The first World Baseball Classic was quite a dissapoinment as far as I am concerned. The U.S. team was poor and the Cuban team, that shouldn't have been allowed to participate in the first place, made it to the tournament final. Bud Selig was bullied by fidel cagalitroso into silencing the peaceful protests of the opponents of tyranny.

But there were some good moments and my favorite didn't occur on the field or even in the stadium.

It was the first inning of the final game between Cuba and Japan and Cuba was losing 4-0, when the Cuban leadoff hitter hit a slider over the left centerfield wall for a homerun. ESPN was showing a feed from Cuba where a giant screen had been set up in Havana's Parque Central. When they showed the Cuban crowd's reaction a man who was standing near the camera stood up to cheer. On the back of his T-shirt was Old Glory, the American Flag, for all the world to see. I'm sure cagalitroso had a patatú right then and there. Too bad it wasn't fatal.

I was speechless after reading this, knocked over, silent. I went back and read it three more times.

I had tears running down my eyes as I finished.

La Ventanita's new essay on the difference between the transitory and the irrecoverable is extremely powerful writing. Its depth and understanding is assuredly writing for the ages.

The essay is here.

With a heartfelt hat tip to Tman, here's a great editorial from the Wall Street Journal - today's absolute must read - by Mary Anastasia O'Grady:

THE AMERICAS

Sharing the Joy of Liberty
At a Cuban Pig Roast

By MARY ANASTASIA O'GRADY
April 14, 2006

In life, the giant pig tipped the scales at 90 pounds. Since its demise it had lost perhaps a third of its weight. But it was still a huge piece of meat, fitting for the occasion we were about to celebrate: the escape of two more refugees from Fidel Castro's Cuba.

At sunup the slain porker had been laid out, belly-down, on a tray over glowing coals. Its limbs extended to the four winds; its fat head and broad snout stretched out in front so that it resembled a bearskin rug.

By the time I arrived for the party, in the early afternoon, the pigskin had turned to a rumpled, bronzed amour and the smoky aroma of grilled meat hung in the air. My stomach growled. But I had to wait. There were still hours of roasting to go. Green plantains were dumped into the deep fry. Black beans and white rice simmered; the yucca was boiling. Two lavishly decorated cakes with large sugary flowers arrived with another guest. A family reunion, like so many in the past 50 years, that had at times seemed impossible was finally here.

Most of the party guests were also immigrants, many having arrived within the last five years. But the scene was pure Norman Rockwell: a backyard barbeque with beers by the swimming pool. "I'm living the American dream," my grinning host, who is now a citizen, told me as he showed me around the home he owns.

It was a solidly middle-class afternoon. Yet as we toasted freedom on a patio full of former prisoners of the Cuban system, I think we all felt fabulously wealthy and fortunate. I had a lump in my throat all day, thinking about the struggle of my own immigrant grandparents and the wonder of this place called America.

Anyone who truly wants to understand why walls and border guards and threats of felony charges aren't likely to change the dynamics of U.S. immigration really ought to spend some time with new arrivals, as I did last Saturday. What you learn from migrants is that escaping the dead-end life of privation and bad government is only part of what pushes them to set sail. An equally powerful force is the irresistible attraction of America, a pull so strong that it brings the voyagers through perils they are extremely lucky to survive. What you learn from their American employers is the unequaled value placed on these tenacious and grateful newcomers as employees.

In Revolutionary Cuba, the voluntary exchange of goods and labor does not exist. "Everyone has to steal in order to survive," one of the guests explained to me, "and this dependency is how the state keeps control." The government knows about the theft and records it. Employees even have to share some with their bosses. Should the employee decide to buck the system, the record is the evidence that lands him in jail. When human rights groups ask about political prisoners, Cuba can claim there are none, that there are only convicted thieves repaying society.

Every Cuban also knows that this is not the way life is lived across the Florida Straits. Most new arrivals from the island will tell you that everyone they know back home wants leave. Unfortunately, their struggle to migrate is more difficult than ever because of a policy put in place by the Clinton administration that says those caught at sea will be sent back to Cuba and only those making it ashore will be granted asylum. Under this policy, known as "wet foot/dry foot," not only do refugees have to evade Castro's thugs, who are known to sink boats loaded with defenseless women and children, but they also have to dodge the U.S. Coast Guard.

Yet even these lower odds haven't dissuaded would-be Americans from fleeing Cuba. One young man I met Saturday, who I will call Rafael, is a perfect example. He boarded a raft for the States a few years back. When the motor on his not-so-seaworthy craft broke down, he was picked up by the Bahamian coast guard. The Bahamas has a policy of keeping captured Cuban rafters in an overcrowded, rat-infested and rather primitive jail until Fidel gives the green light that he will take them back. This can take many months.

But Rafael wasn't giving up so easily. He says that he escaped the detention center, climbing over two fences, was befriended by some locals, who gave him refuge for a short time, and eventually made his way to the home of a Cuban family. From there he managed to stow away on a cruise ship, which two days after he boarded, docked in Florida. About his "cruise" he says, "I was afraid to go to the buffet."

He may have arrived hungry but Rafael's mode of transportation had one big advantage: He was "dry foot" when he met U.S. customs and immigration and he qualified for a green card, allowing him to get a job and become a tax-paying asset to his adoptive homeland.

