Below (scroll down):
- "The Midnight Ride of…" (another colorful unsung hero of the American Revolution)
- African Americans Don’t Need Reparations. We Need To Take Responsibility For Our Lives
- America, America, I Love You, Let Me Count the Ways
- Social Security and Medicare Still in Actuarial Deficit on a Long-Term Basis
- Do the rich pay their fair share?
- Are You a Tea Partier and Don’t Know It?
- Ending Civil Asset Forfeiture Abuse in Tennessee
- We Will Not Fall For Socialism
- The Rhetoric of Ronald Reagan
- Even a Bad Investor Can Beat Social Security
- Celebrating Freedom in a Country That Seems to Be Throwing It Away
- Making the World Safe for Democracy – One Therapy Dog at a Time
- Thanking Our Volunteers for a Great 2018
- Tea Party Victories in 2018
- A Graphical Update on the National Debt
- Tea Party Bill Hopper
- In a Perfect World, the Government Would Protect Our Rights, But....
- Why I Oppose a 'Single-Payer' or 'Public Option' Medical Plan
- Liberals Say the Darndest Things (Booth Truth – 2018 Irish Festival)
- Leftist Battlecry: “No Borders! No Walls! No USA at All!”
- What's Driving America's Spending Changes, a Historical Perspective
- D.C. Sights for Tea Partiers
- Social Security and Medicare Trustees Issue Yet Another Warning
- Enough with the Government Dependency, Already!
- What If You Had No Right to Life, Liberty, or Property?
- Insider Reveals How the Media Distort the News on Guns
- U.S. Becoming More Economically Free, and That’s a Good Thing
- Why Do We Have the Second Amendment Right to Bear Arms?
- The Forgotten Black Patriots of the Revolutionary War
- How to Cure Poverty
- Let the Opportunity Society Work Its Magic
"The Midnight Ride of…"
By Ed Moser
July 2019
PERMALINK
Right man. In exactly the right time and place.
He had George Washington’s big, stocky build. Six-foot-four, 225 pounds. An ardent and able patriot soldier of the Revolution. Who had a score to settle.
He’d lost a brother to the forces of General Charles Cornwallis, then ravaging his native Virginia from Williamsburg to Richmond, with his ruthless and skillful deputy, Colonel Banastre Tarleton. Yet this descendant of Norman knights who’d conquered Britain in 1066 feared no Englishman.
On June 3, 1781, a warm, moonlit eve, the 27-year old soldier was resting, enjoying an ale at the Cuckoo Tavern in the Virginia hills east of the Appalachians.
Suddenly he was startled by the sight of Tarleton himself. It was hard to mistake the British commander, resplendent in his bear-fur helmet and green jacket. He was leading 70 mounted infantry and 180 elite dragoons, or cavalrymen. They rushed by the public house. Heading west, toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. They were way behind American lines, on a raid of some sort.
The patriot soldier, John “Jack” Jouett, Jr., instantly realized what was up. Virginia’s legislature, having been chased out of its original capital of Williamsburg, and then sent packing from the new, war-time capital of Richmond, had reconvened in the temporary capital of Charlottesville. Gathered there were other luminaries of the Revolution in the South.
Namely, former and future Governor Patrick Henry, of "Give me liberty or give me death!" fame. The able future Gov. Thomas Nelson, Jr. Also, Benjamin Harrison V, the grandfather and great-grandfather of two future Presidents: William Henry Harrison and his namesake, Benjamin Harrison. Then there was John Tyler, Sr., the Speaker of the General Assembly and father of future President John Tyler, Jr. A few other assemblymen were staying nearby at the Monticello estate of the war-time Governor, and future President, Thomas Jefferson.
Jouett, a Captain in the Virginia militia, put himself in Tarleton’s spurs. If the Brit could bag the patriot assembly in a sneak attack, he could put Jefferson, Henry, Harrison, and the others in a stockade, or on the gallows. And perhaps crush the American Revolution in its then-largest, wealthiest, and most populous state. And maybe deal a death blow to the Revolution as a whole.
The militia officer jumped on his steed. He had to warn the Assembly. Yet he couldn’t take the main route that Tarleton’s force was hurtling along. So, garbed in his own arresting attire of a plumed hat and blood-red cloak, he began racing toward Charlottesville on backcountry trails.
In the dark, along rolling, twisting hills, Jouett felt overhanging branches and low-lying brushes cut into his face and legs. In the light of the moon he raced on, spots of blood sparkling on his flesh. Risking a breakneck fall, he urged his horse onward.
While Jouett spurred his steed non-stop, Col. Tarleton and his raiders paused three times that night. At first to seize eleven wagons of munitions bound for Nathaniel Greene, America’s commanding general in the South. Later for a three-hour rest for his weary horses and men. The third stop during the 70-mile journey was at Castle Hill, the residence of explorer Dr. Thomas Walker.
According to local lore, Walker, a devout patriot, plied Tarleton’s men with a heavy breakfast, complete with wine, thus dulling their minds and slowing their progress. In fact, Tarleton paused but briefly there to water his horses.
Meantime, Jouett rode relentlessly, ignoring the cuts to limbs and head, and the soreness in his arms and back. The bitter memory of his brother’s slaying and his burning affection for the patriot cause blocked out everything else.
At half past four in the morning, after a remarkable, six-and-a-half-hour sprint, he arrived at Monticello. He rode up the steep hill to where the Governor was staying. Accounts differ on whether Jefferson was rustled from bed in robe and slippers or, as an early riser, was working in his gardens. In any case, after lauding Jouett for his exploit, he refreshed the weary soldier with several glasses of Madeira. Jouett then rode on to Charlottesville, two miles away, and warned the assemblage of lawmakers.
Patrick Henry skedaddled, as did Benjamin Harrison V, Thomas Nelson, Jr., John Tyler, Sr., and most of the others. They reassembled 40 miles away in Staunton, Virginia, safely west of the Blue Ridge.
15 years later, in 1796, Alexander Hamilton, that recent star of Broadway, and then fresh from Cabinet battles with his rival Jefferson, accused him of cowardice during the Tarleton raid. The head “of the ancient dominion dwindled into the poor, timid philosopher”, declared the former Treasury Secretary, “and, instead of rallying his brave countrymen, he fled for safety from a few light-horsemen and shamefully abandoned his trust!"
In fact, Jefferson was even-tempered at the approach of the Brits. After seeing off Jouett, he sifted through stacks of state papers to save the most important from the enemy. He instructed several of his household slaves to hide his family valuables.
After strapping on a small sword, Jefferson departed the estate on his horse. Then at some point he realized he’d dropped the blade, and returned to locate it. At which point a second patriot soldier, after riding up to Monticello, gave him the alarming news Tarleton’s men were nearby. With a telescope, the Governor peered down from his mountaintop into Charlottesville. He was startled to see its streets filled with the bright red coats of Tarleton’s mounted infantry and the green-and-white uniforms of his cavalrymen. Some of the troopers were rushing up to Monticello, eager to bag the declarer of America’s fledgling independence.
