The days keep passing, but the images of devastation and the echo of laments have not stopped coming from across the Florida Straits. For the Cuban exile community, the pain is mixed with the frustration of not being able to do anything -- or do enough to remedy the needs of loved ones.
Amid hard times, shake-ups and doubts, some words of encouragement: We are besieged by the economic debacle; shaken by the aftermath of passing hurricanes; suffering the growing conflicts of distant homelands. . .
The Shrine of Our Lady of Charity had gotten a bomb threat. At the time, the Coconut Grove sanctuary was operating as a collections center for donations for the victims of Hurricane Lili, which ravaged Cuba in the fall of 1996. The Catholic Church in Miami was coordinating humanitarian assistance efforts, and that sparked a whirlwind of incendiary confrontations between sectors of the Cuban exile community.
M iami's citizens may measure their wealth in different ways, but we have an overabundance of riches when it comes to one thing: blind faith.
It no longer bothers him when they call him ''homo'' at school. Roberto Ramirez now holds his head proudly, running a hand across his long curly hair, smiles and replies curtly, ``Thanks a lot, I know who I am.''
For the past quarter-century, Regla Gonzalez has been driving a school bus. In Cuba, she only made it to the sixth grade. She barely speaks English, can't remember the last time she read a book and has never sent an e-mail. The farthest she had traveled was Georgia.
My high school years were the worst of my life. Not a single day passed without other kids harassing me for being ''different.'' They made me feel inadequate, and I couldn't defend myself because I was weaker.
I am a vigorous enemy of stereotypes: The stingy Jew; the black thief; the Muslim terrorist; the promiscuous homosexual; the Latino machista; the child-molesting priest. . . .
