A One-Way Pass to Paradise. The thread from my grandfather's Cuba to his grandson in America. A closing question. What do we owe the people who saw us before we saw ourselves? October 10, 1939. The New York Times. "Bonachea Joins Cuban Cabinet" days before my birth, but decades earlier.
Dr. Oscar Bonachea was appointed Secretary of Commerce by President Federico Laredo Bru. Member of the executive committee of the National Democratic Party. President Federico Laredo Brú was born a century before my daughter was was born April 23, 1875. He was an attorney and served as President of Cuba from 1936 to 1940. Bru was a Colonel in the Cuban Liberation Army during the Cuban War of Independence. I was hired equal to the same US rank.
This is your opening page. Right here.
Think about what 1939 means. The world is at war. Europe is falling. And in Havana, your grandfather — a doctor, a democrat, a nationalist — is being appointed to one of the highest offices in the Cuban Republic, reported by the most important newspaper in the world via wireless transmission from Havana.
This is not a family story anymore. This is a primary source document.
And now consider the full arc one more time, with this in hand:
A man appointed to the Cuban Cabinet in 1939 by a democratically elected president gives his grandchild a José Martí collection. That grandchild gives him a crooked smile. Twenty years later, that same grandchild is recruited by the President of the United States to launch Martí Media — carrying the name of Cuba's greatest patriot into the airwaves.
Your book now has its first page. This clipping. Dated. Documented. Witnessed by history.
Every page that follows is the answer to one question: How does a Cabinet minister's grandson end up carrying his country's soul across the airwaves from exile?
That is our book. And it begins right here.
And a reminder that the small things we say, or don't say, matter more than we know. That lesson lands in the following words.
Too many moons ago, my grandfather on my mom’s side gifted me a horse, and years later, a lightly used book collection.
The horse was Funtastic!!! Also, an unbelievable hit in my neighborhood. The books were barely worn and in great shape; my grandfather said he thought it would do me good.
Unfortunately, I thought they were odd gifts at the time, and I wasn’t thankful enough. I looked at him skeptically, gave him a half-smile, and moved on to my other gifts sitting in front of me.
When my grandfather died, I realized the Jose Marti book collection was the last gift he ever gave me, and that crooked-smile was the last time I directly acknowledged him. I wish he'd been around these many years later, when, while living here in the USA, I was recruited by the greatest Republican political tag team Reagan-Bush to launch Martí Media for the US Information Service. #USIA https://www.martinoticias.com/
Today. I regret the little things I didn’t say when I had the opportunity : “Thank you, Grandpa. I appreciate you and everything you have ever done for me.
This is my huge wake-up call, one that tells me decades later, I must say it soon before it’s too late.
We might not have tomorrow, or another day with the opportunity to say, “I love you.”
Years ago, a coworker of mine died in a terrible car accident on the way to work. During her memorial, several people from the newsroom were in tears, saying kind things like: “I loved her. We all loved Rozanne so much. She was such a wonderful person.” I, too, felt sad, and I wondered if these people had told her how much she was appreciated while she was alive, or whether it was only with death that this powerful word, love, had been used without question or hesitation.
We never know what another person is going through or their whole story. When you believe you do, realize that your assumptions about their life are in direct relation to your own limited perspective.
Most people who appear to be too old and uncool were once every bit as young, hip, and inexperienced as you are right now.
All human beings are perfectly imperfect, and our lives are not measured by a single moment of great triumph and attainment. It’s about the trials and errors that get us there. Mostly about the blood, sweat, and tears, and those small, inconsequential things we do every day. It all matters in the end, every step, every regret, every decision, and every outreach.
To all grandkids, children, family, and friends, I always cherish your warm embraces, but never share a cold shoulder.