Jefferson leapt on his horse, and scampered away along a back trail. Just as he did, Tarleton’s men alighted on his front lawn. According to Jefferson family lore, as the Brits approached the mansion, the Governor’s body servant handed the family silverware to Caesar, a slave who was standing in a small cellar beneath the porch. As the royalists came nearer, the body servant sprung the trap door. Caesar remained there silently in the dark for the better part of a day, safeguarding the items until the British left. The time of slavery seems a strange time indeed.
When the British soldiers entered the mansion, they were disappointed at not finding its owner. Following Tarleton’s directives, they left the place untouched, apart from pilfering some cellar wine. (At another of Jefferson’s estates, however, Cornwallis slit the throats of the horses, burned the barns and crops, and packed slaves into a smallpox-infested stockade where many of them perished.)
Jefferson galloped westward, and met up with his family at the home of another plantation owner. According to oral accounts of Monticello slaves, along the way he spotted some British scouts, and hid inside a large oak tree to elude them.
In Charlottesville, Tarleton’s raiders found that some of the assemblymen had tarried. They managed to bag seven of them. They tried capturing Jouett, conspicuous in his red hat, but he and his horse proved too fast for the pursuing dragoons.
The British had lost their big chance to strike a killing blow against the rebellion in the South.
Later in 1781, Cornwallis, pestered by French forces under Lafayette, retreated to the state’s south side, to a village called Yorktown. There, Washington’s men, including a valiant Hamilton, and Lafayette, and a French army under General Rochambeau, forced the British host to surrender. In effect winning the war for America’s independence.
The members of the Virginia Assembly, their necks saved by Jouett, resolved to award him a fine sword and a pair of elegant pistols. After initially censuring Jefferson for failing to adequately defend the state, they threw out the censure, and officially lauded him. (The book Flight from Monticello details this tumultuous time in Jefferson’s life.)
After the Revolution, a restless Jouett headed west to explore the Kentucky frontier, then part of Virginia’s vast dominion. On the way, he rode past a cabin where he heard a woman screaming within. Rushing inside, he saw the woman being beaten by her husband. Jouett knocked the fellow to the floor. The wife reacted with rage—at Jouette assaulting her husband! Seizing a frying pan, she slammed her would-be protector over the head. The bottom of the pan fell off, and its ring lodged snugly on Jouett’s neck. He rode over 30 miles before finding a metalsmith to cut it loose.
Jack Jouett settled in Bluegrass Country. He befriended two future political giants of the frontier: General and future President Andrew Jackson, and future House Speaker and Secretary of State Henry Clay. Elected to high office, he helped Kentucky reach statehood. He acquired much land and, like many seeking higher status on the southwest frontier, he acquired slaves. He also bred racehorses in the region later known for the Kentucky Derby.
He also married a lady named Sallie Robards. They had 12 children, including a son named Matthew Jouett. When Matthew came of age, Jack sent him to law school. The father, the ultimate man’s man, was bitter when the son decided to become an artist. He complained: “I sent Matthew to college to make a gentleman of him, and he has turned out to be nothing but a sign painter.”
Not quite. The son cannily traded in on family connections in his work. In the early 1800s, he landed a plumb commission, to paint an official portrait of the President of the United States. Of Thomas Jefferson, the man his father had saved from Tarleton’s clutches. (See portrait above.) He also did portraits of Clay and Lafayette.
It’s said certain genes skip a generation. In the Civil War, Jack Jouette’s very manly grandson, James “Fighting Jim” Jouett, would rise to be a Rear Admiral in the Union Navy. In fact, he served with its most distinguished officer: Admiral David Farragut. Who was charged in 1864 with seizing the Confederacy’s last seaport, Mobile, Alabama. Taking it would end the export of its vital cash crop of cotton.
Anxious to keep the harbor Yankee-free, the Confederates lined its approach with “torpedoes”, as sea mines were then termed. But Farragut and Jouett were contemptuous of the danger.
Many school children—and the late Tom Petty, who named an album after it—recall the order Admiral Farragut issued during his assault as: “Damn the Torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead!”
But that’s just the shortened version. The full command was: “Damn the Torpedoes! Four bells! Captain Drayton go ahead! Jouett full speed! ” As in James “Fighting Jim” Jouett.
Thus did the grandson of the man who helped save the American Revolution place the final nail in the coffin of the South’s cotton economy--causing its currency and army to collapse.
History is a series of intricate, and sometimes startling, connections. And none more so than with the Midnight Ride of--Jack Jouett. And the daring daylight assault of his grandson.
-------------------------------------------
This is a bonus, unpublished chapter from the forthcoming book, The White House’s Unruly Neighborhood. Copyright © 2019 by Edward P. Moser, McFarland Publishing
Ed Moser was a speechwriter to President George H. W. Bush and writer for Jay Leno's The Tonight Show. Ed's latest work is an e-book, a political satire called, Foundering Fathers: What Jefferson, Franklin, and Abigail Adams Saw in Modern D.C.!
By Ed Moser
July 2019
PERMALINK
Right man. In exactly the right time and place.
He had George Washington’s big, stocky build. Six-foot-four, 225 pounds. An ardent and able patriot soldier of the Revolution. Who had a score to settle.
He’d lost a brother to the forces of General Charles Cornwallis, then ravaging his native Virginia from Williamsburg to Richmond, with his ruthless and skillful deputy, Colonel Banastre Tarleton. Yet this descendant of Norman knights who’d conquered Britain in 1066 feared no Englishman.
On June 3, 1781, a warm, moonlit eve, the 27-year old soldier was resting, enjoying an ale at the Cuckoo Tavern in the Virginia hills east of the Appalachians.
Suddenly he was startled by the sight of Tarleton himself. It was hard to mistake the British commander, resplendent in his bear-fur helmet and green jacket. He was leading 70 mounted infantry and 180 elite dragoons, or cavalrymen. They rushed by the public house. Heading west, toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. They were way behind American lines, on a raid of some sort.
The patriot soldier, John “Jack” Jouett, Jr., instantly realized what was up. Virginia’s legislature, having been chased out of its original capital of Williamsburg, and then sent packing from the new, war-time capital of Richmond, had reconvened in the temporary capital of Charlottesville. Gathered there were other luminaries of the Revolution in the South.
Namely, former and future Governor Patrick Henry, of "Give me liberty or give me death!" fame. The able future Gov. Thomas Nelson, Jr. Also, Benjamin Harrison V, the grandfather and great-grandfather of two future Presidents: William Henry Harrison and his namesake, Benjamin Harrison. Then there was John Tyler, Sr., the Speaker of the General Assembly and father of future President John Tyler, Jr. A few other assemblymen were staying nearby at the Monticello estate of the war-time Governor, and future President, Thomas Jefferson.
