Posted on 07/04/2016 5:17:42 AM PDT by Kaslin
All the POPS! and BANGS! from fireworks had my single (for the time) mother edgy. Firing-squads had been murdering thousands of Cubans round the clock. Other thousands of Cubans waged a lonely and hopeless guerrilla war against the massively-armed forces of Soviet proxies Che Guevara and the Castro brothers.
All this drama was taking place 90 miles from U.S. shores—not that anyone would know from the reporting by the U.S. media. From these intrepid gumshoes Americans mostly learned of Castros heart-warming literacy campaign, as transcribed from Cubas KGB-mentored propaganda ministry.
All those bombs and gunshots were only months distant on July 4th, 1962the Fontova familys first Fourth in the U.S. We landed in south Louisiana, deepest, darkest Dixie. Castros propaganda constantly hammered that such areas of the U.S. were infested essentially by gun and Bible-clinging people with ingrained antipathy to people who arent like them. In the following five decades this dovetailing of Castroite and Democratic talking points became very noticeable to Cubans in the U.S.
But refugees cant be choosy. New Orleans then hosted a huge NASA project, attracting blue collar workers from surrounding states, Texas, Alabama, Mississippi. Heres backwoods states synonymous with hate and murderous bigotryand heres the social class most prone to it.
After all, Peter Fonda says Easy Rider was gunned down here. Oliver Stone says JFKs murder was hatched here by rabid right-wingers! both Cuban-exile and American. Donald Trump recently hinted agreement with this KGB-hatched fable, code-named Operation Dragon, as revealed by the highest ranking Soviet intelligence officer ever to defect, Ion Pacepa. Maybe Trump can confirm it with his chum Putin?
In brief, showcasing the Souths villainy is a long-time fetish of Hollywood directors and screenwriters. Wed be lucky to get a welcome with mere tar and feathers. Firebombs and nooses were more likely.
My father was one of Castros tens of thousands of political prisoners at the time, listening to the gallant Ches firing squads every dawn, wondering when his turn would come. My mother wondered too, but she didnt have much time to indulge in things like despair. She was alone in a strange country, a penniless and friendless political refugee, with three kids to somehow feed, shelter, and school. Two nephews were also under a death sentence after fighting to the last bullet at the Bay of Pigs. (Actually, we had it relatively easy. Most Cuban refugee families of the time can relate to stuff ten times as hair-raising and heartbreaking.)
But a knock on the door in those early days and a burly stranger visible through the window wasnt exactly comforting. We hadnt been living in the humble apartment complex for long when it came. We peeked through the window, AHHH!! Is that a WHITE HOOD?!!
No, its Mrs. Jeffrey from next door with her bleached blonde bouffant.
And whats she carrying? AAAHHH!! Is that a shotgun?! A rope?! A bomb?!
No. Its a basket of fried chicken. And thats Mr. Jeffrey behind her. Hes coming to offer help translating that job application.
The Jeffreys were originally from Texas, yahoo central to liberals (except for Austin.) To us, it was Mrs. Jeffrey with her big basket of food, and more importantly, with her big Texas smile. A few days later she took my mother shopping with her. Next day she consoled her during another sob-fest.
Mr. Jeffrey was a WWII vet and knew some Spanish. Ill never forget him sitting next to my mother, swerving from fiery rage to silent sympathy while apologizing to her in a heavy Texas twang for JFKs Bay of Pigs backstab- as if it was his doing, as if he hadnt done enough for others freedom already!
But as Mr. Jeffrey saw it that was his flag on those ships off the Cuban coast in April 1961, his flag on the planes overhead. And his president who gave them the order to scram as Soviet artillery and armor poured in and Cuban patriots fought to the last bullet. Mr. Jeffrey had seen our flag go up over Manila. Dozens of his buddies who helped carry it fell along the way. He saw what that fluttering canvas meant to the delirious crowds who screamed and wept and cheered, knowing that freedom was at hand. The thought of it ordered to betray a freedom fight enraged and sickened him.
The following week comes another knock……AAHH!!…. Somethings on FIRE outside! Is that a burning CROSS?!
No its Mr. Simpsons barbecue. He always liked a BIG fire. (Remember Eddie Murphys early skit about his uncle Gus barbecuing? Now THATS a FIRE!)
That always reminded me of our upstairs neighbor Mr. Simpsons fire. It was Mrs. Simpson at the door, asking us over—in that hilarious (to us) Southern drawlto share in that mountain of chicken and burgers the Simpsons, and the Jeffreys were scorching to celebrate Americas birthday. The Simpsons hailed from Birmingham. To liberals, no doubt, thats exclusively the land of Bull Connor and fire hoses and nothing more.
Our new neighbors knocked often. And this was in the very gizzard of the bigoted and hate-filled South. When youve just fled a Stalinist hell with the clothes on your back, when you find yourself in a strange land, penniless and not knowing the language, when nights are a sleepless, mind-churning marathon of worries: Did Uncle Pepe fall to the firing squad this dawn? Is cousin Manolo still in hiding? Wheres the next meal coming from? (None of todays lavish federal refugee benefits existed at the time.) How on earth will we pay for the kids schooling? With all this going on, that stuff helps, believe me. (I speak here for my parents generation. I was seven years old. Seemed like a Disney adventure to me.)
Later in the suburbs, another family became even more special. Years before, the lady had worked at a local plant riveting the hulls on the famous Higgins boats, designed in New Orleans for oil companies to traverse the shallow coastal marshes, then tweaked for work on such as Omaha Beach and Iwo Jima.
These were the boats that won WWII, according to Ike. One such boat carried her fiancé to shore at Salerno, another at Anzio. He clambered out of yet another Higgins boat after crossing the Rhine, where a burst from a German machine gun riddled his legs.
Almost 40 years later, I watched him limping up the aisle, grimacing slightly with each step. Then he broke into a huge smile while handing me his daughter as a bride.
We landed in the South, but Ive heard compatriots relate similar stories literally from sea to shining sea.
Nobody called them the Greatest Generation back then. I guess the perspective wasnt there in the 60s. But thousands of then-destitute Cubans recall them as el pueblo que nos abrio los brazos (The people who opened their arms to us.)
That is a great column from a guy I disagree with on several fronts. A great American.
Obama said the same thing.
He sure did.
A considerable supply of 168-grained antipathy too.
Why would you disagree with him?
I can find no reference on Fontova’s web site or on the web as to whether he’s a U.S. citizen.
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