Out at Miami Beach, their towels spread out on the sand so they could lie down and soak up tans, Juan finally decided to broach the topic to Arturo.
“The summer’s nearly over and you never made any effort to enroll in summer school,” said Juan, pushing up on his elbows and looking at Arturo stretched out on his stomach.
“I’ve been busy working. Don’t you know?”
“I’m well aware of what you’ve been doing, instead of what was importante. If you had looked at the situation clearly and focused like a responsible person, you would have the diploma by now.”
“Is that what this is about?” Arturo rolled over to face Juan. “The fact that I’d rather work and make money for mi familia than sit through some stupid freshman courses? I passed all my classes my senior year. Why does it matter that I failed some lousy English and History courses my first and second year?”
“Because that’s the way the system works,” said Juan, his voice critical, instructional. “You need twenty-four credits. You have twenty-two. The ones you don’t have were from your first two years. They offer make-up opportunities over the summer, but you haven’t focused for a single second to complete those easy classes.”
“I’m certainly not making any progress with you.”
“Don’t cry to me about your frustration. I’m the one who deserves to be frustrated! You think everything is about you. I’ve been working my ass off trying to prepare for mi futuro and you’re just wasting away your days.”
“I’m not wasting anything!”
“Neither am I,” exclaimed Juan.
“Qué? You work for your mother, in her store. A mama’s boy!”
“You’re just like my mother! Selfish and self-centered!”
Juan rose from his towel and put on his shirt. He was ready to leave as the mighty sun pressed down upon them. Feeling dizzy, Juan asked himself, what am I doing with Arturo?
“Juan, please, you mean so much to me,” said Arturo, standing up to face Juan with the leveling baby blueness of his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve put forth no effort, but I promise I’ll take the courses. While you start college and your dream of being a lawyer someday, I’ll go to school at night in the fall and get the dumb credits. I promise.”
“Arturo, why can’t you see how much easier it would have been this summer. The semesters are so short. Now you’ll have to spend twice as long, twice as much work.”
“If that’s what you want?” His blue eyes were begging for mercy, for understanding.
“Stop trying to turn this on me. It should be what you want, for your futuro.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll finish the diploma, if that’s what it takes to stay with you, to not lose you.”
“You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Not showing responsibility and then charming your way back in. I cannot be with someone who is always trying to play catch up.”
“That hurts,” said Arturo, taking Juan’s doughy face in his hands. “You have no compassion.”
“I just want you to do what’s best for you,” said Juan, trying to avoid Arturo’s attempt to give him a kiss.
“What’s best for you and me. How’s that sound?” asked Arturo.
“I need you to focus on your future.”
Did he have no compassion? Impossible, Juan thought. He wanted to be an attorney to help people, to fight injustice. He lay awake in his bed that night thinking about who he was as a human being: intelligent, caring, driven. But was he turning into an egoist, into someone no one wanted to be with because he expected too much? His own father had made the mistake of making his career more important than the other things in his life he cared about. Juan considered how much did he really care about Arturo? He had given the first part of himself to Arturo, and yet Arturo just seemed to take him for granted. That must be it: giving and taking, love’s creaky hammock. He always felt as though he was about to twist right out. He thought about his brother having to leave Emilia behind. It must not have been easy. But now he had Guadalupe. He thought of his father’s loveless marriage to his mother. It must not have been easy. He thought again of Arturo, and the only thing Juan felt was that his time and patience were wearing thin with him. How his father had found so much patience to deal with his mother, he would never know. He loved his dear father, still trapped in Cuba.
* * *
Chapter 27
Their father had said a year, but by July of 1960 Florencio had given nearly eighteen months of labor in the cane fields, and still he had no good news to relay to his sons of when he might be granted his release to join them in Miami. The obvious reason for this was that the situation of trying to leave Cuba had been tightening up ever since April when Fidel attended the twenty-third session of the United Nations in New York City and played up the media as though he was rehearsing for his own sitcom comedy, or drama, depending on how one viewed his antics. To start off with, he claimed that his ragtag delegation of former guerilla fighters turned diplomats had been discriminated against in Manhattan, so he insisted they stay in a hotel in Harlem to be closer to their “Negro brothers.” On the very next day, he stirred up more notoriety by meeting with Malcolm X and his Muslim brethren for an evening of political bonding in Central Park. But the overriding event that drew the most concern for Americans and Cubanos alike was when Fidel posed for flashing cameras with Soviet Prime Minister Nikita Khrushchev. Dressed in his customary dark suit with a white tie, the portly Khrushchev sported a huge gap-toothed smile as he embraced the dashing exuberance of Fidel, who was dressed in a clad, freshly-pressed set of olive-green fatigues with sterling regalia. The sixty-six year old Khrushchev—the rotund wonder of Soviet politics—looked dwarfish standing next to the much taller Castro, the thirty-four year old Caribbean Prince of Cuba’s Revolución, the brash young leader intent on defying American imperialism. At six foot four, the charismatic Fidel had to bend over Khrushchev’s bald, shiny pate as he wrapped his arm around the boisterous Russian, their embrace meant to reflect a son and father reuniting after a long separation.
