40 American Christmases

Have I ever told you my American Tale? Remember the movie An American Tail, about Fivel Mouskevitz, the animated Russian mouse who makes his way from Russia to America?

I totally remember that movie. I can still sing some of the songs and I don't think I've seen it in over 15 years. It came out in 1986, at which time I was about 9. I know that it seemed incredibly scary, the move to a totally different country. Of course, Fivel was separated from his family and had to navigate the new world by himself (see, scary!). But still, it's his immigration story. I don't have one, of course, I was born about 15 miles from where I'm typing this, but my family's story is an interesting one. And the fall/winter of 2009 marks the 40th anniversary of their journey from Cuba to America. Kind of a big deal, I'd say.

1969

Over 52,000 Cubans emigrated to the US in 1969. My mom's side of the family came over that year. My mother with her four siblings and two parents came in September. By October, the anti-war demonstrations in the US had reached epic proportions. In November, 500,000 people marched on Washington against the war. While hippies were dancing in Berkeley's People's Park, my mom and her family were adjusting to life outside of a dictatorship. Seeing American flags burn on the nightly news must have been quite the trip for a group of kids who were trained to sing the revolutionary anthem while assembling rifles. The Cuban educational system's motto, 'Estudio, Trabajo, Fusil' means "Study, Work, Rifle."


They settled in Lennox, a small town adjacent to Inglewood and LAX airport in southern California.

Cuba's immigration history is long and interesting. Since the United States has a history of instituting quotas for immigration from certain countries, people often hung out in Cuba, waiting to enter the U.S. This is partly how Cuba developed a variety of Asian, Jewish, and European enclaves. My family's history before Cuba is a mystery. The genealogical documents about when and how my family got to Cuba in the first place is all locked up over there, in databases and files that I can't access. Vague recollections and family gossip place them in Spain, Scotland, and Ireland. But I do have info on the immigration from Cuba to the U.S.

Both mom and dad came over (separately) on the Freedom Flights, the second wave of immigration after the Cuban communist revolution. The first wave was full of all of the rich folks, who could afford to jet out of Cuba as soon as Castro took power. Despite increases in available health care, education, and the enfranchisement of black Cubans, some of the revolutionary policies were seen as unbearable. The Freedom Flights assisted the middle and lower-middle classes, who had become increasingly dissatisfied with the policies curtailing political freedom and eliminating private property (some 55,000 small businesses were closed down by the government in an effort to eliminate private property in 1968). President Lyndon Johnson allowed for daily chartered flights to assist Cubans who wanted to permanently leave Cuba.

I now have my grandmother's and mother's Cuban passports, stamped with "Nulo" or void, which meant they couldn't return home because their passports were no longer valid.


Picture day for the passports was probably not a fun day, if their faces are any indication. Truly any bureaucratic appointment with 5 kids would probably be a nightmare. My mom says she is angry in this picture because she was bummed on her new haircut, which was too short for her taste.

These passports are powerful reminders of the consequences such a decision created for a young family. People who applied to leave were generally treated suspect, as they were defecting, and were given strict rules about leaving. Called "anti-revolutionaries," they were subject to a number of indignities.

In the case of my family, my grandfather was sent to work in the sugar cane fields far from home (quite the change of pace for a banker), while my grandmother cared for 5 small children by herself. Already accustomed to life under the regime, she had quite the side business making shoes out of old rubber tires and selling them on the black market so that she could get more ration cards or trade for goods that would feed her kids and make life bearable. My uncle (the oldest kid) has a story about how he was singled out in front of his whole school as a traitor on a day he thought he was getting an award. They haven't told me too much about what happened during the processing on their way out, but I gather it was a stressful and humiliating few days.

Leaving was the promise of something better, so they got out as soon as they could. They couldn't take much, and many of their family photos had to be mailed to them later, but they arrived in Florida and came to California, hoping to settle forever. You see, my family aren't the kind who are waiting to return, living in "exile." Many Cubans live "en exilio," waiting to return to Cuba to...well...I'm not sure what exactly they plan to do, but they believe that they were forced to leave a place they loved and that they want to go back there. Even so, my grandmother didn't become a citizen until the early years of this decade, just a few years before she passed away from pancretic cancer in 2004.

