Veiga - We carry our homes with us a Cuban American memoir

MARISELLA VEIGA

Text 2016 by Marisella Veiga. Other materials 2016 by the Minnesota Historical Society. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to the Minnesota Historical Society Press, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 55102-1906.

Rolling originally published in the Mid-American Review 12.1 (Bowling Green, OH, 1991).

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ISBN: 978-1-68134-006-7 (paper)

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We Carry Our Homes With Us is set in the Dante typeface family.

Book design and typesetting by

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Printed by Versa Press, East Peoria, Illinois

For my beloved father

and

in memory of

MARK E. WEKANDER (19512014)

son of the Midwest, writer, friend

There are no words in English or Spanish to convey the gratitude I have for my editor, Pamela McClanahan. She identified this story as important, then dedicated time and talent to its telling. Her editorial direction was insightful, intelligent, and compassionate. My deepest thanks go to her.

I appreciate the contributions of Minnesota Historical Society Press staff and its freelance collaborators.

Many thanks to Robert Hedin and the staff at the Anderson Center for Interdisciplinary Studies in Red Wing, Minnesota. Their hospitality and care during a month-long residency enabled me to write an early draft.

Research assistance given by the reference librarians at the Flagler College Library is much appreciated.

Besides sharing stories, family members contributed in myriad ways. I am grateful for the prayers and encouragement of the Veiga, Echevarria, and Gonzlez families as well as those of the Rettigs.

Countless people expressed their good wishes during the writing of this book. I appreciate their interest and the generosity of their spirits. Special thanks to Keti Beguiristain, Tina Bucuvalas, Sudye Cauthen, Carol and Joe Dietrick, Jacob Jones, Una Kruse, Paula Morton, Ruben Nazario, Mimi Pink, and P. C. Zick.

Heartfelt thanks to my husband, Dick Rettig, who is a steadfast companion. Thanks, Sweetie, for coming along on the ride.

Rolling

Ive been rolling all along

Simply rolling.

See how smooth my shoulders are.

The stones know my body

And I know theirs.

They are hard, like mahogany.

I have smelled their minerals.

The stones, at times,

Were small fish swimming about.

I wanted to catch and set

Them out to dry

But the smart things rolled away.

Once, I thought I could not rise

Away from them

And keep moving on the ground.

I piled them into a ring

And like a fire

I leaptbut returned, centered.

No one steps over the ring.

I press my face

Into the warm stones and sigh.

MARISELLA VEIGA

M y father, Miguel Veiga, watched the rural landscape roll by from the window of a station wagon, disturbed by what he saw. The architecture of midwestern farming was new to himbig red barns, silver silos, tightly planted cornfields rolling for acres toward the sky. And now, thanks to his American hosts, the Lauer farm in Mendota Heights, Minnesota, was where his next home, though temporary, would be. In a weeks time my mother and siblings and I would join him.

A few short years before, he and my mother had chosen the fishing village of Cojmar for their home. In fifteen minutes, they could be in cosmopolitan Havana. My father loved the city, especially for its architectural elegance.

That was before. This was now.

Cubans are familiar with sugarcane fields, banana plantations, and citrus groves. In addition to those, my father knew coastal landmarks, especially docks, fishing fleets, and warehouses storing natural sponges. His father had worked in that industry on both the southern and northern coasts of Cuba.

At thirty-nine, he and my mother, Maria Gonzlez de Veiga, thirty-six, had decided to move from Miami, their initial place of exile, to the Upper Midwest. The move to Minnesota was miles from the subtropics and even farther from a past that remained hidden in their minds and hearts. The enormous loss of homeland had left them speechless, unable to speak about what theyd left behind. Thinking, talking, or crying about it was a luxury.

The need for survival demanded they focus on the present. By doing so, they would begin to lay a foundation to ensure a good future for themselves and, more importantly, for their children.

I am one of those children, their oldest daughter. I have an older and a younger brother and younger sister. My sister was conceived in Miami and born in St. Paul, a few months after we resettled there.

The move north was riskyour exile community was largely in Miami. However, considering Miamis economic conditions in the early 1960s and the large numbers of Cubans fleeing the island, resettlement away from South Florida (in our case to Minnesota) was a better choice in many ways. In a 1963 report on the Cuban Refugee Program, John F. Thomas writes, The difficulties which refugees face in Miami and the importance of the resettlement program are highlighted by the fact that about 58 percent of the refugees in Miami require financial assistance compared with less than 5 percent of those resettled [elsewhere]. Economic independence was key.

Even the grass is different here, my father thought as Al Lauer drove to a church reception. My father didnt share the observation with his hosts.

He was remembering Cojmar, the fishing village where he and my mother had bought property on a hilltop. His cousin Raul had designed the modern house that overlooked the bay. The constant breezes onto Cubas north coast were delicious. The house benefited from them. When my parents bought the property, they believed there was no better place in the world to live. They planned to be buried there.

That place was gone.

More specifically, they had left it. They opted for freedoms for themselves and for their children, freedoms that would be denied under the new regime.

Forty-five minutes after our initial flight out of the country, we landed in Miami. In many ways, though work was scarce, Miami was comfortable as far as identifying culturally and politically. Its climate was similar to Cubas. The beaches were good. Thousands like us flew into town every month. The Spanish language returned to Florida. Most of the familiar tropical fruits and root vegetables were available. Native Miamians and retired Northerners in South Florida began adjusting to our arrival. If they couldnt, they listed their homes and moved to Broward County or even farther north.