Even though I was young, I knew something weird was going on when my parents took me on this thing called an airplane and I had never seen one. I remember sitting in the plane as my brother, Darío, sat next to me, restless and excited—he was younger and a typical kid. But, my mother was crying like crazy and that was making me very upset. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. But then I looked out the window and watched as Cuba got smaller and smaller, until it just disappeared. Cuba was gone. That was the last I saw of Cuba. Then there was nothing but ocean out the window. And now we're going someplace else, this place called Miami.
We arrived in Miami thinking we’d return to Cuba in two weeks. But it quickly became clear there would be no going back. Soon, my father was offered a job in Rhode Island at a small factory in Bristol. We still had our return tickets, but they were never used. I still have mine.
I never used the return ticket to Cuba; it’s still a keepsake of a life that might have been. When my parents and Darío took their citizenship oaths, I was a little too young. A year later I stood before a large American flag and swore my own oath. I loved this new country, but I couldn’t ignore what the words meant I was giving up. Quietly, behind my back, I crossed my fingers. A small private accommodation to a divided heart.
My first day in the United States is a blur of fear and fascination. My father’s friend who greeted us handed me a small glass bottle of Coca-Cola. I had never tasted it before. Somehow, in that first sip, I felt that wherever we were, maybe we’d be okay.
When we arrived in Bristol we moved into a small house on Bradford Street. It was October, and everything was strange—especially the cold. My parents bought us sweaters and coats, but I had never worn a sweater before. It didn’t have buttons; I had to pull it over my head, and it was so itchy I refused to wear it. One morning, my mother insisted. I cried and screamed until she gave up. Then we stepped outside, and the wind cut through me like ice. I ran back inside to grab the sweater. It was still itchy—but I wore it. I had to. That itchy sweater became my first lesson about America: sometimes, you do what you must to survive the cold.
My first day in the United States is a blur of fear and fascination. My father’s friend who greeted us handed me a small glass bottle of Coca-Cola. I had never tasted it before. Somehow, in that first sip, I felt that wherever we were, maybe we’d be okay.
When we arrived in Bristol we moved into a small house on Bradford Street. It was October, and everything was strange—especially the cold. My parents bought us sweaters and coats, but I had never worn a sweater before. It didn’t have buttons; I had to pull it over my head, and it was so itchy I refused to wear it. One morning, my mother insisted. I cried and screamed until she gave up. Then we stepped outside, and the wind cut through me like ice. I ran back inside to grab the sweater. It was still itchy—but I wore it. I had to. That itchy sweater became my first lesson about America: sometimes, you do what you must to survive the cold.
When I entered Mount Carmel School, an Italian parish school up the street, I didn’t speak a word of English. To me, the children sounded like they were speaking Martian. I remember sitting in the back of the room, trying to understand.
Sister Frances, my teacher, was kind and patient. She discovered that I already knew how to write in cursive and was ahead in some subjects, so she helped me skip ahead. I had started first grade twice, once in Cuba and again here, but Sister Frances made sure I didn’t fall behind. Without her, my life might have turned out very differently.
I missed Havana, the sounds, the colors, the people. My mother missed it even more. She had grown up in a bustling city and suddenly found herself in a quiet New England town where no one spoke Spanish. My father adjusted quickly—he loved the small-town atmosphere and he already spoke English—but my mother never did. She was lonely. When we visited family in Miami, she became someone else—animated, laughing, alive. Back in Rhode Island, the silence seemed to weigh on her.
At home, my parents made sure we held onto our Cuban traditions. My mother cooked black beans and fried plantains. For Thanksgiving we’d have turkey, but everything else on the table was Cuban. I loved introducing my friends to our food. I felt proud then—like I was giving them a taste of who I really was.
Still, being “the only one” in Bristol wasn’t easy. There were very few Cubans, hardly any Latinos at all. Then one day, everything changed in the doorway of the International Market, a grocery store in Providence that we found carried plátanos and such. My father spotted a man waving at us through the glass—it was Ricardo, a friend from his engineering school in Havana. The two of them hugged and cried right there in the entrance. That day opened a new world for us. Through Ricardo, we met other Cubans, and my parents helped start a small Cuban club. It wasn’t Havana, but it was something.
I went on to Our Lady of Fatima High School in Warren, a small all-girls school run by the Sisters of Saint Dorothy. We were a tight group. We wore plaid skirts and navy blazers and laughed at everything. Decades later, we still meet once a month for dinner, always ending with a group hug. In those early years, that school made me feel safe again. It gave me roots.
Sister Frances, my teacher, was kind and patient. She discovered that I already knew how to write in cursive and was ahead in some subjects, so she helped me skip ahead. I had started first grade twice, once in Cuba and again here, but Sister Frances made sure I didn’t fall behind. Without her, my life might have turned out very differently.
I missed Havana, the sounds, the colors, the people. My mother missed it even more. She had grown up in a bustling city and suddenly found herself in a quiet New England town where no one spoke Spanish. My father adjusted quickly—he loved the small-town atmosphere and he already spoke English—but my mother never did. She was lonely. When we visited family in Miami, she became someone else—animated, laughing, alive. Back in Rhode Island, the silence seemed to weigh on her.
At home, my parents made sure we held onto our Cuban traditions. My mother cooked black beans and fried plantains. For Thanksgiving we’d have turkey, but everything else on the table was Cuban. I loved introducing my friends to our food. I felt proud then—like I was giving them a taste of who I really was.