When she traveled to Spain in the 80s, she had to get some kind of passport. Due to her interesting situation (resident alien, Cuban refugee) her passport had this to say:


It must seem very strange and vulnerable to have no country. To feel like a stranger in your own home, so to speak. I wish now that I had asked her about that, and how she managed to make that kind of decision for such a large group of kids.

Just the other day I was talking to my mom about House Hunters International on HGTV, the show about buying a house in a different country. She and her husband (my step-dad, who was born in Mexico) were both fascinated with the show. They were talking about how "crazy" it must be to make the decision to move to a different country. To which I said "Hello!? You both did the exact same thing!" How quickly 40 years changes things.

This picture is of their first Christmas. They didn't have much, but they did have a tree and new, plastic covered couches. De rigueur for 1969.

Their story is one of many. In fact, a new PBS documentary about the Freedom Flights called My Suitcase Full of Hope just screened this past May and I just ordered the DVD today. I'm hoping to get a broader picture of their journey so I can ask my mom, aunts, and uncles some good questions.

On the eve of my mom's 40th American Christmas, I'm looking forward to celebrating the traditional Noche Buena (Good Night) a Christmas Eve party all about family and food. I'm planning to shadow her preparation of the dinner, so I can give you a good rundown of recipes and how they changed on the trip over.

Rosy Finds

"Truths and roses have thorns about them."

Henry David Thorough

This week's finds is about roses. I love roses, both as a flower and as a decorative element. I even like the name Rose (Hi Rose!). Here are some really nice rosey things, as well as a bit of info on taking care of cut roses when you get them:

This felt Roses Pillow from Pier one is only $40, which is kind of impressive for a decorative pillow. Those things are crazy 'spensive.

Felt and roses seem to go together, as this more mod take on the rose makes a great pin. $15 from Fiber Alley, and it comes in other colors too.

This asymmetrical necklace by Maria Elena Jewelry is $37 and has a nice subtle Victorian quality.

$30 for a box of these rose lights from Wrapables. Very pretty way to get some mood lighting.

Another necklace, this one a bit more modern, from Peaches4Me at Etsy

The people who make wallpaper have pretty much cornered the market on using the rose. Plenty of bad wallpaper features giant cabbage-like roses. I like Graham and Brown's take on the more mod version, the macintosh rose, $60 for a roll of wallpaper.

Real Roses

I don't have a yard, so I can't say much about maintaining a rose garden, though I do know about keeping cut roses alive. Generally, you can expect almost two weeks of life from roses, if you've gotten fresh ones.

Keeping them alive for as long as possible is all about how you transfer them to the vase. The best way is to submerge the stems in a bucket of warm water (you can add the preservative that comes with most flowers to the bucket). Remove the lower leaves (the ones low enough to get stuck in the vase), and fill a vase with tepid water.

While the roses are in the bucket, cut the bottoms of the stems under water. This is important because roses are like drinking straws, and will start to suck up water in a couple of seconds. If you don't cut them under water, the stems will suck up air and it causes a bit of a block in the stem, which makes them die faster. Once you've cut those stems under water, shake 'em a bit and transfer them to your vase. You shouldn't have to change the water for about 5 days, but after that, freshen up the vase more frequently.

Some Trivial, and thus Interesting, Information about Roses

Most roses you get from the florist don't have a pungent rose smell. That's because the more pungent roses tended to die faster, so it has largely been bred out of the roses used for sale!

The rose is the national flower of both the United States and England (way to be original, founders)

A red rose held in a hand is often used as a socialist symbol used by many socialist labor parties around the globe.

