Inauguration: The Cuban Connection

My skin color is not black, it is white. But I am not looked upon as being white. I am Cuban, therefore, I'm really Hispanic. I was born here in Chicago, in the USA but I'm not an American, so I am a Cuban-American. That's okay with me because I am proud of who I am and that my parents came here to this country in search of a better life.

I will be 50 this year and it means I was alive during the Kennedy administration, MLK's
I Have A Dream speech, race riots of the 60's, first man on the moon, and now another monumental moment in history.

Tonight as my husband slept through the recap of today's historic events, I cried as I watched...again.

I cried because I remembered my dad.

It wasn't till I started school that I began to learn the English language. I remember crying when my dad would drop me off at kindergarten, not only because I was left there, but because I couldn't communicate with anyone. Though I did learn to speak English eventually, I wasn't allowed to speak it at home. Homework? My dad would make me struggle on my own or ask the teacher. As I grew older and it became apparent that I needed help with a subject, my dad sent me to see my Uncle Rick. My uncle was Mexican by other peoples standard at that time, though his family were Texans since after the Alamo and didn't speak Spanish. My poor uncle had to struggle with Spanish when he met my aunt. Anyway, that's who I could speak English to and get help from.

When I hit the smart ass teenage years, I made a nasty comment to my dad how I was never allowed to speak English at home or get any help with homework. My dad sat me down and explained a few things that night that opened up my eyes and had me remember a few things I either had forgotten or blocked out.

He told me of how my uncle Rick would have to make calls for him to look at apartments only for the landlord to turn them away once he saw what my father looked like, how the only job he could get was as a dishwasher at the Conrad Hilton, and how my mom ate chili at the factory for over a year because she couldn't understand the labels. He reminded me how he would have me read the comic strips to him every night not because he couldn't, but because he wanted me to practice my English. My father loved to read and always read the newspaper to better his English.
I use to laugh at my dad when he said the word funny, because it came out sounding like..fooney.
Chicken was sheeken and ...well you get the idea. The reason I wasn't allowed to speak English at home was because he didn't want me to pick up their accent and then be ridiculed as they had been. He reminded me of the boy in my 4th grade class that called me a "spic", and though I had no idea what the word meant, I knew it was mean by his facial expression, so I clobbered him.
Of course I got in trouble and my father was called in for a conference with the teacher. Though my father didn't condone my behavior he also explained to the teacher what the boy called me. My teacher's reply was that my dad needed to teach me how to control my temper.....damn that Latin temper. The boy? nothing, no staying after school, parents called, nothing. By father just shook his head, walked out and told me not to smack anyone again.

Then my father brought up the boy I had just been dating.
The new boy loved coming over but never took me around his neck of the woods. I had never been to the SW side of Chicago and was curious to see Marquette Park cause I heard it was beautiful. When I finally asked why we never went by his house, he said we couldn't. I just assumed it was too far to come way over to the north side only to turn around and go back to the SW side, to then do it all over again. So I started to ask again and again and again till the truth spilled out. "I can't take you to my house because of my dad" Hmmm is he sick? crazy??
" No, it's your name" Huh?? I know my name is hard to pronounce and the way people say it in English isn't the way it's pronounced but...I don't get it.
Clueless....and as the boy looked down at his feet, my dad explained.
"You're not white..."
Yes I am, my skin is just as white as his...it even says it on my birth certificate.
"You're not in his eyes, once he hears your name ..and it doesn't matter that you speak like him or all your other friends."

Well that was then end of that.

When David told his family I was Cuban..they asked if I was black.
When I got pregnant...they worried if he would be dark. Did they NOT meet my family?

So I cried today. I cried for my dad and what he and my family went through.
I cried because I do understand discrimination first hand. I cried because I am proud to be an American and to see a nation united on such a historic day.

I cried.