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Take Me with You: A Secret Search for Family in a Forbidden Cuba, by Carlos Frias
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Carlos Frías, an award-winning journalist and the American-born son of Cuban exiles, grew up hearing about his parents' homeland only in parables. Their Cuba, the one they left behind four decades ago, was ethereal. It existed, for him, only in their anecdotes, and in the family that remained in Cuba -- merely ghosts on the other end of a telephone.
Until Fidel Castro fell ill.
Sent to Cuba by his newspaper as the country began closing to foreign journalists in August 2006, Frías begins the secret journey of a lifetime -- twelve days in the land of his parents. That experience led to this evocative, spectacular, and unforgettable memoir.
Take Me With You is written through the unique eyes of a first-generation Cuban-American seeing the forbidden country of his ancestry for the first time. Take Me With You provides a fresh view of Cuba, devoid of overt political commentary, focusing instead on the gritty, tangible lives of the people living in Castro's Cuba. Frías takes in the island nation of today and attempts to reconstruct what the past was like for his parents, retracing their footsteps, searching for his roots, and discovering his history. The book creates lasting and unexpected ripples within his family on both sides of the Florida Straits -- and on the author himself.
- Sales Rank: #1180603 in Books
- Brand: Brand: Atria Books
- Published on: 2009-11-17
- Released on: 2009-11-17
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.44" h x .80" w x 5.50" l, .78 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 304 pages
- Used Book in Good Condition
Review
"Take Me With You really does take you with it, on an unforgettable journey, not just to Cuba -- a forbidding place unlike any other on earth -- but also to that mysterious, nameless part of the human soul that yearns for home and for lasting bonds with kin. At once gritty and transcendent, this is one travelogue that soars. Frías lays bare his heart and in the process exposes the Cuba few tourists or journalists ever get to see: a labyrinth of ruins haunted by the ghosts of those who escaped from it." -- Carlos Eire, National Book Award-winning author of Waiting for Snow in Havana
"Carlos Frías pulls off a stunner. Take Me With You is more than a memoir. It's the immigrant's tale made whole -- leavened with compassion, spiced by family secrets, and driven by the hope that what was once broken can actually be pieced back together again. Yes, it's a portrait of Cuba today. But even better, Take Me With You holds up a mirror to America. Peer into it: I guarantee you'll find a piece of your family, your father, yourself here, too." -- S. L. Price, senior writer at Sports Illustrated and author of Pitching Around Fidel
"[Take Me With You] is a poignant personal journey in a superb debut book." -- The Indianapolis Star
"Take Me With You is a compelling narrative of a country that holds a strangely significant place in the minds of Americans." -- St. Petersburg Times
"Vividly descriptive and highly emotional, Frias' account will please those who know Cuban history, as well as the uninformed." -- Rocky Mountain News
"Frias's writing is emotional, his descriptions fresh." -- The Washington Post Book Review
"If you're Cuban-American, his story is yours. And if you're not Cuban-American, perhaps there's even more reason to dive into this honest insider's guide to the Cuban experience." -- Lydia Martin, The Miami Herald.
"It wouldn't matter if Frías was Irish or Italian or Martian. This is a compelling story about family. In its way, it's reminiscent of Rick Bragg's book about his mother, All Over but the Shoutin'. Like that book, it's a great story, well told. Frías's writing is elegant." -- William McKeen, Creative Loafing
"His very moving book, Take Me With You, reinforces my sense that by far the most enduring legacy of the Cuban revolution 50 years ago is the divided family." -- Lucy Ash of BBC Radio's "Outlook".
"With his sensitive, provocative, and mature portrait of the island his parents came from, Carlos Frías is in the forefront of la nueva nostalgia cubana." -- Tom Miller, author of Trading With the Enemy: A Yankee Travels Through Castro's Cuba
About the Author
Carlos Frías is a natural observer who spent his formative years as a journalist traveling the South, primarily as a sportswriter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. This "Southern Fried Cuban" has known the country on an intimate level.
