I was born and raised in Havana, Cuba. I have a twin brother and two younger sisters. My family moved to the United States in late 1960. I was 10 years old.
Starting a new life in a strange place was traumatic for my parents, but an adventure for us kids. For at least a while we were fascinated with wearing coats and boots, sledding in the snow, and the new games during recess. For quite a while I thought football was kind of boring. All they told me to do was to run up and down the side of the field. And then there was that new language. What were all those people really saying? Many times they’d laugh and I didn’t know what was so funny. What I thought was funny was that boys didn’t like girls. What were those guys thinking?
One thing we didn’t like was how it got dark so early. It forced us to go inside and watch Garfield Goose on black and white TV. One time we were enthralled with the current episode of “Wanda and the Wicked Princess,” a serial cartoon on which we got hooked. It was a sad episode, and the house was dark, and Mom was at work. We were alone and sad and depressed. Suddenly my sister started crying. And as we all hugged each other to try to console her, we all started crying, too. It was a far “cry” from sunny Cuba.
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