On the following day, Fidel cheered when Premier Khrushchev took the rostrum at the United Nations to deliver his threat-laden speech to the general assembly about how American imperialism was endangering world peace. Later that evening, out of gratitude for Cuba’s resolute support, Khrushchev opened the Soviet embassy for a special dinner with Fidel and his delegation. The media immediately began to issue reports about the developments of a secret alliance between the Russians and the Cubans. So by the next afternoon, the galleries were packed with standing room only for Fidel’s inaugural address to the United Nations. He promised brevity but instead never considered stopping once he started—his index finger pointing and knifing through the air, his messianic beard bobbing, as he ranted and raved against America. And four and a half hours later, he finished delivering the longest speech in the history of the U.N. Only the Russians sat through every bombastic word from Fidel’s speech about how Cubanos only sought to have a sovereign nation free to make its own choices. And two days later only the Russians offered to fly Fidel and his ragtag delegation back home to Havana after the United States impounded Cuba’s aircraft as payment for a debt the Eisenhower administration claimed the Cuban government owed to a Miami advertising firm. To compile atop all of that week’s theatrics, less than a month later Eisenhower instituted an embargo.
Juan and Alberto—along with their grandparents, mother, and Cuca—watched these events unfold on the nightly news, and they read the details in the Miami Herald each morning. They were worried with how the arrogant and blatant disregard for peace on both sides would affect Florencio’s chances of gaining release to join them in America. Will we ever see our father again, the brothers asked themselves? Their grandfather put his hands on their shoulders and told them to be patient and not to lose hope. Secretly, Huberto and Evelina both lamented that without peace they may never see their son again. Lucretia, too, was silen
t as though stunned with incomprehension about how the rendition of events had played out to such ridiculous showmanship between Castro and the U.S. over the previous week. As for Cuca, she looked sad, her soul burdened with her own worries about the possibility of never seeing her own family again. They all knew that what was needed was a U.S. president who wanted to work with Fidel and the Russians. Eisenhower most certainly wasn’t the prototype chief negotiator to do so. He was an old, wily war general who didn’t have the patience or the vision and wherewithal to make peace a necessity.
So relations among Cuba, Russia, and the U.S. teetered on shaky grounds as the presidential conventions began to heat up in July. A real need for a delicate line of compromise between rigid toughness and sensible peace hung in the balance for many Americans. And what millions of peace-seekers across the country wanted, they instantly found in the young candidate vying for the Democratic nomination. Born of privilege and wealth, celebrated as the war hero he was, recognized for the Pulitzer Prize he won, and married to a beautiful woman any man would envy, forty-two year old Massachusetts Senator John F. Kennedy was in many ways a revelation. He had sparkly white teeth, a full head of thick russet hair, and a disarming smile to coincide with his mesmerizing Irish lilt that made you want to cherish every word he uttered. But once the superfluous layers of his image were peeled back—his effective good looks and celebrity-like buffer—they paled instantly in comparison to the heartfelt integrity of the message of peace he preached: a vision of world unity and a community of levelheaded nations. On the other side of the political ledger was the bedrock figure of Republicanism, Richard “Tricky Dick” Nixon, who was also trying to rally the nation with a platform of peace under a stalwart position of toughness.
But with the election four months away, neither Kennedy nor Nixon wanted to make overtures that typecast their policies as anything other than aggressive against the socialist declarations of Castro. The media, however, remained unconvinced of Kennedy’s attempt at hard-line rhetoric. With his literary, prose-style speeches in which he often invoked ancient philosophers such as Archimedes or iconic statesmen such as Lincoln, his critics questioned whether the former war hero—who spoke so freely and easily of wanting peace—had the hardnosed knack of a leader ready to take whatever steps were necessary to confront the snappish Castro and the conniving Khrushchev.
In the eyes of Juan and Alberto, however, Kennedy’s embodiment of hopeful optimism was exactly what they wanted to trust in, and they believed Fidel would respond to someone like JFK whose passion for peace flowed as strongly through his words as the fervor for sovereignty did through El Comandante’s speeches. The brothers only wanted to see their father again, and if either presidential candidate possessed the courage and mentality to build peace between nations, the brothers believed Kennedy could do it more so than Nixon. Juan began to observe, however, that the sly subterfuge of politics made it nearly impossible for JFK to convey how he truly felt, so the young Massachusetts candidate was more often than not compelled into announcing an unwavering opposition to Castro, a policy that made his charm devolve into rhetoric sounding more martial than Eisenhower.