Today a columnist and features writer for The Palm Beach Post, Frías says he is "assembled in America from Cuban parts." He grew up just north of the Dade-Broward County "border," born of Cuban exiles but raised among the "gringos" as Little Havana glittered in the distance.
Fully bilingual, he travels easily between those worlds. In 2006, he journeyed through Cuba, where he reported the basis for "Take Me With You," a five-part series of first-person stories about his family for which he was named the Best of Cox Newspapers Writer of the Year.
The judges called the series "storytelling that raises journalism to the level of art."
In 2012, he won three awards from the Society For Features Journalism for his work as a features writer and occasional columnist for The Palm Beach Post. One winning story on a family dealing with early-onset Alzheimer'swas republished across the country. While he was a sportswriter, the Associated Press Sports Editors awarded him eight top-10 awards in a span of five years for his work on in-depth features and investigative stories, including a first-place finish in 2007 for a story on former pitcher Major League pitcher Jeff Reardon.
Frías resides in Pembroke Pines, Fla., with his three daughters.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
DAY ONE
There is a shaking, a nervous vibration at my core.
I close my eyes in the taxi as it zips down Interstate 95 toward Miami International Airport. I try to rest after a night of endless shifting. But this involuntary shiver, this jumbling of my insides, shakes me into an uncomfortable wakened state. So I lean back and turn to watch traffic go by, the sky still in twilight, the road illuminated by red taillights and the orange glow of streetlamps. Most mornings, the interstate is a snarled mess, four lanes inching so terribly slowly as people make the commute toward downtown Miami. Today, we glide through and past traffic -- Miami is a late-rising town -- and I feel more and more like I am sitting in the cart of a roller coaster as it clack, clack, clacks its way up the steep incline toward an inevitable plunge. There are no brakes. No turning back. I close my eyes and breathe.
What exactly does a Cuban jail cell look like? When I shut my eyes, the image insists on forming. I have a cartoon image in my head. Dank walls, covered in a film of cold humidity, made of large stone blocks, as if part of a castle dungeon. There is a small window, about the width of a cinder block, high on the wall, so you can see only the cloudy gray sky outside between rusting iron bars. Inside, I'm dressed in khaki pants and a brown striped pullover, sitting on the cold, hard floor. For how long, there is no telling. I force my eyes open to keep the thoughts at bay. It's nonsense. I am a journalist and an American-born U.S. citizen at that. The Cuban government won't want to start an international incident -- Elián in reverse -- by holding a reporter against his will. I tell myself this, over and over. It is little comfort. There is no way to know how I will be received. Whether I will be discovered. Whether I will truly step on Cuban soil at all.
I try to ignore the shaking and focus on the doing. Walk up the concourse, check in at the ticket counter, head for the international gates. I do it all over again, but not as I did a week ago. I do it robotically, trying to detach myself from the conversation my mind is having with itself: You are never going to get in. Not last time. Not this time.
There is time to kill at the gate. I look around the rows of blue chairs with chrome arms as other passengers squirm to get comfortable enough to close their eyes and feign sleep, and I try to join them. But the lights and the chairs and the cold, cold air prod me to stay awake. To keep my mind busy, I examine the other passengers, these travelers who are not the regular, early-rising business crowd, commuting on a shuttle to work, carrying leather briefcases and wheeled computer bags. Most here are adults, dressed the way you might expect to see recently arrived refugees on the streets of Little Havana. Few children are on this flight, and the room is as quiet as a library. Two men and a woman traveling together catch my attention as I twist myself into a comfortable position.
