-“ You are going to Richland, in Washington State”, said the camp director to me.
-“¿Como se come eso?” Literally: “How do you eat that?”. A slang question which meant one was confused and did not know absolutely anything about the matter at hand.
-”Well… that means you are going as far away as you can go in this country, without going into Alaska”
-“Am I going alone?”. The fear of, once again, breaking whatever minor roots we had been able to develop became suddenly very real and overpowering.
-“No. there will be 3 of you going from here, and 6 or 7 from other camps”. “I think you will like the family at whose home you will be staying”.
-“When are we leaving?”. “We need to get ready and I need to say my goodbyes”
-“Well, we would like to see you go no later than the second week of October, since the school year is already starting, and none of you can really afford to loose too much time”.
With this dialogue, my second major move in less than a year would begin. In trying to recapture the feeling of those days, I remember having the overwhelming sensation of being a pawn in a major parlor game, where the players and movers were totally unknown and hidden from me. The only troubling issue for me: it was my life that was being played out. As the years have passed, I have come to realize that this is not a foreign feeling throughout life; even those who think themselves as totally self contained, are really a part of the greater game. I guess, because of the circumstances, we just accepted this earlier in life than most.
That afternoon was spent more on reflection than on feeling anxious about the change and the new place where I would be going; that would come in due time. After all, I was by now a veteran of life, at my 16 years (just had had a birthday a couple of weeks before) was a proven traveler, or so I thought. I had been on a plane already (albeit for 45 minutes) and another trip was nothing. I looked up Hector, better known in camp as “Hercules”; he had come into the camp some 3-4 months before and we had struck a casual friendship then. He was to be one of the other two who were going from this camp, and I believe he had also been tagged to go to the place that had burned down and was waiting for relocation. Actually today, some 45 years later, after thinking him dead in Viet Nam, we have re-established contact and renewed the friendship that developed in Richland and now, stronger than ever before.
I’m not sure about those days we spent getting ready to travel. My sister had already gone, my ex girlfriend and her family had gone on to Louisiana, I had no friends in Miami, so my goodbyes were confined to the camp people who had become my family.
We found out that some additional people would go on to Washington State, but to different cities. One of them, Douglas, has just come back into my life not too long ago; he still lives there, near Seattle, now a retired country gentleman (not bad for a Cuban boy, huh?) after working many years for a major company.
Everything we did during those days had a sense of finality to it. Every game we played (even the one which popped my right knee, still bothering me once in a while today), every trip to downtown to outfit us for the trip, every jam session, every swimming race, every walk in the “jungle”, every moment of deep sadness which every so often came to me, when thinking about those left behind some time before… everything was treated as a unique happening. The final day in camp was coming, after having had almost 6 months of this transition period in my life, during which I saw many come and go.
We all had one bond, no matter where in the world we should end up: the pain of loss.Don't misunderstand, Nor is it pity or milking a bad situation for all it’s worth. It was our reality, as we felt it then. At ages 15/17, when we should have all been able to take our girlfriends to the movies, go to our schools, go to parties at our childhood's friends houses, spend holidays with family, have the security of knowing that at the end of the day there was a familiar home to which to return, there was none of this. In truth let it be said that there were many people who worked their tails off in order to help put some order back into our lives, and for this we will always be grateful. All of us, I am sure, are also extremely grateful for the opportunities found in our new home country. But the personal losses suffered at that early age, could not but mark us for the rest of our lives.
Our final day in camp was fast approaching. I looked up those who had becomed good friends, and spent time with them. Some would go on to foster homes elsewhere, some would be happily reunited with their families and end up in a city where there was a job to be done, some would turn too old to stay in camp and would have to go on their own in Miami. These last would have some help for a while from catholic welfare. Unfortunately, of most of these I have lost track of over the years. I truly hope they found their niche, their home, a new family of their own and a full life.
-“CHIQUITICO”… “no puede ser que te vas”. We all had our nicknames in camp. Thus Hector the bodybuilder was, of course, called Hercules. I, with a 6’2”, 200 pound body was called “little one”. “Little One” , “I can’t believe you are leaving” This was “chicharo” a short guy who had become a good friend to many of us. “please don’t forget us, even if we don’t see each other again”. I can say that, on both counts, that statement and request have come to be true.
We were already on the bus which was to take us to the airport. It was mid-morning and a beautiful, sunny day (fall in Miami… the best part of the year) and the bus was already loaded and ready to go. When I say loaded, this is in comparison to how we had arrived some months before. We actually had a suitcase each, full of clothes. We had also been given a warm overcoat (Boy, would we need this!!), a little bit of money, and many, many instructions. We travelled as a group, and I am sure there was someone in charge; I just don’t remember whom.
We left the camp in silence, each with our memories of the place we were now departing. It had become our home, family and, in reality, our world. We took these memories and kind of bound them in old hard leather, inside our hearts and minds. They are still there today, 47 years later. Not only of the place itself, but what it truly had meant to all of us.
On our way to the airport, we eventually broke into song and laughter. A little bit like saying –“we have mourned the departed, (in this case it was more like "we have departed the mourning") let us now continue on with our lives”.
And so we did.
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