Miami Transformed. Manny Diaz
the A class: peer competition. My athletic competitiveness was transferred to the classroom and I improved my grades dramatically. The coach knew that. That’s why he pulled me out. Getting into Belen in the first place was a defining moment in my life; being transferred to the A group was another.
People ask me today how I keep my crazy schedule. It started at Belen. I would finish class, do my janitorial work either before or after practice, finish practice at 7:00 P.M., go home, shower, eat—somewhere in between visit my girlfriend—then, probably after 9:00 P.M. start my school work. At Belen you couldn’t survive by simply cramming at the last minute. We had tests every week, several times a week. Basically, you were cramming every day. We would do our homework and projects as part of study groups. My classmates would come over to my house to study or I would go to their house. At midnight my parents, or their parents if I was at another student’s house, would prepare café con leche so we could stay awake and study. That was my regular schedule then. And it continues today.
At Belen, it was assumed that you were going to college. There was no question about that; the only question was the career you would choose. But yes, you were going to college and you were going to be a professional, any profession.
My career path was also heavily influenced by my ninth-grade government teacher, Patrick Collins (who is still at Belen). On the first day of class, he gave us a challenge, “Ok, you guys are driving down some old country road in Alabama and a big sheriff comes over and arrests you because you look Hispanic or he just doesn’t like you. What would you do? Do you know what your rights are?”
I wanted to know the answer, and it is at this the point that I began to focus on a legal career. There is also no doubt that my own personal experience of being uprooted from my country of birth, having a system fail because of the lack of the rule of law, and wondering how that was possible also played a significant role in my career decision. How can a country fail like this? Something must be structurally wrong with its institutions for that to happen. The pursuit of a legal career went hand in hand with a commitment to public service and social activism. The Jesuit education emphasizes the principles of always giving back; of remembering where you came from; and reaching out to help those who come after you, especially those less fortunate. That life should not be measured by the material riches one is able to secure, but rather by the value one adds to enhance the life of others. Our school’s motto: Men for Others.
My classmates and I did well academically at Belen. There were forty students in our graduating class. I believe twelve would go on to become doctors. Another significant group would become lawyers, and many others succeeded in engineering, business, and other professions. We are all still friends. Sending me to Belen was one of the best things my parents ever did for me. I will forever be grateful for the sacrifices they made to make that possible.
Chapter 2 The Lost Generation Finds Its Way
TRAINED IN THE principle of Men for Others, I left high school with a strong sense of public service, wanting to help others. However, in order to do so, I would have to navigate uncharted waters. Politically and culturally, I was part of the first group of Cuban Americans who grew up in the United States. Even though we were born in Cuba, most of us were too young to remember much of anything. America is what we knew, but Cuba was never far away. Our parents and grandparents would never let us forget. One minute you’re having dinner with your parents and the conversation revolves around Cuba and what is happening there. The next minute you’re watching television shows in English, going to American movies, reading American books, attending an American school, listening to American music. You are exposed to all the influences of growing up in America, much like any other child your age. You’re an American through and through.
This presented a huge challenge for those of us who grew up as members of the lost generation. I was raised in the 1960s and 1970s by a father who was very strict, very military, very old school. He even sported a crew cut. You don’t know how difficult it was for him to come to the realization that just because I wanted to have long hair, wear shorts,jeans, or sandals didn’t mean I was any less of a man. Culturally, in Cuba, men didn’t wear sandals. Men also didn’t wear shorts, especially if they were tight—that was a “gay” thing. Then there were tank tops or letting your hair grow long. Going to a dance at school wearing a tank top and stained jeans meant being stopped by my dad with the question, “What are you doing?”
There was this tremendous cultural clash between what my father was used to, how he was brought up, and this new reality in our new country. Thank God for my mom and my grandfather, who were both nearly always on my side: “It’s just the way it is. That’s how this country is. You have to understand,” they would tell my dad. “You have to adapt.” “No, I will never adapt” was his stern response.
Feeling comfortable in two often very different cultures created this same tension for most of my generation. We all went through much the same experience. A political gulf also separated my generation from that of my parents. Having been misled by a young charismatic leader into Communism, it was natural for them to think it could happen anywhere, including the United States. They were, understandably, more conservative, anti-communist and, because of the Bay of Pigs fiasco, anti-Kennedy, anti-Democratic Party. Cuba is where they were born, where they had started their lives. It didn’t matter how long it took; they could not stop dreaming of their return. My generation shares these strong feelings about one day returning to live in or at least visit our country of birth. When we live the pain and witness the tears, those of us who have lost their parents no doubt reflect that their parents have passed away without realizing their dream of being buried in the country where they were born.
The political gulf between our generations widened when my call to public service led me to actively participate in a number of local organizations. Many in our community believed this action treasonous. Why are you forming or becoming a member of community-based organizations—groups dealing with the elderly, education and youth? Because the plan was always to return to Cuba, there was no need for such organizations. It was as if being involved in any kind of organization not focused on overthrowing Castro was an acknowledgement of a truth no one wanted to admit—that we weren’t going back, at least not for a very long time. This was a harsh reality for my parents and their generation. They were focused on change in Cuba. Many in my generation focused on change in Miami and of building our future in our new country.
I HAD MY first taste of politics in high school. It was in ninth grade, when I joined the A class, the class with the more studious kids. They were holding elections for class president. One of the students turned to me and asked if I would like him to nominate me. Another student offered to second the nomination. Fearing the smarter kids would not vote for a street jock, I accepted nevertheless and then became class president. It happened again in tenth and eleventh grades. My senior year, I was elected school president. This experience would serve as the launching pad for my career in public service.
At the first opportunity, I registered to vote as a member of the Democratic Party, despite the fact that my parents and most other Cuban Americans at the time were registering as Republicans. Friends of my parents would often refer to me as “Fidelito” (little Fidel) because of the Belen connection and because they considered me a liberal. “He’s too young to be a communist, so we’ll just call him a ‘pinko’ or ‘little Fidel.’” Of course, they meant this endearingly.
The summer of my graduating year, I married my high school sweetheart. That was not my immediate post-graduation plan. Rather, I had planned to attend Columbia University in New York City on an academic scholarship, where I would join my best friend and former basketball teammate, Pedro Mencia. Concerned about starting a family so far from home, I decided to enroll at Miami Dade Community College, the largest community college in America, now known as Miami Dade College. I graduated with high honors at both Miami Dade College (1975) and Florida International University (1977). I attended both institutions on a full-time basis, worked full-time (often holding multiple jobs at one time), and regularly played the role of Mr. Mom, staying home to care for my son Manny while my wife worked and went to school to pursue her career in nursing.