Jouett, a Captain in the Virginia militia, put himself in Tarleton’s spurs. If the Brit could bag the patriot assembly in a sneak attack, he could put Jefferson, Henry, Harrison, and the others in a stockade, or on the gallows. And perhaps crush the American Revolution in its then-largest, wealthiest, and most populous state. And maybe deal a death blow to the Revolution as a whole.
The militia officer jumped on his steed. He had to warn the Assembly. Yet he couldn’t take the main route that Tarleton’s force was hurtling along. So, garbed in his own arresting attire of a plumed hat and blood-red cloak, he began racing toward Charlottesville on backcountry trails.
In the dark, along rolling, twisting hills, Jouett felt overhanging branches and low-lying brushes cut into his face and legs. In the light of the moon he raced on, spots of blood sparkling on his flesh. Risking a breakneck fall, he urged his horse onward.
While Jouett spurred his steed non-stop, Col. Tarleton and his raiders paused three times that night. At first to seize eleven wagons of munitions bound for Nathaniel Greene, America’s commanding general in the South. Later for a three-hour rest for his weary horses and men. The third stop during the 70-mile journey was at Castle Hill, the residence of explorer Dr. Thomas Walker.
According to local lore, Walker, a devout patriot, plied Tarleton’s men with a heavy breakfast, complete with wine, thus dulling their minds and slowing their progress. In fact, Tarleton paused but briefly there to water his horses.
Meantime, Jouett rode relentlessly, ignoring the cuts to limbs and head, and the soreness in his arms and back. The bitter memory of his brother’s slaying and his burning affection for the patriot cause blocked out everything else.
At half past four in the morning, after a remarkable, six-and-a-half-hour sprint, he arrived at Monticello. He rode up the steep hill to where the Governor was staying. Accounts differ on whether Jefferson was rustled from bed in robe and slippers or, as an early riser, was working in his gardens. In any case, after lauding Jouett for his exploit, he refreshed the weary soldier with several glasses of Madeira. Jouett then rode on to Charlottesville, two miles away, and warned the assemblage of lawmakers.
Patrick Henry skedaddled, as did Benjamin Harrison V, Thomas Nelson, Jr., John Tyler, Sr., and most of the others. They reassembled 40 miles away in Staunton, Virginia, safely west of the Blue Ridge.
15 years later, in 1796, Alexander Hamilton, that recent star of Broadway, and then fresh from Cabinet battles with his rival Jefferson, accused him of cowardice during the Tarleton raid. The head “of the ancient dominion dwindled into the poor, timid philosopher”, declared the former Treasury Secretary, “and, instead of rallying his brave countrymen, he fled for safety from a few light-horsemen and shamefully abandoned his trust!"
In fact, Jefferson was even-tempered at the approach of the Brits. After seeing off Jouett, he sifted through stacks of state papers to save the most important from the enemy. He instructed several of his household slaves to hide his family valuables.
After strapping on a small sword, Jefferson departed the estate on his horse. Then at some point he realized he’d dropped the blade, and returned to locate it. At which point a second patriot soldier, after riding up to Monticello, gave him the alarming news Tarleton’s men were nearby. With a telescope, the Governor peered down from his mountaintop into Charlottesville. He was startled to see its streets filled with the bright red coats of Tarleton’s mounted infantry and the green-and-white uniforms of his cavalrymen. Some of the troopers were rushing up to Monticello, eager to bag the declarer of America’s fledgling independence.
Jefferson leapt on his horse, and scampered away along a back trail. Just as he did, Tarleton’s men alighted on his front lawn. According to Jefferson family lore, as the Brits approached the mansion, the Governor’s body servant handed the family silverware to Caesar, a slave who was standing in a small cellar beneath the porch. As the royalists came nearer, the body servant sprung the trap door. Caesar remained there silently in the dark for the better part of a day, safeguarding the items until the British left. The time of slavery seems a strange time indeed.
When the British soldiers entered the mansion, they were disappointed at not finding its owner. Following Tarleton’s directives, they left the place untouched, apart from pilfering some cellar wine. (At another of Jefferson’s estates, however, Cornwallis slit the throats of the horses, burned the barns and crops, and packed slaves into a smallpox-infested stockade where many of them perished.)
Jefferson galloped westward, and met up with his family at the home of another plantation owner. According to oral accounts of Monticello slaves, along the way he spotted some British scouts, and hid inside a large oak tree to elude them.
In Charlottesville, Tarleton’s raiders found that some of the assemblymen had tarried. They managed to bag seven of them. They tried capturing Jouett, conspicuous in his red hat, but he and his horse proved too fast for the pursuing dragoons.
The British had lost their big chance to strike a killing blow against the rebellion in the South.
Later in 1781, Cornwallis, pestered by French forces under Lafayette, retreated to the state’s south side, to a village called Yorktown. There, Washington’s men, including a valiant Hamilton, and Lafayette, and a French army under General Rochambeau, forced the British host to surrender. In effect winning the war for America’s independence.
The members of the Virginia Assembly, their necks saved by Jouett, resolved to award him a fine sword and a pair of elegant pistols. After initially censuring Jefferson for failing to adequately defend the state, they threw out the censure, and officially lauded him. (The book Flight from Monticello details this tumultuous time in Jefferson’s life.)
After the Revolution, a restless Jouett headed west to explore the Kentucky frontier, then part of Virginia’s vast dominion. On the way, he rode past a cabin where he heard a woman screaming within. Rushing inside, he saw the woman being beaten by her husband. Jouett knocked the fellow to the floor. The wife reacted with rage—at Jouette assaulting her husband! Seizing a frying pan, she slammed her would-be protector over the head. The bottom of the pan fell off, and its ring lodged snugly on Jouett’s neck. He rode over 30 miles before finding a metalsmith to cut it loose.
Jack Jouett settled in Bluegrass Country. He befriended two future political giants of the frontier: General and future President Andrew Jackson, and future House Speaker and Secretary of State Henry Clay. Elected to high office, he helped Kentucky reach statehood. He acquired much land and, like many seeking higher status on the southwest frontier, he acquired slaves. He also bred racehorses in the region later known for the Kentucky Derby.
He also married a lady named Sallie Robards. They had 12 children, including a son named Matthew Jouett. When Matthew came of age, Jack sent him to law school. The father, the ultimate man’s man, was bitter when the son decided to become an artist. He complained: “I sent Matthew to college to make a gentleman of him, and he has turned out to be nothing but a sign painter.”
Not quite. The son cannily traded in on family connections in his work. In the early 1800s, he landed a plumb commission, to paint an official portrait of the President of the United States. Of Thomas Jefferson, the man his father had saved from Tarleton’s clutches. (See portrait above.) He also did portraits of Clay and Lafayette.
It’s said certain genes skip a generation. In the Civil War, Jack Jouette’s very manly grandson, James “Fighting Jim” Jouett, would rise to be a Rear Admiral in the Union Navy. In fact, he served with its most distinguished officer: Admiral David Farragut. Who was charged in 1864 with seizing the Confederacy’s last seaport, Mobile, Alabama. Taking it would end the export of its vital cash crop of cotton.
