The Jeffreys were originally from Texas. To liberals the place probably denotes religious nuts in Waco and sadistic yahoos dragging people to their death behind pick-up trucks. To us it's Mrs. Jeffrey with her big basket of food, and more importantly, with her big Texas smile. A few days later she took my mother shopping with her. Next day she consoled her during another sob-fest.
Mr. Jeffrey was a WWII vet and knew some Spanish. I'll never forget him sitting next to my mother, swerving from fiery rage to silent sympathy while apologizing to her in a heavy Texas twang for JFK's Bay of Pigs backstab- as if it was his doing, as if he hadn't done enough for others' freedom already!
But as Mr. Jeffrey saw it that was his flag on those ships off the Cuban coast in April 1961, his flag on the planes overhead. And his President who gave them the order to scram as Soviet artillery and armor poured in and Cuban patriots fought to the last bullet. Mr. Jeffrey had seen our flag go up over Manila. Dozens of his buddies who helped carry it fell along the way. He saw what that fluttering canvas meant to the delirious crowds who screamed and wept and cheered, knowing that freedom was at hand. The thought of it ordered to betray a freedom fight enraged and sickened him.
The following week comes another knock......"AAHH!!.... Something's on FIRE outside! Is that a burning CROSS?!
No it's Mr Simpson's Bar-B-cue. He always liked a BIG fire. (Remember Eddie Murphy's early skit about his uncle Gus Bar-B-Cueing? "Now THAT'S a FIRE!”)
That always reminded me of our upstairs neighbor Mr Simpson’s fire. It was Mrs Simpson at the door, asking us over---in that hilarious (to us) Southern drawl--to share in that mountain of chicken and burgers the Simpsons and Jeffreys were scorching to celebrate America’s birthday. The Simpson's hailed from Birmingham. To liberals, no doubt, that's exclusively the land of Bull Connor and fire hoses and nothing more.
Our new neighbors knocked often. And this was in the very gizzard of the "bigoted" and "hate-filled" South. When you've just fled a Stalinist hell with the clothes on your back, when you find yourself in a strange land, penniless and not knowing the language, when nights are a sleepless, mind-churning marathon of worries: "did uncle Pepe fall to the firing squad this dawn? Is cousin Manolo still in hiding? Where's the next meal coming from? - how on earth will we pay for the kids schooling?" with all this going on, that stuff helps, believe me. (I speak here for my parent's generation. I was seven years old. Seemed like a Disney adventure to me.)
Later in the suburbs another family became even more special. Years before, the lady had worked at a local plant riveting the hulls on the famous Higgins boats, designed in New Orleans for Oil companies to traverse the shallow coastal marshes, then tweaked for work on such as Omaha Beach and Iwo Jima
These were "the boats that won WWII," according to Ike. One such boat carried her fiancé to shore at Salerno, another at Omaha Beach. He clambered out of yet another Higgins boat after crossing the Rhine, where a burst from a German machine gun riddled his legs.
Almost 40 years later I watched him limping up the aisle, grimacing slightly with each step. Then he broke into a huge smile-- while handing me his daughter as a bride.
We landed in the South, but I've heard compatriots relate similar stories literally "from sea to shining sea."
Nobody called them "the Greatest Generation" back then. I guess the perspective wasn't there in the 60's. But thousands of then-destitute Cubans recall them as "el pueblo que nos abrio los brazos" (The people who opened their arms to us.)
Humberto Fontova holds an M.A. in Latin American Studies from Tulane University and is the author of four books including his latest, The Longest Romance; The Mainstream Media and Fidel Castro. For more information and for video clips of his Television and college speaking appearances please visit www.hfontova.com.
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