The Victorians codified the colors of roses and used them as a form of communication. Floriography, as it's called, set forth the following rules:

Red roses = passionate romantic love/true love
Pink roses = lesser passionate romantic love/grace
White roses= virtue or chastity
Yellow roses= friendship, devotion, platonic love, but also jealousy (wtf Victorians?)
Lavender roses= love at first sight

There are so many variations of the rose that it is the most complex flower in the western world. Since there are so many (over 30,000), there are two main categories: Old Roses, grown in Europe before the 1800s, and Modern roses, those grown after.

The oldest fossilized imprint of a rose was found in Colorado, and dated to be about 35 million years old.

Easter Witch!?

I'm not a huge Easter fan. I have no problems with other people celebrating it, but I don't really. I always thought it was a weird holiday. I mean, it's about Jesus (and his bloody bloody death, which seems kind of rude to keep bringing up, no?), but what's with this giant rabbit that comes into your house and leaves you eggs and chocolate? I suppose it isn't any fishier than other holiday rituals, but the rabbit is just odd. Until I found out about the pagan roots of the holiday and all that jazz. Needless to say, this kind of thing:


Creeps me out to this day. Do you know how dangerous a giant rabbit would be? Those teeth!

Recently, I found out that Easter is a kind of Halloween in Sweden and parts of Finland (thanks to Nicolette). Now, that's something I can get into.

Straight out of Time magazine, y'all:

In Sweden and parts of Finland, a mini-Halloween takes place on either the Thursday or Saturday before Easter. Little girls dress up in rags and old clothes, too-big skirts and shawls and go door to door with a copper kettle looking for treats. The tradition is said to come from the old belief that witches would fly to a German mountain the Thursday before Easter to cavort with Satan. On their way back, Swedes would light fires to scare them away, a practice honored today by the bonfires and fireworks across the land in the days leading up to Sunday.

Had I known there was a cool aspect to it, I woulda been in on it from the start! Dressing up like a witch and going door to door to get candy? I mean, look at these cuties:


They aren't even hag-like witches like you would see here on Halloween. Cute witches! With rosy cheeks. I'm totally going to scare the crap out of my neighbors when I have kids. Passover one week, dressing up like witches and sending your kids around the neighborhood? My inability to control my hair on humid days. If I get burned at the stake, you'll totally know why.

Dudes get their own "Cosmo style" list of crap you have to do to be a person

Tom Chiarella has written quite an interesting article on manhood for Esquire that I am totally reprinting here with my hysterical nerdy notes:

A man carries cash. A man looks out for those around him -- woman, friend, stranger. A man can cook eggs. A man can always find something good to watch on television. A man makes things -- a rock wall, a table, the tuition money. Or he rebuilds -- engines, watches, fortunes. He passes along expertise, one man to the next. Know-how survives him. A man fantasizes that kung fu lives deep inside him somewhere. A man is good at his job. Not his work, not his avocation, not his hobby. Not his career. His job. It doesn't matter what his job is, because if a man doesn't like his job, he gets a new one.

The thing about this list, first of all, is I think I'm 3/4 of a man already. And I really, really believe that kung fu lives deep inside me. Years of Xena and Buffy have prepared me. I will rise to the occasion when necessary.

#1. The Communication Style of Man

A man can speak to dogs.

A man listens, and that's how he argues. He crafts opinions. He can pound the table, take the floor. It's not that he must. It's that he can.

A man can look you up and down and figure some things out. Before you say a word, he makes you. From your suitcase, from your watch, from your posture. A man infers.

This is where Chiarello kind of loses me, because traditionally women are trained (via magazines, advice, television) to infer, to read between the lines. To not take things at face value. Are men trained in this as well? I can't really see it. Most guy magazines are about "getting chicks in the sack" and using whatever tricks you have in your arsenal. So is this about what every man would like to be or what real men (whatever that means) are like in the real world? Ponder that!

#2. Man's Ability to Handle Mistakes

A man owns up. That's why Mark McGwire is not a man. A man grasps his mistakes. He lays claim to who he is, and what he was, whether he likes them or not.

I personally would not antagonize Mark McGwire. He's like a giant muscle man with roid rage. Props to Chiarello for taking his life in his own hands, like a man. A suicidal man.

Some mistakes, though, he lets pass if no one notices. Like dropping the steak in the dirt.