Anxious to keep the harbor Yankee-free, the Confederates lined its approach with “torpedoes”, as sea mines were then termed. But Farragut and Jouett were contemptuous of the danger.
Many school children—and the late Tom Petty, who named an album after it—recall the order Admiral Farragut issued during his assault as: “Damn the Torpedoes, Full Speed Ahead!”
But that’s just the shortened version. The full command was: “Damn the Torpedoes! Four bells! Captain Drayton go ahead! Jouett full speed! ” As in James “Fighting Jim” Jouett.
Thus did the grandson of the man who helped save the American Revolution place the final nail in the coffin of the South’s cotton economy--causing its currency and army to collapse.
History is a series of intricate, and sometimes startling, connections. And none more so than with the Midnight Ride of--Jack Jouett. And the daring daylight assault of his grandson.
-------------------------------------------
This is a bonus, unpublished chapter from the forthcoming book, The White House’s Unruly Neighborhood. Copyright © 2019 by Edward P. Moser, McFarland Publishing
Ed Moser was a speechwriter to President George H. W. Bush and writer for Jay Leno's The Tonight Show. Ed's latest work is an e-book, a political satire called, Foundering Fathers: What Jefferson, Franklin, and Abigail Adams Saw in Modern D.C.!
African Americans Don’t Need Reparations. We Need To Take Responsibility For Our Lives
By Emery McClendon
June 21, 2019
Originally published at The Federalist
Reprinted with permission of the author
PERMALINK
In 2007, much like today, liberals were demonizing the president and looking to shore up their base for the next major election. An issue dragged out of the political closet was the notion of paying reparations to blacks now for slavery dating back to before America’s founding. Here they go again.
The vehicle then, as today, is a bill to set up a commission for studying the idea of a national apology for slavery and post-Civil War segregation as well as possible taxpayer reparations payments to black Americans. Back then, the bill was sponsored by Michigan Rep. John Conyers.
This year, because Conyers resigned due to allegations of sexual misconduct, Texas Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee is carrying the torch for reparations with the apparent blessing of House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. Several liberal presidential contenders also recently weighed in favoring reparations.
It’s significant that the congressional hearing for Jackson Lee’s House Resolution 40 on this issue was held on June 19. Known as “Juneteenth,” it is the anniversary of when blacks in Texas first learned about the end of the Civil War, the Emancipation Proclamation, and their freedom. It is now celebrated nationwide to commemorate the end of black enslavement in America. It is also a day when black Americans are supposed to celebrate opportunity and self-determination—values prized by those newly freed slaves in Texas.
It is ironic that blacks are still calling for reparations in 2019, and using Juneteenth to do it. We have had many opportunities to put ourselves on equal footing with other Americans and pursue the American Dream. But too many of us have failed to do so.
We failed after the Civil War, during the civil rights era, and with President Lyndon B. Johnson’s implementation of the Great Society and its major welfare initiatives. Those were supposed to be revitalizing times for blacks. Yet, in the last case, welfare only increased dependence and destroyed families. What happened?
Over the years, black leaders failed to bring their communities to prosperity by promoting and teaching sound principles for economic growth. They also failed to help people use the resources that are available to every American regardless of their ethnic background.
It is said that one reason LBJ built the modern welfare state was to help secure black votes for his party. Yet Democrats’ ill-conceived policies actually caused more poverty in the black community. It caused more blacks to look for a handout rather than seek a hand up through self-determination. It essentially made the black community increasingly dependent on the government.
Reparations are treated as the cure for inequality. But they are not. Successful blacks such as actor Danny Glover and author Ta-Nehisi Coates call for reparations during a period in our history when illegal aliens are being handed benefits intended for disadvantaged American citizens. They are draining taxpayer resources and our economy at an alarming rate.
Why should blacks want to seek reparations in the 21th century when slavery was ended by the Civil War more than 150 years ago? Why are Congress and others suddenly getting in on the act? It’s merely politics.
Reparations should not be a topic of discussion in today’s America. Progress and success should be our focus as we strive to achieve the American Dream. We should focus on keeping America great, not looking for another huge socialist payout.
Congress should instead be reminding black Americans that opportunities already exist for them as they have existed for generations. It’s up to individuals to take advantage of these opportunities and strive to succeed.
Let’s flip the script from reparations to personal responsibility. The latter will bring about lasting results that a reparations check can never do.
---------------------
About the Author
Emery McClendon of Fort Wayne, Indiana, is married to Queenie, they are the parents of three sons. He served in the U.S. Air Force, the Indiana Air Guard, is a former Ft. Wayne Police Reserve Officer, Allen County Sheriff Deputy, and Indiana State Trooper. He is a life member of the DAV. Emery organized Amateur Radio communications for the national Glen Beck Rally For The Troops in 2003, and founded Amateur Radio Military Appreciation Day www.armad.net. After visiting the White House in 2007 he became involved in politics as a speaker, Tea Party Leader, and state coordinator for Tea Party Patriots. He organized the Fort Wayne Tea Party Rally with Dr. Alan Keyes, the keynote speaker. He received the Americans For Prosperity / Rightonline 2010 "Activist Of The Year" award, The Amateur Radio Dayton Hamvention Special Achievement Award, The Madison County Indiana "American" Award, The Indiana Distinguished Hoosier Award; and a U.S. Flag was flown in his honor at Flallugah, Iraq. Recipient 2010 Americans For Prosperity "Activist Of The Year Award" www.armad.net Contact Emery at armad07@yahoo.com.
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America, America,
I Love You, Let Me Count the Ways Survivors of Communism Travel Different Paths Together – Destination: America! |
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by Klara Sever and Agustin Blazquez with the collaboration of Jaums Sutton
Klara Sever and Agustin Blazquez are members of the Anticommunism Action Team Speakers Bureau.
Klara is celebrating 50 years in America, having left Czechoslovakia soon after the Soviet tanks rolled in.
Agustin fled Cuba in 1965 after Castro’s promises of democracy gave way to a ghastly new reality.
Klara Sever and Agustin Blazquez are members of the Anticommunism Action Team Speakers Bureau.
Klara is celebrating 50 years in America, having left Czechoslovakia soon after the Soviet tanks rolled in.
Agustin fled Cuba in 1965 after Castro’s promises of democracy gave way to a ghastly new reality.
PERMALINK
America, America, I Love You, Let Me Count the Ways (Klara)
1. For welcoming hordes of people that you never knew existed. As a matter of fact, we never laid our eyes on persons of so many colors from yellow to charcoal black. They were mingling around purposefully while we were nervously looking around the huge hall of the airport, hoping to spot our friends. What if they are not waiting anymore? The plane was many hours late. Oh, there they are, our only familiar piece of the old world that we let behind.
2. For sharing the freedom that was not free; many paid for it with their lives and many still will in order to keep it. I will never forget--I stopped for the red light and realized the car ahead of me was carrying a casket covered by an American flag. My heart skipped a beat. Vietnam was still raging. Somebody’s son, brother or husband died for this country, died for me, too. I just got here, did not contribute much. He died, so this country could remain free. How could one repay that?