Still, being “the only one” in Bristol wasn’t easy. There were very few Cubans, hardly any Latinos at all. Then one day, everything changed in the doorway of the International Market, a grocery store in Providence that we found carried plátanos and such. My father spotted a man waving at us through the glass—it was Ricardo, a friend from his engineering school in Havana. The two of them hugged and cried right there in the entrance. That day opened a new world for us. Through Ricardo, we met other Cubans, and my parents helped start a small Cuban club. It wasn’t Havana, but it was something.
I went on to Our Lady of Fatima High School in Warren, a small all-girls school run by the Sisters of Saint Dorothy. We were a tight group. We wore plaid skirts and navy blazers and laughed at everything. Decades later, we still meet once a month for dinner, always ending with a group hug. In those early years, that school made me feel safe again. It gave me roots.
Becoming a Small Minority at Providence College
When it came time for college, I chose Providence College. I loved basketball and watched Jimmy Walker with my parents. The year I was ready to apply, PC went co-ed, and I took it as a sign. Walking onto that campus, I felt like I was stepping into another new country. The men leaned out of windows calling, “There goes another one!”—meaning another woman.
For a while there was only one women’s public bathroom, and I remember the day the women finally stood up to the Administration to demand one. Some faculty didn’t think we [the women] belonged.
Trying to fit in, I decided to join the Veritas (yearbook) staff and by my Junior year at PC, I became its first woman editor. Anne Frank became the first woman editor of The Cowl (school newspaper) and Patricia Slonina of The Alembic (literary magazine). We called ourselves “The Triumvirate.” We were proud, maybe even a little defiant.
My two role models while at PC were Professors like Rodney Delasanta and Paul VanK. Thompson, who saw something in me and supported me when I doubted myself. On graduation day, they both stepped forward to hand me my diploma. It felt like a blessing.
For a while there was only one women’s public bathroom, and I remember the day the women finally stood up to the Administration to demand one. Some faculty didn’t think we [the women] belonged.
Trying to fit in, I decided to join the Veritas (yearbook) staff and by my Junior year at PC, I became its first woman editor. Anne Frank became the first woman editor of The Cowl (school newspaper) and Patricia Slonina of The Alembic (literary magazine). We called ourselves “The Triumvirate.” We were proud, maybe even a little defiant.
My two role models while at PC were Professors like Rodney Delasanta and Paul VanK. Thompson, who saw something in me and supported me when I doubted myself. On graduation day, they both stepped forward to hand me my diploma. It felt like a blessing.
After graduation, I got married and took a job with the state’s Department of Employment Security. It was steady but soul-crushing work. Then one day, my boss asked me to deliver a tape to Channel 12. The moment I walked into that newsroom, I knew I’d found my place. The energy, the voices, the purpose—it all clicked. I wanted to be a journalist. With some encouragement from Gioconda Salazar, who along with her husband, Jaime, were producing a Spanish-language show called Nuevos Horizones at Channel 12, and later Truman Taylor at Channel 6, I became, as far as I know, Rhode Island’s first Latina television reporter.
That didn’t mean it was easy. I started with fluffy stories—the kind they thought women should cover. I smiled through it but wanted more. I remember interviewing Tom Jones and being told by my editor, “Give him a kiss at the end.” I didn’t. That was when I realized I had a choice about what kind of journalist I wanted to be.
That didn’t mean it was easy. I started with fluffy stories—the kind they thought women should cover. I smiled through it but wanted more. I remember interviewing Tom Jones and being told by my editor, “Give him a kiss at the end.” I didn’t. That was when I realized I had a choice about what kind of journalist I wanted to be.
Being a Latina in Rhode Island media during the 1970s and 1980s could feel isolating. Sometimes people would say, “You don’t look Hispanic,” as if that was a compliment. It made me furious. What did “Hispanic” look like? Who got to decide? I wasn’t going to hide or change to fit their idea of me.
Later, I worked for a local cable company, Colony Communications, and helped launch a regional newscast for Fall River and New Bedford. On my first live broadcast, I nearly fainted. All the executives were watching from the studio. Joe Langhan, my boss (who later founded the Food Network), cleared the room and told me to breathe. I did. And I got through the broadcast. It was the first time I truly felt I belonged on that side of the camera.
Still, being a Latina in Rhode Island media during the 1970s and 1980s could feel isolating. Sometimes people would say, “You don’t look Hispanic,” as if that was a compliment. It made me furious. What did “Hispanic” look like? Who got to decide? I wasn’t going to hide or change to fit their idea of me. I used my full name on air—Ana Cabrera—and pronounced it in Spanish. The news director didn’t like that and once asked why. I just laughed. “Because that’s who I am,” I told him.
Over the years, I wrote for Providence en Español, The Providence American, and The Providence Phoenix. I covered stories that mattered to both Latino and Black communities, sometimes writing different versions for different audiences. Slowly, I found my people—the writers, the activists, the artists who were shaping a more inclusive Rhode Island.
Looking back, the journey from Havana to Bristol to Providence was a long one, full of loss, laughter, and second chances. My mother never quite made peace with Rhode Island, but my father did. My brother and I did. I still have that round-trip ticket to Cuba—a reminder of how close we came to a different life.