A man can tell you he was wrong. That he did wrong. That he planned to. He can tell you when he is lost. He can apologize, even if sometimes it's just to put an end to the bickering.

#3. Man's Basic Instincts

A man does not wither at the thought of dancing. But it is generally to be avoided.

Style -- a man has that. No matter how eccentric that style is, it is uncontrived. It's a set of rules.

Can something be both "uncontrived" and "a set of rules"?

A man loves the human body, the revelation of nakedness. He loves the sight of the pale bosom, the physics of the human skeleton, the alternating current of the flesh. He is thrilled by the wrist and the sight of a bare shoulder. He likes the crease of a bent knee.

Apparently a man is always straight. Go figure.

Maybe he never has, and maybe he never will, but a man figures he can knock someone, somewhere, on his bottom.

Note that he refrained from using "ass" and went for the cutesy "bottom."

A man doesn't point out that he did the dishes.

A man knows how to ridicule.

A man gets the door. Without thinking.

He stops traffic when he must.

A man knows how to lose an afternoon. Playing Grand Theft Auto, driving aimlessly, shooting pool.

He knows how to lose a month, also.

If you replace "playing GTA" with "watching HGTV," "driving aimlessly" with "wandering around a book store" and "shooting pool" with "playing video poker" then I am totally a man.

A man welcomes the coming of age. It frees him. It allows him to assume the upper hand and teaches him when to step aside.

Well yeah! Of course men should welcome the coming of age! It's not like you lose your value in society or become associated with the words "crone" "hag" or at best "cougar."

He understands the basic mechanics of the planet. Or he can close one eye, look up at the sun, and tell you what time of day it is. Or where north is. He can tell you where you might find something to eat or where the fish run. He understands electricity or the internal-combustion engine, the mechanics of flight or how to figure a pitcher's ERA.

I'll maybe give you the "figure a pitcher's ERA" but all the other ones I call bullshit on. 9 times out of 10 you're going to get an answer if you ask someone those questions, but those answers are going to be straight-up lies!

A man does not know everything. He doesn't try. He likes what other men know.

A man knows his tools and how to use them -- just the ones he needs. Knows which saw is for what, how to find the stud, when to use galvanized nails.

A miter saw, incidentally, is the kind that sits on a table, has a circular blade, and is used for cutting at precise angles. Very satisfying saw.

A miter saw is one of my dream purchases. Sigh. So satisfying!

#4. The Paradox of Man

He does not rely on rationalizations or explanations. He doesn't winnow, winnow, winnow until truths can be humbly categorized, or intellectualized, until behavior can be written off with an explanation. He doesn't see himself lost in some great maw of humanity, some grand sweep. That's the liberal thread; it's why men won't line up as liberals.

Oh my god, I think men may have invented this, so whatever.

A man resists formulations, questions belief, embraces ambiguity without making a fetish out of it. A man revisits his beliefs. Continually. That's why men won't forever line up with conservatives, either.

#5. Man the Island

A man is comfortable being alone. Loves being alone, actually. He sleeps.

Or he stands watch. He interrupts trouble. This is the state policeman. This is the poet. Men, both of them.

Just blech. That's all I have for this one.

A man loves driving alone most of all.

Driving alone is something everyone should do. For long stretches. It's meditation in a fast-paced world. Seriously. Drive alone without the radio or music and just relax. Or think. Work out your stuff.

A man watches. Sometimes he goes and sits at an auction knowing he won't spend a dime, witnessing the temptation and the maneuvering of others. Sometimes he stands on the street corner watching stuff. This is not about quietude so much as collection. It is not about meditation so much as considering. A man refracts his vision and gains acuity. This serves him in every way. No one taught him this -- to be quiet, to cipher, to watch. In this way, in these moments, the man is like a zoo animal: both captive and free. You cannot take your eyes off a man when he is like that. You shouldn't. Who knows what he is thinking, who he is, or what he will do next.

I have always hated zoos. What does that say about my feelings towards men, Mr. Chiarella?