But, you’re an Anglo
My first public act of political speech was spoken in Spanish. A language I do not speak.
The recent “retirement” of Cuban dictator Fidel Castro made me think of a brisk sunny day in New York City when I first found my political voice.
It was 1979, and I was on the train going to my job at a midtown corporation when something I read in the newspaper struck me in a profound way.
Juanita Castro, the sister of Fidel Castro was going to protest her brother Fidel’s speech at the United Nations that day.
I had been raised in a Catholic, pro-military, pro-union, Democrat family that was fiercely anti-communist, but I’m not sure why this particular news item triggered the response in me that it did. Maybe I instinctively realized how momentous it was for a Latin woman to politically oppose her brother in public. Maybe it was because Cuba had been in the news a lot. And maybe, it was just my time to start engaging the world on some other level besides my career.
I knew I had to be there.
The protest was at a place called Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza, and I wasn’t sure where that was. I figured it had to be somewhere close to the United Nations. So with conflicting directions from my co-workers, I set out to save the world from communism.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being twenty two years old and on your way to fight for freedom, and I quickly found Dag Hammarskjöld Plaza.
At first, I was disappointed. I expected thousands of people. But when I was finally able to make my way through the hundreds of police officers, swat teams and stand-by ambulances, I was surprised to find only about forty or fifty Cubans in a small knot at the center.
The media was being kept behind barricades, and, for a moment, I stood alone inside the barricades and between the media and the group of Cubans preparing to protest.
Two tough-looking bodyguard types immediately split from the protesters. They walked up to me and asked in heavily accented English, “Are you FBI?”
I had worn my best entry-level Brooks Brothers navy suit to work with a white button down shirt and striped tie. I had not realized that the standard uniform in those days for young executives was also the look preferred by young FBI agents.
I opened my jacket and held it out by the sides to show I was unarmed and said, “I’m not with the FBI. I came to join your protest.”
They looked bewildered, and one of them said, “But you’re an Anglo.”
I answered, “I know, but I came here to support you in your fight against communism, and I’m sorry more Anglos aren’t here.”
With that, they broke into huge grins. They both hugged me excitedly and said, “You have to meet Juanita.”
My new buddies escorted me through the small crowd of Cubans, who I later found out were mostly from the Miami-based paramilitary exile group, Alpha 66, and I was introduced to Juanita Castro.
It was a moment I will never forget. I felt completely out of place, and I couldn’t understand what anyone was saying. My escorts spoke rapidly to Juanita Castro in Spanish, and all of a sudden, Juanita Castro smiled, embraced me and whispered in my ear two simple words said as passionately as I have ever heard them said: ”Thank You.”
I was the only “Anglo” there, and, at her request, I stayed next to Juanita Castro for the rest of the protest.
I learned a lot about courage that day. I saw a woman risk assassination to defend liberty. I met dozens of Cuban patriots - people who had dedicated their lives to fighting communism. People who would not surrender, and who refused to forget those left behind to suffer under tyranny.
I learned that people all over the world share a common language - the language of freedom.
Soon after meeting Juanita Castro, I stood on street corners in Manhattan handing out literature for Ronald Reagan. Since then, I’ve been involved in all kinds of political demonstrations, but I will always remember that day as special.
I never saw Juanita Castro again.
All of us get older. All of us have memories.
One of mine will always be of a beautiful fall day when I was young, and I stood with the freedom fighters of Cuba, pumped my fist in the air and shouted for two hours as loudly as I could.
“Cuba Si, Castro No!”
| 