From under half-closed eyes I peek at one of the men, who looks to be in his early forties. He is wearing a new pair of dark blue jeans, white sneakers, and a FUBU T-shirt tucked into his pants. He exudes the air of a relatively young man, but his complexion seems aged beyond his years. Wrinkles crisscross his forehead, and his skin appears weathered and tan. He is stocky, with wide shoulders and a round belly pushing up against his shirt. He is traveling with another man, who looks younger. He is wearing black Tommy Hilfiger jeans, also with crisp, white shoes and a black T-shirt. He has a gold bracelet and a gold chain with a medallion of the Virgin of Charity, la Virgen de la Caridad, hanging on the outside of his shirt. This apparition of Mary is the patron saint for Cubans, who still have a shrine to her in Santiago, on the island's southeastern coast. Cubans in Miami have re-created this grotto to her, also near the water, in Coral Gables. The woman traveling with these men wears a low-cut beige blouse with tight black pants. The many gold bangles on her arm jingle as she transfers items from a white plastic shopping bag to a Bloomingdale's Big Brown Bag. And I know why they are on this flight.
These are Cubans, most likely recent immigrants, going home to visit family. The concourse is full of them, and I wonder if their insides are shaking, too. Do they care that what they're doing is illegal, that the U.S. government could crack down on them for trying to get around the embargo by entering Cuba through a third country? I try to imagine my cousin Jorge on this flight, desperate because he is legally allowed to return to see his mother, my Tía Sofía, only once every three years. Should that be sufficient, that arbitrary determination of how much contact is needed to satisfy a mother's love? That this gate is packed at such an early hour screams that it is not.
A gate agent calls out in Spanish that our flight is boarding, and I grunt as I extricate myself from my seat to grab my bags and get in line. All around me, others are picking up their bags, some of them large suitcases with their contents pushing against the nylon sides at odd angles. A crash and a tumbling sound make several of us turn around to see the woman I had been watching, whose shopping bag has torn open, its contents scattering out onto the carpet. A plastic, chrome-colored robot. Board games. A baseball glove. Several children's shirts folded over but still on hangers. The man with the weathered face drops the Big Brown Bag stuffed with T-shirts and jeans and helps her repack. The unofficial Flight of Charity -- from Miami to Havana, via Cancún, Mexico -- is now boarding, and my fellow passengers are loaded with relief packages. Inside the plane, they push and tuck and force their carry-ons into the overhead compartments.
As I stow my neatly packed belongings, I wonder if they will make me stand out too much. These other visitors, who come loaded with dollars and supplies, are exactly what the Cuban government wants. But what would it make of me, an unregistered foreign journalist floating unescorted throughout the island, especially at a time like this, with Cuba on high alert after its leader of forty-seven years has given up control for the first time? A passenger heading to his seat finally forces me to move, and I realize I have been frozen in the aisle, lost again in the conversation my mind can't stop having with itself.
I settle in and stare out the window to a risen sun that is casting a warm red-orange glow. The flight attendant is reading her safety statement in Spanish, and then in heavily accented English, but I barely pay attention. I close my eyes and pray as we rumble down the runway, as I always do on takeoff. Pray that I have made at least one positive contribution to the world. Pray that my children will remember that I love them. Pray until the plane levels off and my mind stops spinning with crash scenarios. I start to pray, too, that God will let me set foot on Cuban soil, but I stop myself. The Almighty doesn't take requests, I know, because prayer didn't help the last time I was on this flight. A ding in the cabin says we've reached our cruising altitude, and I notice that the quivering inside of me has been replaced by a machinelike impassiveness.
I am not going to get my hopes up, not again.
As my mind tries to scold itself, louder and louder, I cannot help but hear it recount my last disappointment.
Less than a week ago, the day after Castro's announcement, I was on my way to Cuba, via Cancún, with three other journalists from The Palm Beach Post.