But Juan believed he listened more carefully than the average person, and he liked what he heard of Kennedy’s vision for America: a country confident and untiring in its mission to defend freedom. Kennedy spoke of facing “postponed problems” with a persevering spirit to place one’s self in the middle of the struggle, to make a difference in what he deemed the “New Frontier” of the 1960s. It was that “frontier of unfulfilled hopes” of which Kennedy spoke of as he accepted the Democratic nomination for the candidacy of the presidency in July that convinced Juan and Alberto, along with many Americans, that John F. Kennedy was unlike any politician before him. Juan, in particular, became so enamored with the young candidate’s choice of words that he began to write them down, saving them in a spiral notebook he titled “I Trust JFK.” Yet Juan knew that preserving and believing in what Kennedy said was not enough. JFK preached sacrifice, urgency, and the need to commit to something larger than yourself. With so much at stake with their father trapped in Cuba until some type of peace settlement set him free, Juan and Alberto knew they had to do something more than think positively.
So on the following Saturday morning after the Democratic convention wrapped up, Juan and Alberto committed themselves to the Kennedy cause by showing up at Kennedy’s Miami campaign headquarters downtown near the corner of Brickell and Tamiami Trail. They entered the storefront office to a cacophony of ringing phones, voices talking over each other, and typewriters tapping away. When a secretary asked what she could help them with, they responded that they wanted to volunteer on the Kennedy campaign. Hearing that volunteers were in the office, one of the managers at a desk behind the counter jumped up from his cushioned chair and asked their names and where they were from. After the brothers introduced themselves and stated that they were from Cuba, the manager wanted to shake their hands. He began talking to them as though he’d been their friend for years. He ushered them to a table behind the counter and pointed out that they needed to “fill out some information forms.” A half hour later, the manager briefed them about how to hand out campaign buttons, pins, pamphlets, music records, and posters. He told them their ability to speak Spanish would be an invaluable asset to the Kennedy cause. He also instructed them not to debate politics as they distributed the campaign memorabilia. Instead, the manager told them to say, “I represent Kennedy for president. If you want to know more about his platform, please attend his rallies on October 18 at either the 163rd Street Shopping Center or at the Bandshell on North Beach.”
At ten o’clock sharp, Juan and Alberto hopped in the back seat of a transport van that was headed to their campaigning destination at Lincoln Road’s outdoor shopping mall. Their driver assisted them with setting up a campaign table. Stretched and draped along the front of the table was a gigantic banner that hung down to an inch off the ground. In bolded blue letters, the banner read “KENNEDY FOR PRESIDENT.” Their driver also helped them unload their half-dozen boxes of campaign tokens to hand out. Packed in one box was a limited supply of fifty 45 rpm records, which played a special version of Frank Sinatra’s hit single “High Hopes.” After the song was over, the record continued on to play a personal message from the iconic singer asking everyone to vote for Kennedy because he’s the only one with “high hopes.” Their driver told them to reserve giving out the records until they encountered voters who claimed they were still weighing their vote. “Sway them with a free record. It’s persuasive,” the driver told them. Alberto sat the box under the table so he could pull one out when an undecided voter came his way.
In the other boxes, there was seemingly an unlimited supply of campaign buttons and pins that they could give away to whomever they wanted. One button they handed out by the hundreds was a rectangular shape with three flag stripes. The red stripe across the top read “Leadership for the 60s.” The white stripe blazoned through the middle served as the backdrop for the black and white photos of both the president and the vice president hopefuls facing each other with enormous smiles of confidence. The bottom blue stripe had their names bolded and capped: “KENNEDY & JOHNSON.” A second button was a circle that sported a single black and white photo of the wide-smiling Kennedy, and the circumference edge of the button was colored in three equal sections of red, white, and blue, respectively. They also handed out pins symbolic of Jack’s war heroics. Each pin was a small replica of a PT 109 boat, the one Jack commanded during the war. In addition, the Ramos brothers each had a box of smaller notebook-size posters of Kennedy. Finally, they had a box of pamphlets outlining Kennedy’s agenda for peace in the New Frontier of the 1960s.
Juan attached a PT boat pin to the left hand corner of his white guayabera and said to his brother, “The more I learn about Kennedy’s heroics in the South Pacific, the more amazing it seems how his survival occurred near the same waters as Abuelo Gabriel.”
“Yeah, it’s cool, but I know we’re supporting him for more than just that reason. Right?” asked Alberto.
“Absolutely!” replied his brother.
Nonetheless, Jack’s story of survival and courage in the Solomon Islands was inspiring, and the media never ceased with recounting the triumphant details that captivated Americans. As a Lieutenant Skipper, Jack had commanded a PT boat assigned to hunt down Japanese vessels. One night while on reconnaissance, a two-thousand ton enemy destroyer named the Amagiri appeared like a hulking monster out of the blackness of the midnight hour and plowed through the hull of PT 109, splitting the boat in half. Jack was slammed against the bow. A vortex of pain centered on his damaged spinal column. Yet after peeling himself off the steel rim of the bow, he dove into the fiery waters and saved several of his crewmates. He then guided all the survivors of the wreck safely to shore, and kept them alive for days until he carved a rescue message into the rind of a coconut and sent a group of native islanders to find help.
The Ramos Brothers Trust Castro and Kennedy Page 21
