  They seemed to derive perverse pleasure in their license to intimidate as they barked orders at us, making all the passengers form a perfectly straight line in single file.  The soldier closest to me shouted to a man ahead.  He nervously fumbled in an effort to pick his suitcase off the ground.  Enjoying the impact of his gruff command, the soldier exchanged a grin with his comrade. We were treated as criminals.

This was Cuba, January 4, 1960.  My uncle and I, along with hundreds of others, were leaving our home.  Raised in a privileged environment, I was twenty years old and in my second year of architecture school.  My mother''s family owned  “Crusellas & Co.”, a subsidiary of Colgate Palmolive.  With over one thousand employees, it was the dominant soap and detergent company on the Island. My father''s family controlled a great deal of urban real estate and farms.

Fidel Castro’s ascension to power via revolution was but a year in the making.   Yet already, the new regime had become a cancer.  It spread unchecked, eating away at people’s dignity, destroying creativity, sucking up freedom of expression, weakening any ambition to succeed, and eventually undermining productivity and progress.  As a people and as a nation, Cuba was in decline, wasting away.  Although radical surgery was needed, the only thing we could manage as individuals was to flee—to amputate ourselves, cutting ties to friends and family, to start anew. 

Despite the increasing oppressiveness of this regime, I did not want to leave.  My family was here.  My friends were here.  Cuba was my home.  Why could we not stay and work to oust this regime?  I was confused and angry with my father for making me leave.  But at the age of twenty, I still did what he said. 

Standing in line at the terminal, I anxiously tried to envision what it would be like for me in another country where I would have no friends, no knowledge of the language, and no money except for the little I could smuggle out today.  At the same time, I was excited about the opportunity and freedom I would have to make my own way in the United States.    That morning prior to our departure, my mother and Aunt Rachel had sewed pockets into the inside of my pants as well as into the lining of Uncle Carlos’ raincoat.

My uncle was planning to go on to Spain where relatives awaited him.  He hoped to establish himself there,