My father was born in Havana, Cuba, about 1,400 miles from my hometown of Buffalo, NY. He arrived at this wintry, unfamiliar place in the mid 1960s, almost a teenager, knowing just a few words of English that he picked up from commercials. My mother, on the other hand, is from South Buffalo, just 10 miles from the house where I grew up. She had lots of family in the area, including two sisters and dozens of cousins and aunts and uncles, but it always felt like there was a significant distance between us and her roots. Growing up on Elmwood Avenue felt just as far away from South Buffalo as from Havana.
In my mind, Cuba remains my ancestral homeland, a land of tropic beauty and passionate rhythms. This in spite of the fact that about sixty years ago my father and his family abruptly left Cuba forever, taking political asylum in the United States. They could no longer bear to live in communist Cuba after the Revolution, so they left their entire life behind, including literally all of their possessions, and hopped on a plane bound for Miami. There are so many fascinating details and twists and turns to this story, but I always come back to what it must have felt like to leave your homeland in search of a better life, facing an uncertain future, knowing that whatever happens you’re not welcome to return.
When I was born my parents and I lived in the attic of a house owned by Aba and Abo, my Cuban grandparents, who lived just below us. A few years later with my brother on the way, my parents bought their own house. Aba and Abo moved soon after to a new house as well, this one just down the street from us. I’d see Aba and Abo all the time and we were extremely close, especially Aba and I. She loved me completely with all of her heart and soul. I knew that she was always there for me no matter what.
I have wonderful memories of spending long afternoons at Aba and Abo’s house. Aba’s legendary banana shakes immediately come to mind. They were only milk and bananas blended together, but with love and a never-ending drive to ensure our stomachs were full, she transformed these two simple ingredients into something truly special that I can still taste all these years later. Thinking of Abo, I remember him taking his daily walk around the block the summer before he died. He would always stop by our house and sit with me in the backyard telling stories while I shot hoops. These were generally stories of Cuba back in the day, and he would have me laughing so hard I couldn’t keep the ball in my hands. He was a deacon that preached at a Latino church on the east side of Buffalo. He told beautiful, poetic stories, punctuated by his booming laugh.
Although we had Cuban family elsewhere in the United States, the only ones we saw more than once a year were my grandparents. They were my only real connection to my Cuban heritage. We didn't learn or speak Spanish at home. We were just normal Buffalonians, plain and simple. When Aba and Abo would have their Cuban friends over on weekends, they’d only speak Spanish, unless they were asking my brother and I how we were doing in broken English. It was a strange and familiar feeling. I felt so deeply connected to my grandparents but when they were with their people I didn't know how to communicate with them. So the Spanish became background noise that felt like a continuous reminder that I didn’t really fit in as a true Cuban.
On my mom’s side things were very different. Of course I understood the language, but the personal dynamics were much more complicated. South Buffalo was a huge mystery to me, not because it was a distant culture, but because there were so many stories left untold, family secrets that I only got glimpses of in my childhood and am still struggling to know and understand.
South Buffalo is blue collar to the core. It’s an unpretentious place made of kind, family-oriented people. It also fell on hard economic times when the factories left in the latter half of the 20th century. Thousands of jobs were lost overnight and what was a thriving community started a slow and painful descent. The South Buffalo side of my family seemed to suffer much more than the Cuban side. There were and continue to be many alcohol and addiction problems. One day when my mother was young, her father said he was going out for a pack of smokes and never returned. To me that’s a telling story of my South Buffalo family, but there are many stories like this, many of which I still find too sad or shocking to share.
There was lots of love in South Buffalo too. When I was younger we spent a lot of time with that side of the family. There were several cousins my age and we all got along well. We still do, although now I only see them at funerals. The summer barbecues back then were epic, with so much family I had no idea who half of them were. There was a huge Irish contingent and quite a few Germans as well. Some of my aunts and uncles were unbelievable storytellers, heartfelt and hilarious. I still have vivid memories of listening to Uncle Mike and Great Aunt Peggy tell tales of family shenanigans and the glory days on South Park Avenue.
We’d also spend spring break each year with my Grandma Alice in Florida. It would take my mom two days to drive us to Grandma’s in the family station wagon for a two-week stay, which was generally our only trip of the year. Grandma Alice was a lovely human being and my relationship with her kept growing until the last days of her life. We’d play cards at night. She and I also both loved and looked forward to our annual family lunch at Red Lobster. Grandma Alice lived in a double-wide trailer with Paul, who she married right around the time I was born. Paul had a bird farm and raced pigeons. These trips were a huge highlight of my youth.
At some point I noticed cracks starting to show in my South Buffalo relationships. When I was in seventh grade my parents figured out how to send me to an incredible private school where the wealthiest families in town sent their kids. My father’s business had been doing better, but there was still never any money left over for luxuries of any kind. I clearly recall sitting around the table with my aunt and my cousins and she kept referring to my dad as “Mr. Money Bags” over and over. She must have said it ten times in a ten minute conversation. It didn't come across as a compliment and the only thing it seemed to accomplish is that it made me feel completely embarrassed, different, disconnected. From then on I felt a growing barrier between my immediate family and the South Buffalo side.
It always felt to me as if my mother escaped South Buffalo, like she made it out of there while she still could and created a life for herself and her children that was better, more stable.
This could just as easily be said of my father, who came to this country from a distant land under mind blowing circumstances, raising four children and living an American dream.
Both sides of my history, half Havana, half South Buffalo, are essential parts of who I am that have shaped me. I’m proud to have been born in this glorious melting pot with a totally unique story that’s all my own, in a country filled with people whose histories of heartbreak and hope are entirely different and yet exactly the same.