Finding Manana : A Memoir of a Cuban Exodus

by Ojito, Mirta (Author)

• ISBN13: 9780143036609
• ISBN10: 0143036602
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2006-03-28
• Publisher: Penguin (Non-Classics)

Summary

New York Timesreporter Mirta Ojito melds the personal with the political in a moving account of her family’s departure from Cuba.” —People In this unforgettable memoir, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Mirta Ojito travels back twenty-five years to the event that brought her and 125,000 of her fellow Cubans to America: the 1980 mass exodus known as the Mariel boatlift. As she tracks down the long-forgotten individuals whose singular actions that year profoundly affected thousands on both sides of the Florida straits, she offers a mesmerizing glimpse behind Cuba’s iron curtain—and recalls the reality of being a sixteen-year-old torn between her family’s thirst for freedom and a revolution that demanded absolute loyalty. Recounting an immensely important chapter in the ever-evolving relationship between America and its neighbor to the south, Finding Mañanais a major triumph by one of our finest journalists. In this wonderful memoir, Ojito ransoms herself from the seductions of nostalgia and reclaims instead the beleageured Cuba of her childhood.” —The New York Times

Author Biography

Mirta Ojito was born in Cuba and came to the United States in 1980 in the Mariel boatlift. As Miami correspondent for the New York Times, she shared the 2000 Pulitzer Prize for national reporting for a series on race.

Table of Contents

Prologue	1	(10)
Worms Like Us	11	(24)
Bernardo Benes: Our Man in Miami	35	(22)
Butterflies	57	(18)
Hector Sanyustiz: A Way Out	75	(20)
Ernesto Pinto: An Embassy Under Siege	95	(26)
Unwanted	121	(14)
Napoleon Vilaboa: The Golden Door	135	(24)
Leaving Cuba	159	(28)
Captain Mike Howell: Sailing Manana	187	(28)
Tempest-Tost	215	(18)
Teeming Shore	233	(28)
With Open Arms	261	(8)
Epilogue	269	(10)
Acknowledgments	279	(6)
Notes	285	(12)
Index	297

Excerpts

From Finding Manana by Mirta Ojito

The police came May 7, 1980, when I was about to have lunch: a plain yogurt, sweetened with several spoonfuls of sugar, fried yellow plantains, and an egg and ketchup sandwich on half a loaf of Cuban bread. I was wearing a bata de casa, a housecoat, over my painstakingly ironed school uniform: a blue skirt with two white stripes around the bottom hem, signaling I was in eleventh grade, and a starched white poplin blouse, which I didn’t want to stain with grease.

I was just sitting down when I heard the steps on the stairs. Heavy, loud steps. One, two. One, two. One, one, two. I could tell they belonged to a woman and two men. Years of listening to people climb the twenty polished steps that led to our apartment had trained my ear for the idiosyncrasies of footsteps. By the way she paused after every other step, I knew the woman was our downstairs neighbor and la presidenta del comité, the president of the neighborhood watchdog committee. The men were agile and led the way. They skipped several steps and got to the door before I could alert my mother.

A knock.

On the red plastic clock above the television set it was fifteen minutes past eleven in the morning. I looked at my mother, who was straightening her skirt at the door to the bedroom, where she had been sewing a dress. Her maroon skirt was littered with pieces of yellow thread. I waited for a signal from her. She heard the knock too, but did not move. Then our neighbor spoke.

“Mirta,” she called out to my mother, a little out of breath. “Open up. It’s the police. You are leaving.”

My mother swallowed and opened the door. A burly officer, unshaven and dressed in olive green pants and a white T-shirt with large sweat rings under his arms, walked in. Without introducing himself, he read our names out loud: Orestes Maximino Ojito Denis, Mirta Hilaria Muñoz Quintana, Mirta Arely Ojito Muñoz, and Mabel Ojito Muñoz.

“Are these the names of the people who live here?” he asked. My mother, who had started to tremble, said yes.

“There is a boat waiting for you at the port of Mariel,” he said, pausing a bit to gauge our reaction. He went on, “Are you ready and willing to abandon the country at this time?”

“Yes,” my mother said, her voice merely a whisper.