Maria L Muniz was born in 1958. She and her family came to the United States in 1963. In 1978 she graduated from New York University. She has written and edited many articles and books. In this 1979 essay, “Back, but Not Home” Muniz describes her feelings about returning to Cuba.
With all the talk about resuming diplomatic relations with Cuba, and with the increasing number of Cuban exiles returning to visit friends and relatives, I am constantly being asked, "Would you ever go back?" In turn, I have asked myself, “Is there any reason for me to go?” I have had to think long and hard before finding my answer. Yes.
I came to the United States with my parents when I was almost five years old. We left behind grandparents, aunts, uncles and several cousins. I grew up in a very middle-class neighborhood in Brooklyn. With one exception, all my friends were Americans. Outside of my family, I do not know many Cubans. I often feel awkward visiting relatives in Miami because it is such a different world. The way of life in Cuban Miami seems very strange to me and I am accused of being too “Americanized.” Yet, although I am now an American citizen, whenever anyone has asked me my nationality, I have always and unhesitatingly replied “Cuban.”
Outside American, inside Cuban
I recently had a conversation with a man who generally sympathizes with the Castro regime. We talked of Cuban politics and although the discussion was very casual, I felt an old anger welling inside. After 16 years of living an “American” life, I am still unable to view the revolution with detachment or objectivity. I cannot interpret its results in social, political or economic terms. Too many memories stand in my way.
And as I listened to this man talk of the Cuban situation, I began to remember how as a little girl I would wake up crying because I had dreamed of my aunts and grandmothers and I missed them. I remembered my mother’s trembling voice and the sad look on her face whenever she spoke to her mother over the phone. I thought of the many letters and photographs that somehow were always lost in transit. And as the conversation continued, I began to remember how difficult it often was to grow up Latina in an American world.
It meant going to kindergarten knowing little English. I’d been in this country only a few months and although I understood a good deal of what was said to me, I could not express myself very well. On the first day of school I remember one little girl’s saying to the teacher: “But how can we play with her? She’s so stupid she can’t even talk!” I felt so helpless because inside I was crying, “Don’t you know I can understand everything you’re saying?” But I did not have words for my thoughts and my inability to communicate terrified me.
As I grew a little older, Latina meant being automatically relegated to the slowest reading classes in school. By now my English was fluent, but the teachers would always assume I was somewhat illiterate or slow. I recall one teacher’s amazement at discovering I could read and write just as well as her American pupils. Her incredulity astounded me. As a child, I began to realize that Latina would always mean proving I was as good as the others. As I grew older, it became a matter of pride to prove I was better than the others.
As an adult I have come to terms with these memories and they don’t hurt as much. I don’t look or sound very Cuban. I don’t speak with an accent and my English is far better than my Spanish. I am beginning my career and look forward to the many possibilities ahead of me.
But a persistent little voice is constantly saying, “There’s something missing. It’s not enough.” And this is why when I am now asked, “Do you want to go back?” I say “yes” with conviction.
I do not say to Cubans, “It is time to lay aside the hurt and forgive and forget.” It is impossible to forget an event that has altered and scarred all our lives so profoundly. But I find I am beginning to care less and less about politics. And I am beginning to remember and care more about the child (and many others like her) who left her grandma behind. I have to return to Cuba one day because I want to know that little girl better.
When I try to review my life during the past 16 years, I almost feel as if I’ve walked into a theater right in the middle of a movie. And I’m afraid I won’t fully understand or enjoy the rest of the movie unless I can see and understand the beginning. And for me. the beginning is Cuba. I don’t want to go “home” again; the life and home we all left behind are long gone. My home is here and I am happy. But I need to talk to my family still in Cuba.
Like all immigrants, my family and I have had to build a new life from almost nothing. It was often difficult, but I believe the struggle made us strong. Most of my memories are good ones.
But I want to preserve and renew my cultural heritage. I want to keep “la Cubana” within me alive. I want to return because the journey back will also mean a journey within. Only then will I see the missing piece.
QUESTION 1
Some people think of the past as “the good old days” and dream of going back. However, as Maria Muniz, the author of Back, but Not Home, says “the life and home we all left behind are long gone.” Even if we could physically go back — to that life, that country, that relationship — we would not be back. Do you think it is possible to go back to the way things were?
QUESTION 2
Individuals need to know their ethnic backgrounds and be familiar with their cultural heritage in order for them to feel complete and to develop a strong sense of self. Write an essay describing your opinion on this issue.
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