A few months after I took my first unassisted steps, my father’s unending desire to escape the shackles that imprisoned his body, mind and soul forced him to abandon his homeland in search of freedom.
My story is no different than the stories told by other immigrant daughters who find themselves straddling between two worlds, the world they know and remember and the world they imagine only through stories. I do not remember Varadero Beach, the sand or the pine trees that lined the coast. I do, however, remember my first day of school, my brother’s first appearance in my life after coming home from the hospital and our two story home in New Orleans, the only first home I remember and the one my parents purchased with great sacrifice just a couple of years after arriving in the United States. The three cement steps leading up to the covered porch, the grand staircase, the small backyard…all of these images remain fresh on my mind. But of my birthplace there are no memories only fragmented stories with an array of indistinguishable characters, questionable plots, and obscure settings that I find difficult to grasp or comprehend.
There is one story, one of the very few stories told by my father on more than one occasion, that plays in my mind like a silent black and white movie. He rarely spoke of his country, what he had, what and who he lost or how he had suffered. Any information I gathered about my parents’ ordeals came from distant relatives I met later on in life. However, this one story was very important to my father, and so he found it necessary to occasionally remind me of our farewell visit to the beach before leaving the island where he took my shoes off while my mother complained and worried about the fate of my recently starched and ironed dress. He, of course, paid no attention to her and insisted on dipping my small feet in the water as the waves gently crossed our path. At this point in his story, he always seemed proud, elated in fact as if reliving the entire moment. Yet, soon a cynical grin would replace his smile and as he lowered his head, he pretended to give his next chapter little importance. Before walking away, he would end with “I knew we would never return.” He was right.
Making a pilgrimage to this foreign place almost seems impossible for me. I admit the idea of traveling there rarely crosses my mind, yet I know the day shall come when I must return to that beach if not for myself then for my father, for I know that although he never spoke the words or perhaps allowed himself to dream in color, deep in his soul hidden perhaps even from his own consciousness, he yearned for home.