3. For giving most privileges to newcomers as soon as we step on your shores. I only later learned that whoever steps on America’s soil is considered an American. Of course, there are advantages that come with citizenship, but opportunities abound, just like a born American.
4. For the freedom to pray to their God in any language. President Washington welcomed Jewish immigrants and stressed that they are considered a valued addition to the young Republic.
5. For the freedom of thought, speech and to publish them. For us, coming from a country where all those were punishable by law; all were censored activities.
6. For freedom of movement. After we received our green cards we wanted to visit our good friends in Canada. A bit apprehensive, we asked around and learned that we needed to take proper documents, mainly for entry back into the U.S. When leaving the U.S. we tried to give the guard our green cards. He just asked where we are going and then asked all of us to say that “We are Americans”. Stunned, we obeyed. He wished us a nice trip and waived us on. What a country! Your word is your passport.
7. For the freedom to pursue your trade. When I found a company that reproduced sculptures, the owner glanced at my photos, asked a few questions and told me to start on Monday. I thanked him and asked for a letter of employment. He just looked at me: ”What letter, my word is not enough for you? Obviously you do not want this job.” ”Oh no, sir, I do.” “So, show up Monday, that's it.” I worked for him for 13 years.
8. For the freedom to educate your children as you see fit. Our younger son joined the Boy Scouts and we received a questionnaire asking about his church affiliation. Fresh out of the country where joining any church could result in peril, I explained our situation and the scout master asked me a simple question: “Do you believe that your son is honest, caring, loves his family and is ready to become a scout?” I agreed and again left shaking my head.
9. Freedom to vote for your representatives. After decades voting together with the rest of the 99.9 percent for only one candidate, I couldn't wait to get my chance.
10. For freedom to seek equal justice, where you are considered innocent until proven guilty. Where I came from, it was the opposite.
Real Surrealism (Agustin)
I came from a country which, in 1959, had the opportunity for a fundamental transformation to Socialism. We were told by the government and the media that equality and social justice will reign. However the government began taking away freedoms. It quickly became a surreal nightmare. We lived in fear 24/7. The government suddenly changed the currency and took all but $5,000 from all bank accounts. People lost their savings. That was “equality” and “social justice.” Soon, food, clothing and everything else became scarce. “This can't happen here.” But it did.
The government imposed a rationing book for all necessities. But, after waiting in long lines, usually there was nothing left. Schools of all denominations were confiscated by the government. Parents lost their right to educate their children. The government began to indoctrinate children to form loyal tools of the government as the idea of “family” was destroyed. There were massive executions--broadcast on TV to instill fear. Jails were filled to much more than capacity with anyone who didn't like the new Socialist system. Concentration and labor camps appeared for LGBT and other communities. Others were put in mental institutions, or just mysteriously disappeared.
Most medicines disappeared from stores and pharmacies. People became dependent on relatives abroad for medicine but the government always kept half. The best hospitals were reserved for the government and their new loyal elite. But that elite has to be very careful, looking over their shoulders 24/7 because privileges given can be taken away. Some managed to escape at great risk, many died trying. Little did we know that Socialism was going to destroy my former country.
August 1968 (Klara)
A suffocating summer night. Nervously waiting for results of the Soviet-Czechoslovak negotiations. A horrible noise and a burst of light shook me back to reality. Under our window stood a Soviet tank, a young soldier with a red star on his cap was trying to read a map. This can't happen in my country, but the Russians are here.
Going to America (Agustin)
I left the country where I was born and educated in 1965 for Canada. After living in Montreal for three months, I went to Paris where it was legal for me to work—I cleaned floors and applied for U.S. residence. I also needed get an American family to sponsor me and provide a legal “Affidavit of Support”. I had not been convicted of any crimes, used drugs or been a member of any subversive group. I had to pass a medical examination to prove that I didn't have any contagious disease. Since I came from a communist country and knew the horrors of that inhumane system, I was very glad that the U.S. didn't allow Communist Party members.
The process to come here was fine with me, the minimum for a country to protect itself and its citizens, from crimes, political nightmares and contagious illness. A friend that applied with me was denied U.S. residence because his x-ray showed a spot on the lungs. He came two years later after it was resolved.
In July 1967, I arrived to the U.S. I got my Social Security card and began working as a dishwasher in a hospital in Washington, DC and later at a department store building displays for the windows. The America I saw was a melting pot of different nationalities striving to be Americans and living in harmony with the laws and culture. I love and I'm proud of America because it's a country that opens its doors and gives you a second chance to begin a new life with freedom of choice.
I don't think it's right or fair to enter the U.S. illegally and not integrate to this society, not learn English. To continue living as if you were still in the country where you came from, trying to impose the culture, religion and laws of your former country and pretend that American citizens adapt to yours is destructive to everyone. That is not a positive immigration. That creates tribal division that lets you be used by unscrupulous politicians and harm us all. Why did you come to this country if you want to continue living like in the country you escaped? Hell no, I don't want to go back to my former country, not even as a tourist.
Paris (Klara)
Two weeks after the tank arrived, our small family is standing on the Austrian border. The silhouette of our town’s iconic castle is now small. “You are not going to look back to see your country for the last time?” asked my husband. I could not look; my vision was completely obstructed by my tears. At that moment I recalled “Man without a Country” the story of a young officer of the American Navy. We are now “People without a country”.
The first night in Vienna, sleeping on the hard floor of the school was a very good entry path for the migrants. Our boys were playing with their little cars, but my husband, nervous by nature, was walking the corridors of the school, smoking. His reporter's mind was mapping our next move. Next stop: American Agency for refugees. There he was briefed on our future. We can’t stay in Vienna, too close. “By the way, keep your little boy close, there were cases of Russians snatching children.” Also, we could wait for America in two places, Italy or France. He spoke some French, but getting the visas was very difficult.
Next stop: French Embassy. To this day we count this achievement among the top! Miraculously, with the French visa we drove thru Germany and crossed Strasbourg into “Sweet France”.
Paris, City of lights and immigrants. Well, we got lost. Finally my husband found the French agency for refugees. New rules, support for a three month of stay renewable, but we believed we’d be on our way to the U.S. by then. Not so fast! We stayed in Paris for six months.
France keeps all their laws, even the Napoleonic ones. You can’t get a permit to work without the permit to stay, and the other way around. You can’t get to the U.S. without a sponsor who guarantees that you are not going to become a burden to the State. Most of our new friends already had their permits, happily starting to pack while we were still hanging on, not knowing what our future would be. Our New Year’s celebration with a bunch of refugees from assorted countries was bittersweet. We were happy for our friends leaving, but our outlook was still hopeless. We were hanging on to “next year in New York!”
In the meantime my husband met with a reporter from Paris Soir who sent him to Vienna to interview refugees. The newspaper published his articles, which got the attention of the press attaché at the American Embassy. A meeting ended with an invitation for my husband to call Washington as soon as we arrived.
