By Pedro Pablo Morejón
HAVANA TIMES – From the moment I set foot in the United States, I felt like a blind man not knowing where to go or how to organize my immigration status.
I knew that to start, I needed a work permit and a social security number, but I had no idea where to go to get them.
I found myself in a different city, bustling, full of cars speeding down its highways, and me on foot, not knowing how to get around, depending on my sponsor who is hardly ever home and spends most of his month in other states transporting goods.
I was literally alone, slowly finding my way in the dark.
Every evening the gym became a refuge, not only to train my body but also to relieve the stress of a new place and the nostalgia for a Cuba that, despite everything, is my homeland, where I left behind a life, many memories, and loved ones who are always present, especially my daughter.
There at the gym I met Manuel, a man with coppery skin and indigenous features who turned out to be of Peruvian origin.
From the beginning, we had good chemistry, helped by ideological coincidences and similar thoughts on many topics.
Manuel offered to help me. He has been an US citizen for 22 years.
He took me to Lutheran’s Service, an NGO of the Lutheran church based in Florida that is dedicated to guiding and helping immigrants in obtaining work permits, residency, job searches, course offers, and other services.
Not only did he take me in his car, but thanks to him, I also learned to get around the city using bus routes and to find some temporary jobs while I wait for the legal permit to work.
We have coincided often in the afternoons and sit on a dock by a lake, embarking on long conversations about any topic.
We have talked about Peru, Fujimori, the Shining Path, Vargas Llosa, and the Apus, the high gods of the Andes mountains according to ancestral beliefs.
Through him, I learned that Bolivar is not so popular or loved in Peru.
We talked about the United States and the victimhood and resentment of many Latin Americans against this great country.
He knew about the tough situation in my country, Cuba, but when I tell him the details, he can hardly believe my words.
Every now and then, his phone greeting is a welcoming joke, “Viva la Revolución,” he says, and I can’t help but laugh at his accent.
Manuel is one of those friends life gifts you in crucial moments.
Read more from Pedro Pablo Morejon’s diary here.