The same day I was told I was going to Cuba, I raced from Pembroke Pines to Palm Beach and back to make a 4:00 p.m. flight out of Miami International, a turnaround of about 150 miles. My wife started packing for me, knowing I was cutting things close, and when my parents called, I told them quickly what I needed: I asked my father to write down the names of all the people he still knew in Cuba and might have telephone numbers or addresses for. I also asked him to write the names and locations of the seven businesses he and my uncles had owned, because I planned to visit them. And I told my mother to write down the phone number for her sister, my Tía Sofía, my closest living relative in Cuba.
By the time I got home from the paper, two hours before my flight, my parents' blue Ford Escort was already parked in front of my home, a small, pale yellow ranch-style house with a brick front. The aroma of Cuban coffee filled the air, and my parents, sitting on the couch, started to stand as I came through the door. But I barely made eye contact as I rushed to finish packing.
"Did you guys write down the information I asked you for?" I yelled from the bedroom.
"We have it right here, Papo," my mother answered.
There was not much time to let this moment soak in. I tossed whatever clothing I thought I might need into my luggage. I know the people in Cuba go without all of the finer things, so I took mostly T-shirts and shorts and a pair of pullovers. I came wheeling out of the hall with my bags to find my parents and my wife standing next to one another, and for the first time, I allowed myself to feel my heart pound, pound as we looked at one another with knowing smiles.
My father and mother handed me three scraps of paper. On one piece, my father had written me instructions: Ask for Felipe's old girlfriend, Alina, who lives near La Plaza in Marianao, where three of the main businesses were. Tell her to take you to see our cousin Mario, my friend Miguel, and Rosita, who used to work for us.
Felipe's old girlfriend? 'Papi,' are you sure about that?
"She's like family," he said, "and she knows all the old names and places." There was no time to argue, no time to let insecurity set in. As I hugged my mother, I could feel her seizing up as she tried to hold back tears.
Don't worry, 'Mami,' I can take care of myself....
Most helpful customer reviews
8 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
This is the memoir that sets the new standard.
By Beverly G. Browning
Take Me with You is a memoir like no other. Author Carlos Frias sneaks the reader into the dark decay of forbidden Cuba with a whispered agreement: Reader must acknowledge the grave danger in which his Cuban relatives have placed themselves by being candid. Further, we must help protect them by never insisting that names or descriptions of meetings be entirely accurate. Any book that draws the reader into a life-and-death contract from the get-go, promises to deliver a riveting read. Take Me with You makes good on that promise.
Frias, an award-winning journalist and the American-born son of Cuban exiles living in south Florida, snaps up an assignment to cover Cuba during Castro's illness in 2006. For him, this is more than an assignment; it's an opportunity to discover the mythical Cuba spun from the collective nostalgia, heartbreak, and personal secrets of his parents and their community. It's a homecoming in a place he never actually lived. Posing as a wide-eyed tourist while Cuba is ejecting all journalists, Frias bluffs his way into the country from Cancun for twelve days that will change his life.
Take Me with You is the work of a master storyteller, and it's a good thing. This is a complex book: one part memoir, one part history book, one part travelogue, and one part love letter to Frias's parents. It's flawlessly written to capture the heart-pounding danger of his mission, the despair and hope of Cuba's people, and the passionate love of family separated by miles of ocean and years of time. Take Me with You is breathtaking. Frias just set the new standard for memoir.
8 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
Amazing Journey
By Andrew Mcdill
Through Carlos Frias' heart-felt scribing, I stowed away to Cuba on this amazing journey. His descriptive writing truly brings the smells of Havana's streets and Cuban coffee into your home. This is a must read for anyone who has ever wondered what daily life is like behind the Cuban curtain. I wait with earnest for Carlos' next gift to the literary world.
7 of 8 people found the following review helpful.
Fascinating Journey
By J. Branch
I came upon this book by chance and was at first taken with the writing, which is marvelously evocative of the people and places Frias describes. Then I felt drawn into the hunt for the author's family ties in Cuba, and remnants of life befor Fidel. I wish the book were longer. It is entertaining, edifying, and moving. I hope to read more by Frias in the very near future.
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