This 3rd day of September will be a very special anniversary for the Sanchez family. As we will celebrate our 61st year in the United States, for the Sanchez family it is a celebration of living in freedom in the greatest country ever created.
September 3, 1962, holds a special meaning for my family; it is a day my mother, brothers and I will never forget. It is the date my mom, two older brothers and I left behind the tyranny of Castro’s Socialist Cuba to come to the freedom of the United States. This year marks the 61st anniversary of that day.
My father fled Cuba in 1961 on a cargo ship bound for Spain to escape communists who were after him.
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My mother stayed behind with me and my two older brothers, Juan, who at 10 years old was now the man of the house, and Guillermo, age 9, in the house that she and my father had built in the suburbs of Havana. Goons from Cuba’s revolutionary army would come by at all times of the day and night to harass my mom.
They would call her names and shout at her that she would lose her home soon and that we were traitors to the communist revolution. My two older brothers were always at my mom’s side when the soldiers came, helping her and standing strong with her.
When Castro closed all the country’s Catholic schools, my mom pulled my two brothers from the public schools. My mom did not want her sons to attend public schools where the children were being indoctrinated by the communists to believe in Fidel as the Supreme Being and that there was no God.
My father, who stayed in Spain for just a few months after his arrival, was eventually granted political asylum in the United States and immediately began the paperwork to have us leave on one of the Freedom Flights President Kennedy had arranged for Cuban families seeking freedom in the United States.
Waiting to be reunited
As a young boy, I would often ask my mother where papa was. She always replied that I would see him again soon, but he was always close in my heart. Not long after my father began to work on having our family removed from Cuba, my mother — who told me this story — finally received the good news that she would be able to leave Cuba with her three sons.
For many months she had fought with Cuba’s communist government to allow Juan, my eldest brother, to leave the country with us. (The Cuban government wanted Juan to stay behind since he was 10 years old and could soon begin military training and communist indoctrination.) My mom won — she is one tough lady when she has to be.
Today she is 92 and loves America with all her heart. When I awoke the morning of Sept. 3, 1962, I had no idea what would happen to my family and me on that day.
My mom grabbed a few family photographs, a dress and one set of clothing for each of her three boys and stuffed everything into one small suitcase.
The communist government did not allow us to leave with any possessions such as money, jewelry or anything else, just that one small suitcase for four people.
That day was one of mixed emotions for my mother. On the one hand, she wanted to rejoin her husband in the United States so her three children could be raised in freedom. Cuba had become a nation without freedom of religion or speech and a land of tyranny.
On the other hand, she would leave her home, the land she loved and had never expected to leave. She would also be leaving behind her aging parents and her brothers and sisters, not knowing if she would ever see them again.
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On that morning, my mom, my brothers and I went outside our house so that Pepe, a family friend, could take us to the airport for the 1:00 p.m. Cubana Airlines flight to Miami. As my grandparents hugged and kissed us, my mom hugged her father, mother, brothers and sisters for what would be the last time in her life — I cannot even imagine this experience, can you?
As we sat in the back seat of the car, my mom turned in her seat to look through the back window to wave goodbye to her parents, family members and friends. After being searched by Cuban soldiers, we boarded the plane and were on our way to freedom. One of the few things I do remember was seeing the ground below as the airplane took off.
Arrival in the United States
We arrived in Miami before 2:00 p.m. and were immediately taken to immigration processing at the Freedom Tower (the old Miami News building on Biscayne Boulevard) where we received our medical shots, a toothbrush and toothpaste. The U.S. government placed us at the Tamiami Hotel in downtown Miami for the next two nights.
On Sept. 5, we took a flight to New York City to rejoin our father. When we got off the plane at LaGuardia, my father was waiting. He hugged my mom, brothers and me so hard while crying.
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Years later, my brother Juan told me that was the first time he had ever seen our papa cry. Our family had been reunited in freedom.
Living in freedom
Less than 30 days after we arrived in the United States, the Cuban Missile Crisis began and all Freedom Flights from Cuba were canceled.
Although my family never thought, nor even desired to leave Cuba, my parents accepted political asylum in this great country and were always grateful that America opened her arms to them.
My father had, and my mom continues to have, a deep love for the United States. They never protested against any policy of this country and they always obeyed her laws.
They viewed themselves as guests during the early years following our arrival, but after years passed, and the possibility of returning to their beloved Cuba faded, they proudly became citizens of America. Years later I would serve in our military to say thank you to America.
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My parents never accepted any form of welfare or aid; they both worked in the most menial jobs you can imagine, around the clock, to provide for their children.
My mom was a housewife in Cuba, but here she worked in a factory making plastic coolers and bags in the Bronx.
My father started working at Incarnation Catholic Church in Manhattan as a maintenance man and worked at Merrill Lynch at night cleaning offices.
They never complained or asked, "Why me?" We had a comfortable middle-class lifestyle in Cuba before it all crumbled as Castro’s communist revolution seized all private property.
My parents taught me that freedom is something you never take for granted, you cherish it, you fight for it and you share it.
If I ever have a "bad hair day," the mere thought of my parents’ experience puts things back into perspective.
I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful I am to my parents and to this great country, the United States and look forward to celebrating this special anniversary for our family.