Finally, that day came; we went for the interview, then, complete check-up, which unfortunately, I did not pass. As a smoker, my lungs showed some irregularities. There was to be another examination and if I don’t pass, I will have to stay behind. After a few nerve wracking days, all clear!
Moving on. My husband and I contracted a nasty flu. With high fever, barely controlled by huge portions of quinine, we arrived in Brussels to get on an El Al plane to the States. Under strong scrutiny due to the attack on the Israeli Olympians, finally, we took off.
Goodbye, Europe . . . (Klara)
From the plane’s window we tracked the countries we flew over. The plane made a stop in England, but we were not allowed to enter the airport. Our status of “people without a country” hung over us like a dark cloud. . . We are getting close. . . Canada and . . .
New York, here we come!
Welcome to America in a Taxi (Klara)
After an arduous flight halfway around the globe, we finally met with our dear friends at the JFK airport in New York, March, 1969. In a New York taxi, a friendly driver asked if we had come to the U.S. to visit. The answer: “Oh, no! We want to stay here.” “Well, that's great. Welcome to America!” was his surprising reply. Even in our country, where we were born and which we loved, our presence was, at best, merely tolerated. After waiting six months in Paris and the long hours of questioning at the sûreté générale there, we did not expect such a welcome. After all, we were refugees from a communist country, in transit. Being a family without a country for six months, we were surprised and delighted to be welcomed in America.
Going to Jean-Paul Sartre's Film (Agustin)
After a play rehearsal, I left for the official Film Institute to see The Respectful Prostitute, a 1952 film based on the famous 1946 novel of Jean-Paul Sartre. As an artist and with Sartre being one of the key figures in the philosophy of existentialism, I decided to dress all in black-- perhaps a stereotypical identification of that philosophy. But that was a naïve and serious mistake on my part since it was the Cuba of the 1960s.
Fidel Castro invited Sartre, who also was a Marxist, to visit Cuba in 1960 to report on his new revolution. Since Sartre became a friend and admirer of Castro, he was fine and dandy. I arrived late at the screening because the public transportation in Cuba was very bad after Castro's revolution.
The movie theater was crowded because it was a French film and Cubans detested Soviet films and the other Eastern European satellite countries. So I sat in the only empty seat I saw in the dark. Suddenly, I was touched on my left shoulder and a voice telling me that I was under arrest. I was extremely surprised but not to attract attention, I got up and went with him to the lobby thinking all would be clear once I identified myself.
When we got to the lobby he held me forcefully by my arm and despite my protests conducted me to a police car and to a police station where they told me to sit on a bench. Surprisingly, there was a puppy dog and I passed the time playing with him while I was waiting until my situation was cleared. I asked to call my home but they said no. After a few hours they called me and forced me to sign a paper in exchange for my freedom. So I did as I was advised—how naïve I was! Then they took me to the infamous prison, The Prince Castle. There they took a silver dollar that my father gave me when I was a child that I always carried with me. They never returned it to me.
I was taken to a big crowded dungeon jam-packed with prisoners where I slept on the floor. Next morning I was released thanks to one of my mother's brothers who was a member of Castro's feared secret police. He took me to one of those fast trials of Castro's revolution. Thanks to that uncle I was found guilty, but they released me! I realized years later why I was detained. It was because I was dressed in black like an “existentialist”. Such individualism was not permitted.
This is a sample as to why I know the value of freedom and living in America. With all its defects, there is nothing like America.
Trip to The Opera (Agustin)
As an actor under contract by the state, one evening I went to the opera with another actor. After the performance, we planned to go to eat with the two female stars of the show. From the main entrance of the theater we walked around the block to wait at the stage door. Nearly there, we were questioned by a guy dressed in plain clothes saying he was a policeman who wanted to know where we were going. We told him we were actors and we were going to meet our singer friends to go to eat. Another opera singer friend came out with her husband, the conductor of the orchestra. She saw us before she entered her car and asked “What happened?” Thinking that the situation was going to clear, we replied, “Don't worry, it's nothing.”
Then the guy asked to see our IDs. We showed our actor's union and the theater company IDs. Not satisfied, he said, “We have to go to the police station so they can see your IDs.” We repeated that the two stars were waiting for us to go out. He brought out a gun and said, “You are detained and have to go to the police station.” Thinking everything would be resolved there, we walked with him at gunpoint. When we arrived, he pushed us in and said to the policemen there, “Two more.”
They pushed us into a dark, over-filled cell of prisoners standing as sardines, all with arms raised because of the lack of space. People were protesting and saying that they too were detained there for no reason. After some hours, we were put in an equally crowded paddy wagon, and driven through the dark streets to an old, colonial mansion and pushed into a dark, crowded room. I felt that I was in a hellish nightmare. There were people crying and yelling. It reminded me of the films of Hitler during WWII.
Afterward, I was conducted to a large room upstairs converted into an office with many old desks and filing cabinets. At each desk was a detainee and an interrogation officer. I could not see the fellow actor who was detained with me. I had no idea why I was part of such a grotesque situation. I had heard from other actors, artists, intellectuals, that the new government was conducting such raids, but I didn't believe them--”That can't happen here.” Now, with my own experience, I realized that they were telling the truth.
A detainee nearby whispered, “Declare yourself 'anti-social' in the document you have to sign and they will let you go.” When I got my turn the official said, “If you sign this document we'll release you”. So I did. Then they conducted me to a very long line in the courtyard of the dark mansion. Soon I find out that it was to take mug shots with a number. Then I was released in the very late hours of the night. The fellow actor was also released and we walked back to our respective homes through the dark streets.
My mother and father knew that something happened to me that evening because one of the opera singers had called inquiring why we did not join them for dinner. My mother had called one of her brothers who was a member of the dreaded State Security and he came the next morning.
He told my mother and father that they were detaining actors, singers, artists, intellectuals, because Castro's government considered them “scum” and “anti-social” because there was no use for them in the new Socialist society. They were to be sent to concentration camps called UMAP (Military Units to Help Production). That was an idea of Che Guevara.
These forced-labor camps were located across the country. He explained that after they have the files with name, addresses and photos they will start sending telegrams to go to their assigned camp. He, in his position, could not do anything. So my best choice was to escape abroad.
The government immediately cancelled my contract with the theatrical company and I went into hiding and incommunicado in my house for over a year. I was finally able to escape by a nerve-racking scheme and to a government bureaucratic error. You can read details of my escape here.
A week later my mother received the telegram for me to report to the concentration camp. But I was safe in Canada. Most Americans have no clue what living inside a Communist regime is like and take for granted what they have and cannot realize what they are losing day by day.
America, America, I Love You, Let Me Count the Ways (Klara)
1. For welcoming hordes of people that you never knew existed. As a matter of fact, we never laid our eyes on persons of so many colors from yellow to charcoal black. They were mingling around purposefully while we were nervously looking around the huge hall of the airport, hoping to spot our friends. What if they are not waiting anymore? The plane was many hours late. Oh, there they are, our only familiar piece of the old world that we let behind.
