marielito

I really like the guy who cuts my hair. I keep trying to persuade him to come by my home each day to style my hair, because it looks so amazing when he does it, but apparently that is outside the scope of his service.

[My FB friends will know that about six weeks ago I had an unfortunate mullet incident after visiting him, which was a complete aberration, and he corrected it as soon as I could get another appointment. Tonight there was a brief period where I was afraid that I might walk out looking like Kicking Bird from "Dancing With Wolves," but apparently that was just a phase on the way to the awesome final style.]

The thing I like best about Carlo, however, is that we have the most wonderful conversations. I am always surprised at what I learn during our discussions. So far topics have included, but have not been limited to, the training of a Weimaraner; the requirements of entrance into, and benefits of vacationing in, Costa Rica; and the mechanics of a spin class.

Tonight he was asking me about my recent activities, and I reported that I recently attended Jimmy Carter's Sunday School class. "Jimmy Carter," he said, "is the reason I came to America."

Really?

Yes, said Carlo. He came from Cuba as part of the Mariel Boat Lift.

How did that happen? [I did not confess that everything I know about the Mariel Boat Lift I learned from the first 20 minutes of the movie "Scarface."]

Carlo explained that a dramatic 1980 episode at the Peruvian embassy in Havana escalated into a convergence of asylum seekers that drew the attention and concern of other nations. Eventually Fidel Castro allowed those Cubans who wanted to emigrate, to leave the country. Jimmy Carter gave his blessing for Cubans to come to the United States.

So Carlo's aunt and grandmother, who were living in Florida, vouched for him and his parents. They arranged for Carlo's and parents' departure on a 24-foot shrimp boat; he was one of about 125 people on the boat, he said.

Out of that shipload, he estimated about one-third of the people were "family members." The majority were felons and mental patients who were sent offshore as part of Castro's purge of prisons and asylums. "They were crazy," Carlo said. "And very tough." He then told me about how a group later was involved in torching a federal prison near our own beloved Atlanta.

One of the messages I got from this story (and from the first 20 minutes of "Scarface") was don't mess with Los Marielitos.  But the bigger story was how Carlos grew up in a little town outside Havana, and his dad worked lots of jobs, and they were glad to leave Cuba and really didn't look back.

"Were you nervous about going to America?" I asked him.

"I was 18. Everything at that age is an adventure," he said.

The adventure somehow, eventually, brought him to our little corner of suburbia, where he and his wife run their business and are quite adept at e-marketing, and where his two children go to college, and his Weimaraner attends a doggie day camp. I wonder what he thought his life would be like when that shrimp boat pulled away from Mariel Harbor, and what he remembers about his first few days in America?

I can hardly wait 6 more weeks to see what I'm going to learn next.