Rafael's employer, also at the party, couldn't be happier with the Cuban-born workforce that immigrant networking has brought to his small business. Among their common traits, this group is known for its work ethic and a knack for being able to repair just about anything. That, undoubtedly, has something to do with the fact that the modern Cuban automobile is the 1957 Chevy. Speaking about the owner of the business, a mutual friend told me, "He thinks he's died and gone to heaven with these guys working for him."

Not all the immigrants at the party had arrived in the same harrowing fashion as Rafael. Some of them had won the annual lottery of 20,000 U.S. visas or had come through the Immigration and Naturalization Service's family reunification program, a path that took one migrant I talked to 15 years to travel. But they all shared a bitter disdain for the dictatorship. "Fidel Castro hates the Cuban people," one guest told me with a mixture of sorrow and anger. "Cuba," he said, "is one big prison."

Beyond these short commentaries, all of which I pulled out of them, most of the party goers weren't particularly interested in talking about the past. That may be because most have left family on the island and worry about retribution from the regime, which is why I have protected their anonymity. But I suspect there is another reason: The details of all the accumulated injustices experienced under a ruthless regime amount to just too much heavy baggage to lug around. Better to dump it in the straits upon crossing, travel light and look to the future. After all, once you make it to "La Yuma" -- Cuban slang for the U.S. -- everything is possible.

Just recieved this email and cant help but share it with you all:

Hi Val,

I know you get tons of e-mails everyday, but I'd like to share with you two wonderful anecdotes having to do with Cuba.

When I go out to socialize, I end up talking A LOT about Cuba when people find out I'm Cuban. So is the life of a Cuban outside of Miami I've been through periods of loving it and hating it. After all, there's more to me than Cuba, and many, many people I've talked to in the past about Cuba have told me about their recent Cuba trip and how much they loved it, how bad we are for our embargo, and then it ruins my night becayse I always feel compelled to "educate" them, and you know how it is rationalizing with people like that.

I'm now in the period of loving to tell people about Cuba because of two recent encounters I've had. One was with a woman who appraised a pair of earrings that were given to me by a priest in Cuba who was my father's very dear friend. They're vintage 1940's-1950's and I have no clue how he got these pearl and diamond earrings out. I digress. When I told the appraiser that the earrings were from Cuba, she said, "I've been to Cuba." Then I thought , great, hear we go again. But no! This time was different. She went on some missionary trip with her husband and she was disgusted with Cuba, to my surprise. She said, "Cubans are a first world people living in a country that's worse than the third world." I thought, wow, what an accurate description. She asked me if I've ever been and if I'd like to go.

I said, I would love to go when Castro falls. And she said "Great - I would never recommend travel to Cuba to anyone unless things change there. It was just awful, depressing, and is nothing like the paradise people want you to beleive. It's just sad."

A couple of weekends ago, I had dinner with a college buddy of mine who I hadn't seen since we graduated. We used to study together back in the day, but I really didn't know what she was up to in the past few years. After
catching up, she told me that she had been to Cuba. Again, I thought, great, now she'll tell me how great things are and that the emargo is dumb, etc. But I was wrong again. She told me how awful it was, that the tourist
segragation was guilt-inducing, to put it mildly, and that she got to see the real Cuba because she traveled around and saw areas that tourists were clearly not meant to see. She was also disgusted with the prostitution - and how hypocritical it was that Castro doesn't want to "sell out" to capitalism and instead whores his own people out to European perverts. She was glad to see it, to experience it, but she also said it wasn't pleasant.

Both women told me about how wonderful the people are, how naturally beautiful Cuba is, and how recognizing that fact made it even more depressing.

I have a renewed sense of optimism that people are finally seeing the real Cuba. Could the tides be changing? I don't know. But these two experiences have given me the push I needed to start loving the opportunity to educate people again.

Poco a poco...

Yesterday I reported on the probability that the Coconut Grove Playhouse might be shut down due to lack of funding. I posted an email from Lucie Arnaz calling for support to keep the Playhouse open at least until her play "Sonia Flew" about a Pedro Pan kid had a chance to run.

Looks like it worked. From Today's Miami Herald:

Show goes on at the fabled Grove

After spirited fundraising by Lucie Arnaz, the historic Coconut Grove Playhouse reopened to complete the season with a play about the Cuban-American experience.

...

Playhouse officials found themselves unable to pay some $200,000 it would have cost to stage Sonia Flew, which stars Arnaz and is based on the historic exodus of some 14,000 Cuban children in the early 1960s during Operation Pedro Pan.

A plea from Arnaz brought in enough donations -- about $150,000 -- to persuade the board Thursday to reopen for two weeks.

...

''We're asking South Florida to help us,'' Spivack said, adding that the run of Sonia Flew could be extended a week in Coconut Grove if enough tickets were sold and enough money raised.

The charismatic Arnaz, who targeted her plea to wealthy members of the Cuban community and urged them to show up at the meeting in support of the play, donated $50,000 herself.

One Cuban-American supporter at the meeting, Jose Antonio Font, wrote a check for $1,000, saying he was making the donation on the condition that ``the play goes on.''

''All of us need to support this play and this institution,'' said Font, a real estate developer. ``We are all guilty -- I am guilty -- of staying home and not supporting the arts enough.''

It's uncertain whether the Playhouse will remain open after Sonia Flew. But at least it's good to know some folks in South Florida got off their asses and helped support what can only be described as a Miami Landmark.

If anyone out there wants to lend a hand and donate a few dollars, you can do so here.

Also, at the Miami Herald link above youll find a couple of great slideshows on the history of the Playhouse and video of yesterday's emergency meeting.