2. For sharing the freedom that was not free; many paid for it with their lives and many still will in order to keep it. I will never forget--I stopped for the red light and realized the car ahead of me was carrying a casket covered by an American flag. My heart skipped a beat. Vietnam was still raging. Somebody’s son, brother or husband died for this country, died for me, too. I just got here, did not contribute much. He died, so this country could remain free. How could one repay that?
3. For giving most privileges to newcomers as soon as we step on your shores. I only later learned that whoever steps on America’s soil is considered an American. Of course, there are advantages that come with citizenship, but opportunities abound, just like a born American.
4. For the freedom to pray to their God in any language. President Washington welcomed Jewish immigrants and stressed that they are considered a valued addition to the young Republic.
5. For the freedom of thought, speech and to publish them. For us, coming from a country where all those were punishable by law; all were censored activities.
6. For freedom of movement. After we received our green cards we wanted to visit our good friends in Canada. A bit apprehensive, we asked around and learned that we needed to take proper documents, mainly for entry back into the U.S. When leaving the U.S. we tried to give the guard our green cards. He just asked where we are going and then asked all of us to say that “We are Americans”. Stunned, we obeyed. He wished us a nice trip and waived us on. What a country! Your word is your passport.
7. For the freedom to pursue your trade. When I found a company that reproduced sculptures, the owner glanced at my photos, asked a few questions and told me to start on Monday. I thanked him and asked for a letter of employment. He just looked at me: ”What letter, my word is not enough for you? Obviously you do not want this job.” ”Oh no, sir, I do.” “So, show up Monday, that's it.” I worked for him for 13 years.
8. For the freedom to educate your children as you see fit. Our younger son joined the Boy Scouts and we received a questionnaire asking about his church affiliation. Fresh out of the country where joining any church could result in peril, I explained our situation and the scout master asked me a simple question: “Do you believe that your son is honest, caring, loves his family and is ready to become a scout?” I agreed and again left shaking my head.
9. Freedom to vote for your representatives. After decades voting together with the rest of the 99.9 percent for only one candidate, I couldn't wait to get my chance.
10. For freedom to seek equal justice, where you are considered innocent until proven guilty. Where I came from, it was the opposite.
Real Surrealism (Agustin)
I came from a country which, in 1959, had the opportunity for a fundamental transformation to Socialism. We were told by the government and the media that equality and social justice will reign. However the government began taking away freedoms. It quickly became a surreal nightmare. We lived in fear 24/7. The government suddenly changed the currency and took all but $5,000 from all bank accounts. People lost their savings. That was “equality” and “social justice.” Soon, food, clothing and everything else became scarce. “This can't happen here.” But it did.
The government imposed a rationing book for all necessities. But, after waiting in long lines, usually there was nothing left. Schools of all denominations were confiscated by the government. Parents lost their right to educate their children. The government began to indoctrinate children to form loyal tools of the government as the idea of “family” was destroyed. There were massive executions--broadcast on TV to instill fear. Jails were filled to much more than capacity with anyone who didn't like the new Socialist system. Concentration and labor camps appeared for LGBT and other communities. Others were put in mental institutions, or just mysteriously disappeared.
Most medicines disappeared from stores and pharmacies. People became dependent on relatives abroad for medicine but the government always kept half. The best hospitals were reserved for the government and their new loyal elite. But that elite has to be very careful, looking over their shoulders 24/7 because privileges given can be taken away. Some managed to escape at great risk, many died trying. Little did we know that Socialism was going to destroy my former country.
August 1968 (Klara)
A suffocating summer night. Nervously waiting for results of the Soviet-Czechoslovak negotiations. A horrible noise and a burst of light shook me back to reality. Under our window stood a Soviet tank, a young soldier with a red star on his cap was trying to read a map. This can't happen in my country, but the Russians are here.
Going to America (Agustin)
I left the country where I was born and educated in 1965 for Canada. After living in Montreal for three months, I went to Paris where it was legal for me to work—I cleaned floors and applied for U.S. residence. I also needed get an American family to sponsor me and provide a legal “Affidavit of Support”. I had not been convicted of any crimes, used drugs or been a member of any subversive group. I had to pass a medical examination to prove that I didn't have any contagious disease. Since I came from a communist country and knew the horrors of that inhumane system, I was very glad that the U.S. didn't allow Communist Party members.
The process to come here was fine with me, the minimum for a country to protect itself and its citizens, from crimes, political nightmares and contagious illness. A friend that applied with me was denied U.S. residence because his x-ray showed a spot on the lungs. He came two years later after it was resolved.
In July 1967, I arrived to the U.S. I got my Social Security card and began working as a dishwasher in a hospital in Washington, DC and later at a department store building displays for the windows. The America I saw was a melting pot of different nationalities striving to be Americans and living in harmony with the laws and culture. I love and I'm proud of America because it's a country that opens its doors and gives you a second chance to begin a new life with freedom of choice.
I don't think it's right or fair to enter the U.S. illegally and not integrate to this society, not learn English. To continue living as if you were still in the country where you came from, trying to impose the culture, religion and laws of your former country and pretend that American citizens adapt to yours is destructive to everyone. That is not a positive immigration. That creates tribal division that lets you be used by unscrupulous politicians and harm us all. Why did you come to this country if you want to continue living like in the country you escaped? Hell no, I don't want to go back to my former country, not even as a tourist.
Paris (Klara)
Two weeks after the tank arrived, our small family is standing on the Austrian border. The silhouette of our town’s iconic castle is now small. “You are not going to look back to see your country for the last time?” asked my husband. I could not look; my vision was completely obstructed by my tears. At that moment I recalled “Man without a Country” the story of a young officer of the American Navy. We are now “People without a country”.
The first night in Vienna, sleeping on the hard floor of the school was a very good entry path for the migrants. Our boys were playing with their little cars, but my husband, nervous by nature, was walking the corridors of the school, smoking. His reporter's mind was mapping our next move. Next stop: American Agency for refugees. There he was briefed on our future. We can’t stay in Vienna, too close. “By the way, keep your little boy close, there were cases of Russians snatching children.” Also, we could wait for America in two places, Italy or France. He spoke some French, but getting the visas was very difficult.
Next stop: French Embassy. To this day we count this achievement among the top! Miraculously, with the French visa we drove thru Germany and crossed Strasbourg into “Sweet France”.
Paris, City of lights and immigrants. Well, we got lost. Finally my husband found the French agency for refugees. New rules, support for a three month of stay renewable, but we believed we’d be on our way to the U.S. by then. Not so fast! We stayed in Paris for six months.
France keeps all their laws, even the Napoleonic ones. You can’t get a permit to work without the permit to stay, and the other way around. You can’t get to the U.S. without a sponsor who guarantees that you are not going to become a burden to the State. Most of our new friends already had their permits, happily starting to pack while we were still hanging on, not knowing what our future would be. Our New Year’s celebration with a bunch of refugees from assorted countries was bittersweet. We were happy for our friends leaving, but our outlook was still hopeless. We were hanging on to “next year in New York!”
