Nestor Perea

I left my homeland, Cuba, when I was seven years old. Being that young I did not fully understand what was occurring other than that we were taking a big trip to Mexico City.

There was a lot of conversation between my lovely mother and relatives discussing the trip details, preparations, and visits from uncles, aunts, cousins and friends. It felt festive, but I am sure many tears were shed. Why all these visitors, hugs and kisses? Indeed, this was puzzling to me since I believed this would be a pleasure trip not a permanent move to the United States.

My father had left the prior year, staying in touch with us through postcards and letters with pictures of him on a snowy Chicago street. I loved my father and these images fascinated me. Gone almost a year, he attempted to keep us happy by including the occasional stick of gum in the envelope. However, those letters were held at the local post office.

I clearly remember being at the post office while the clerk opened one that held something in addition to the handwritten page from my father. I watched the clerk open the envelope, pull out the stick of gum and toss it into the trash. It was disappointing seeing Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit or Doublemint sticks tossed. Yes, revolutionaries can be heartless. In the end, the letters with the gum ceased.

The day of our departure we awakened before dawn. I think that was the first time I was forced to get out of bed so early. My room was still dark, the air conditioner softly humming, cool air sweeping across my body. But I arose quickly, excited to take a Pan Am airplane trip. Although a short flight from Havana to Mexico City I begged my mother to let me have the window seat. I am sure that my two sisters also wanted window seats, but I no longer recall who sat where. It all seemed a vivid dream, and does even today 60 years later.

As required by the revolutionary government, we could only take two sets of clothes. I cared more about the many toys to pack. When my mother saw my assorted toys, she had me reduce them to a few. I complained, but didn’t argue even though there was so much room in the suitcase.

I sat on my bed staring at my toys. But which ones to take? A challenging process of elimination. My aunt stood at my bedroom door, “Nestor Enrique” as I was called, “es hora de salir para el aeropuerto.”

“Sí Tia, ya voy” I replied. I grabbed my little green 1920 4 1/2 liter Bentley Matchbox car and my M. Hohner harmonica, my teeth marks visible on the mouthpiece.

I placed the little car and harmonica on top of my favorite shirt-blue, black and gray with short sleeves-and closed my suitcase.

Those three items unwittingly predicted the person I am today: sports car enthusiast and fan of music and fashion.