A Nun, a Rifle, and the Day a Neighborhood Chose a Family
I’m a midwestern girl and my last name is Fernandez because I married a Cuban.
He is a first generation American.
I met him in NYC. His parents were immigrants who became beloved in their east 95th Street neighborhood.
What the uninitiated to NYC don’t realize is that behind the picture of hurrying anonymous faces and sneakered feet are neighborhoods of people who look out for each other, even if they don’t know each other’s names.
Or speak English well.
For instance, going to work I used to walk up Fifth Avenue every weekday with exact change for two bran muffins clutched in my hand. I’d enter a Greek diner—always three-people-deep—where customers jostled and shouted out coffee and pastry orders.
One day, one of the guys behind the counter spots me. Leaning forward and reaching between shoulders he wordlessly hands me a little white bag slightly bulging with two muffins, simultaneously cupping his hand. Stretching forward, I drop in the money. That first day I was surprised; the second day I was ready.
I was part of the neighborhood.
So, when my husband describes growing up in NYC when the Upper East Side was his home base, I think I get it. What I also realize though is that being the first Spanish family in the mid-1950’s—especially in that high-brow area—caused a stir.
Escape from Jail
In the early 1950’s my father-in-law had fought alongside Castro in the rebellion to overthrow Batista’s dictatorship. Juan Sr. was talented with tools, worked in construction and had a pretty wife Eloina and young son.
Caught up in the rebellion against Batista’s repression, he joined the guerrilla uprising but shortly thereafter was caught and thrown in a Havana prison. My husband remembers visiting his dad every few weeks for two long years.
When a general amnesty was suddenly declared (rumored to have been paid for by Castro’s wealthy family), Juan Sr. came home. My mother-in-law declared never again. She decided they’d move to New York and a fresh start, far from the rebellion and risk of being jailed again.
And so, knowing barely any English and with just a few suitcases, they bought one-way tickets for LaGuardia. The language barrier was tough. Their 8-year-old son threw fists on the playground. In her new work in the Garment District, Eloina stumbled into arguments with other seamstresses. As superintendent of an apartment building Juan Sr. struggled with understanding frustrated resident requests.
Rules on the playground, rules in the seamstress sweatshop, rules among the elite. They were outsiders struggling for entry.
Juan Sr. had been a part of large construction projects in Havana; now, in New York his superintendent tasks were small repairs and odd jobs. Replacing appliances. Helping people move in or out. He taught himself plumbing by problem-solving clogs. He figured out electrical work by following wires. There were no instruction manuals in Spanish. But his self-schooling worked. Responsibility for one building became two buildings. The family moved from a basement to a better apartment. With more family income Eloina was able to stop her stressful commute down to 36th Street.
Meanwhile their son survived elementary school (in addition to his fists he earned street cred by being a whiz at math—no English necessary) and formed his own friend posse.
Their pranks are New Yorkesque: Dropping water balloons from a diplomat-dad’s apartment balcony (claiming “diplomatic immunity” from punishment—wrong!). Walking balance-beam-like around the 4-inch edging of the American Museum of Natural History while onlookers yelled at them a few stories below.
As the family’s settling-in progressed Juan Sr. discovered something else. He loved the work. Loved to problem-solve and improvise solutions. Loved the size of the jobs: small enough to tackle and to feel the satisfaction of a quick result.
The work became a language. It bridged the absence of words with the delight of tenants’ gratitude. After successful projects he found people naturally wanted to reciprocate. When a resident asked him to install a new refrigerator, he would then offer Juan Sr. the older model. And his handyman reputation drew him beyond the apartment buildings to fix problems for others on the block: restaurants, shops, a Catholic convent.
But it was on one particularly hot July Saturday that the family was, finally, completely neighborhood-adopted.
Stressful Family Outing
It had been a stressful family outing. Juan Sr., Eloina and son (joined by Eloina’s sister, husband and two boys) are returning from a Coney Island beach day.
Jammed in and seatbelt-less in the wide Buick backseat, everyone is sweaty and sandy. The boys grumpy from not enough time in the waves. (Their moms had sternly insisted they wait at least three hours after eating lunch before re-entering the water or it was certain they would drown from gruesome stomach cramps.)
Traffic is bumper-to-bumper. Incessant honking. Noxious exhaust. A stale breeze barely relieves the two hours of stop-and-go traffic coming home.
Finally, they make it to their block, a parking space miraculously vacant in front of their building.
Juan Sr. accelerates forward, positioning the car to park with his usual pinpoint-parallel backswing. But behind them a little car zips in and steals the spot.
Cursing in Spanish, Juan Sr. and the BIL lurch out their doors. The spot-stealer leaps out his own yelling with an Irish brogue. Screeching, women and kids pour from the car. In the mayhem, no one sees Juan Sr. slip into their apartment until he reappears.
With a rifle.
The Irishman reaches into his car’s backseat.
For a shotgun.
Chaos! Screaming! A cacophony of Irish and Spanish! Juan Sr. takes off running down the block and around the corner. After a tussle with the brother-in-law, the Irishman gives chase!
Around the corner, a few feet down, is a vine-draped shadowy entrance to the neighborhood convent. With the block stretching empty in front of him—and brother-in-law, sisters and boys hot on his heels—the chaser pounds wildly on the convent door. After a long pause, the heavy oak slowly swings open.
It’s Mother Superior.
“Is there a Cuban in there?” the thief pants angrily.
Anxious, arguing, the family rounds the street corner, spies Mother Superior’s imposing figure, and skids to a halt.
Mother Superior waits. She stares at the rifle until it’s gingerly lowered. She glares until the sisters’ shrill objections are swallowed into an uncomfortable shuffling quiet.
The Irishman clears his throat. “Is there a Cuban in there?” he stubbornly repeats.
She fixes her eyes on him. “No.”
(No?? They all know he’s in there!) And then, cocking her head slightly, daring him to challenge her, she asks softly, “Isn’t there a car you need to move?”
LOL!
So, if the definition of being in a neighborhood means looking out for each other it was a marker day. And, in hindsight, not a surprise. The family learned later that Juan Sr. had spent many free hours taking care of odd jobs for the nuns. That sticky July day was a sweet day of payback.
In Hindsight
Over time the family extended their neighborliness beyond the block to other immigrants. It was a small world and when Cubans arrived in New York for the next few decades Juan Sr. and Eloina became known as a stop. For as time had gone on Juan Sr. amassed a stash of cast-off appliances from his indebted residents. In turn, the used items found second lives with countless grateful immigrant families across the city.
To my thoroughly American, 50% Cuban kids, this story and others are a rich legacy. They relish their heritage, and they’re enriched to have known their grandparents.
Earlier this year, my brother traced our family history back seven generations to 1537 when our ancestors lived in Switzerland. It’s fascinating to wonder how they lived and who they were and why Niklaus Schneider left Diessbach bei Büren with his wife to start anew in Ohio in 1841.
I suspect many readers of this newsletter can recall their family immigration stories. Where does your family originate from? Please share in the comments.
I feel like celebrating immigrants.
Warmly,
My book, Saving Vincent, A Novel of Jo van Gogh, will publish in April 2025.
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