In the meantime my husband met with a reporter from Paris Soir who sent him to Vienna to interview refugees. The newspaper published his articles, which got the attention of the press attaché at the American Embassy. A meeting ended with an invitation for my husband to call Washington as soon as we arrived.
Finally, that day came; we went for the interview, then, complete check-up, which unfortunately, I did not pass. As a smoker, my lungs showed some irregularities. There was to be another examination and if I don’t pass, I will have to stay behind. After a few nerve wracking days, all clear!
Moving on. My husband and I contracted a nasty flu. With high fever, barely controlled by huge portions of quinine, we arrived in Brussels to get on an El Al plane to the States. Under strong scrutiny due to the attack on the Israeli Olympians, finally, we took off.
Goodbye, Europe . . . (Klara)
From the plane’s window we tracked the countries we flew over. The plane made a stop in England, but we were not allowed to enter the airport. Our status of “people without a country” hung over us like a dark cloud. . . We are getting close. . . Canada and . . .
New York, here we come!
Welcome to America in a Taxi (Klara)
After an arduous flight halfway around the globe, we finally met with our dear friends at the JFK airport in New York, March, 1969. In a New York taxi, a friendly driver asked if we had come to the U.S. to visit. The answer: “Oh, no! We want to stay here.” “Well, that's great. Welcome to America!” was his surprising reply. Even in our country, where we were born and which we loved, our presence was, at best, merely tolerated. After waiting six months in Paris and the long hours of questioning at the sûreté générale there, we did not expect such a welcome. After all, we were refugees from a communist country, in transit. Being a family without a country for six months, we were surprised and delighted to be welcomed in America.
Going to Jean-Paul Sartre's Film (Agustin)
After a play rehearsal, I left for the official Film Institute to see The Respectful Prostitute, a 1952 film based on the famous 1946 novel of Jean-Paul Sartre. As an artist and with Sartre being one of the key figures in the philosophy of existentialism, I decided to dress all in black-- perhaps a stereotypical identification of that philosophy. But that was a naïve and serious mistake on my part since it was the Cuba of the 1960s.
Fidel Castro invited Sartre, who also was a Marxist, to visit Cuba in 1960 to report on his new revolution. Since Sartre became a friend and admirer of Castro, he was fine and dandy. I arrived late at the screening because the public transportation in Cuba was very bad after Castro's revolution.
The movie theater was crowded because it was a French film and Cubans detested Soviet films and the other Eastern European satellite countries. So I sat in the only empty seat I saw in the dark. Suddenly, I was touched on my left shoulder and a voice telling me that I was under arrest. I was extremely surprised but not to attract attention, I got up and went with him to the lobby thinking all would be clear once I identified myself.
When we got to the lobby he held me forcefully by my arm and despite my protests conducted me to a police car and to a police station where they told me to sit on a bench. Surprisingly, there was a puppy dog and I passed the time playing with him while I was waiting until my situation was cleared. I asked to call my home but they said no. After a few hours they called me and forced me to sign a paper in exchange for my freedom. So I did as I was advised—how naïve I was! Then they took me to the infamous prison, The Prince Castle. There they took a silver dollar that my father gave me when I was a child that I always carried with me. They never returned it to me.
I was taken to a big crowded dungeon jam-packed with prisoners where I slept on the floor. Next morning I was released thanks to one of my mother's brothers who was a member of Castro's feared secret police. He took me to one of those fast trials of Castro's revolution. Thanks to that uncle I was found guilty, but they released me! I realized years later why I was detained. It was because I was dressed in black like an “existentialist”. Such individualism was not permitted.
This is a sample as to why I know the value of freedom and living in America. With all its defects, there is nothing like America.
Trip to The Opera (Agustin)
As an actor under contract by the state, one evening I went to the opera with another actor. After the performance, we planned to go to eat with the two female stars of the show. From the main entrance of the theater we walked around the block to wait at the stage door. Nearly there, we were questioned by a guy dressed in plain clothes saying he was a policeman who wanted to know where we were going. We told him we were actors and we were going to meet our singer friends to go to eat. Another opera singer friend came out with her husband, the conductor of the orchestra. She saw us before she entered her car and asked “What happened?” Thinking that the situation was going to clear, we replied, “Don't worry, it's nothing.”
Then the guy asked to see our IDs. We showed our actor's union and the theater company IDs. Not satisfied, he said, “We have to go to the police station so they can see your IDs.” We repeated that the two stars were waiting for us to go out. He brought out a gun and said, “You are detained and have to go to the police station.” Thinking everything would be resolved there, we walked with him at gunpoint. When we arrived, he pushed us in and said to the policemen there, “Two more.”
They pushed us into a dark, over-filled cell of prisoners standing as sardines, all with arms raised because of the lack of space. People were protesting and saying that they too were detained there for no reason. After some hours, we were put in an equally crowded paddy wagon, and driven through the dark streets to an old, colonial mansion and pushed into a dark, crowded room. I felt that I was in a hellish nightmare. There were people crying and yelling. It reminded me of the films of Hitler during WWII.
Afterward, I was conducted to a large room upstairs converted into an office with many old desks and filing cabinets. At each desk was a detainee and an interrogation officer. I could not see the fellow actor who was detained with me. I had no idea why I was part of such a grotesque situation. I had heard from other actors, artists, intellectuals, that the new government was conducting such raids, but I didn't believe them--”That can't happen here.” Now, with my own experience, I realized that they were telling the truth.
A detainee nearby whispered, “Declare yourself 'anti-social' in the document you have to sign and they will let you go.” When I got my turn the official said, “If you sign this document we'll release you”. So I did. Then they conducted me to a very long line in the courtyard of the dark mansion. Soon I find out that it was to take mug shots with a number. Then I was released in the very late hours of the night. The fellow actor was also released and we walked back to our respective homes through the dark streets.
My mother and father knew that something happened to me that evening because one of the opera singers had called inquiring why we did not join them for dinner. My mother had called one of her brothers who was a member of the dreaded State Security and he came the next morning.
He told my mother and father that they were detaining actors, singers, artists, intellectuals, because Castro's government considered them “scum” and “anti-social” because there was no use for them in the new Socialist society. They were to be sent to concentration camps called UMAP (Military Units to Help Production). That was an idea of Che Guevara.
These forced-labor camps were located across the country. He explained that after they have the files with name, addresses and photos they will start sending telegrams to go to their assigned camp. He, in his position, could not do anything. So my best choice was to escape abroad.
The government immediately cancelled my contract with the theatrical company and I went into hiding and incommunicado in my house for over a year. I was finally able to escape by a nerve-racking scheme and to a government bureaucratic error. You can read details of my escape here.
A week later my mother received the telegram for me to report to the concentration camp. But I was safe in Canada. Most Americans have no clue what living inside a Communist regime is like and take for granted what they have and cannot realize what they are losing day by day.