This is why I am so annoyed and frustrated by much of the debate on immigration. It is absurd to hear statements like “immigrants don’t want to assimilate,” or “immigrants don’t want to become part of America, learn English.” On the contrary, when you are a recent immigrant, your love for America is possibly stronger than anybody else’s. You chose to come to America. You are not here because your parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents preceded you. It is the classic immigrant story, true just as much for Cuban Americans, Mexican Americans, Salvadoran Americans, as it was for Irish, Germans, Italians or any of the many other immigrant groups that have helped build this country. You choose America, you choose to leave your home because something went wrong. This country opens its arms to you, and you want to fight for your country. This is your country now; you belong to it, it belongs to you, equally as much as it does to your neighbor. Those who argue to the contrary should perhaps take a trip like mine to Alabama and Texas. There is much they can learn from such an experience.
Over 60 percent of Miami’s residents are foreign born. Our success can largely be attributed to this diversity. In fact, American cities with strong immigrant populations continue to outpace other cities in terms of economic growth. It is these cities that continue to serve as the economic engines of America. In my travels throughout the United States, I have been blessed with the opportunity to meet numerous immigrant families from all over the world. I have never heard any of them suggest that they want anything less than to be proud to be Americans, learning the English language, studying hard, and working to achieve the American Dream. And that’s the way it should be for all first generation Americans.
My parents were no different. Sure, they always wanted me to retain Spanish, to not lose other aspects of my culture, but they very much wanted me to become an American: to speak English better than anyone else, to win the spelling bees. If you believe otherwise, you are suggesting that these immigrant parents do not want the best for their children or that they do not want them to succeed, because in America if you tell your child not to bother with learning English, with education, with any of that stuff, just stay in your enclave—then you’re holding that child back. You’re not pushing that child to take advantage of all the opportunities America offers. The notion of a parent taking that position is ludicrous.
There is no doubt that the process of assimilation can be tough. When we first arrived in Miami, we went to “El Refugio,” the Cuban Refugee Center. The building, now called the Freedom Tower, is in public hands and has recently been designated a national historic landmark, two actions I led as mayor. It is Miami’s version of Ellis Island. At the Center, we were given army rations that included huge blocks of cheese. Not individual, Kraft-sized American cheese slices: these were huge, bigger than a brick. We were also given powdered milk, powdered eggs, and Spam. To this day, many Cubans refuse to eat Spam because of the connotation that “this is what we had to eat.” Of course, my mom, one of the greatest cooks in history, learned to make all kinds of dishes from Spam. It was our meat substitute. Instead of beef or pork chops, it was Spam. So we adjusted and were grateful that we had something to eat. By the way, I am one of the few who will still eat Spam.
When I was in second or third grade, my teacher, as part of the assimilation process, must have believed that every good American must like cottage cheese, celery, and biscuits. I could deal with the biscuits. The cottage cheese didn’t taste like much to me. The celery: forget it. The Cuban diet doesn’t include a lot of vegetables to begin with, let alone celery. The teacher, however, went around the class and instructed us to eat a stalk of celery. I refused. She grabbed the back of my head, stuck the celery stalk in my mouth, and said, “Bite!” So finally, I bit the crunchy stalk. I then ran to the bathroom and vomited. I was sent to the principal’s office since, of course, I was not being cooperative. To this day, I will not eat celery. If you cut it in tiny pieces and put it in a tuna sandwich, I will find it. I have built in radar that goes off anytime I’m within five miles of it.
The process of assimilation should not include the stripping away of your customs and your culture. Rather, it should welcome them.
CONCERNED ABOUT MY environment and my peers, my parents forced me to sit for an entrance exam at a private middle school: Belen Jesuit Prep School. The school, run by Jesuit priests, is the oldest Cuban school, having received its charter from Queen Isabella of Spain in 1854. It is Cuba’s equivalent of Exeter or Choate. Belen is very well known in the Cuban community, and today is one of Miami’s finest schools. Regrettably, one of our better-known graduates is Fidel Castro. Castro expelled the Jesuits from Cuba, causing them to relocate the school to a one classroom facility in downtown Miami.
I did my best to flunk the entrance exam.
Belen is an all-boy’s school. I really didn’t want to go to a school that did not have any girls—are you kidding me? Plus, there was the lure of the streets, and now they’re going to send me where? To a school run by priests? All-boys, too? No way. Yet somehow I was admitted.
By the time I enrolled, the school had moved to an old warehouse that had, among other things, been used as a dance studio. It was also rumored that Al Capone stored wines and liquor at the warehouse during Prohibition. Three hundred students were enrolled from grades seven through twelve, in a building that had no windows. Today Belen is located in the western end of Miami-Dade County in facilities that resemble a small college campus. Not quite the physical structure it had in Cuba, an imposing, Pentagon-like structure, but an excellent facility nevertheless, with far more amenities than when I attended.
Today’s students at Belen are obviously in a much better financial position than those who attended during my years. These students now include my children’s generation. For one thing, my generation can afford to buy our children cars. When I was growing up, a giant group of us would try to squeeze into an old Volkswagen. Only a handful of us, at most, had parents who could afford a car. In fact, I used to go out on dates in a dairy and produce truck that a friend would use during the day to make deliveries.
While at Belen, at age fourteen, I landed my first job through CETA, the Comprehensive Employment Training Act. This was a program designed to provide jobs for youngsters from families at or below the poverty level. I remember the threshold was really high, but I met it. I earned $1.10 an hour, working as a janitor after school at Belen. Every day, I would start immediately after school to clean and do some of my assigned homework before practice (I had practice every day after school year-round since I was playing sports every season) or I would return to clean after practice. Throughout high school, I worked as a janitor, including weekends and in some cases during the summer as well. I also worked as a stock boy at the auto parts factory where my parents worked because the pay was a little better, helping the family out with the money I earned.
The student population at Belen was very small. Each grade was divided into an A class and a B class. I am not sure if it was by design, but during my six years at Belen, the A class seemed to perform better academically. Many of their parents came from a professional class. Many had been doctors or lawyers in Cuba. Although they too were struggling during those early years, they at least had a foundation that would serve them well in ultimately returning to financial success in America. As a result, their children had been exposed to more and often had more resources.
As you might expect, the B class housed the sports jocks, who also had a more rounded street education. I started out in seventh and eighth grades as part of the B class, which included a friend who had played baseball with me since we were kids. We both were still lured by the streets, being troublemakers and getting into fights. Going into ninth grade, my coach, Mariano Loret de Mola, one of my dad’s oldest friends, took the two of us out of the B class and put us in the A class. I wasn’t happy about the transfer since all my friends were in the B class. I really felt more at ease with the sports crowd than I did with the smart kids.
But