Read Online An American Son: A Memoir by Marco Rubio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marco Rubio
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outside to play with neighborhood friends until dark. But two hours or more of each morning were dedicated to Papá’s tutorials. Before he consented to answer my questions on the subject that preoccupied me at the moment, he had me read to him from a copy of
Diario Las Américas
, the Spanish-language daily newspaper published in Miami that our relatives mailed to us. He would have already read the paper by then, but insisted I read it to him again so I would learn to speak his native language correctly.
He nodded to indicate when I had read enough, and he was ready to expound on any issue I cared to raise. My questions were often related to some fanciful ambition I had at the time. When I told him I wanted to be a farmer, he recounted his childhood on his family’s farm: the crops they had raised; the care and feeding of the animals they had kept; the harsh nature of the work and the meager living it provided; the tools and techniques they had employed to overcome the challenges of weather, climate and soil.
When I shared that I was interested in the military, he discussed howAmerican soldiers had helped liberate Cuba from the Spanish and Europe from the Nazis. He chronicled the history of the conflicts. He explained their causes, the politics that had led to them, influenced their direction and been shaped by their conclusion. He recounted the actions and motives of the wars’ central figures. He described important battles, and commended the virtues of the military leaders who had won them; Generals MacArthur and Patton were his favorites.
When I boasted I would someday lead an army of exiles to overthrow Fidel Castro and become president of a free Cuba, he narrated the life of José Martí and the heroics of the Mambises, who had won Cuba’s independence. He identified the virtues and flaws of postindependence leaders such as Carlos Prío Socarrás, Ramón Grau and Eduardo Chibás.
Papá seemed to know something about almost everything, or everything that interested me anyway. He was a gifted storyteller, the talent he had learned as a cigar factory lector. His accounts were exciting and forceful, rich in imagery and telling anecdotes. They held me spellbound.
My interest in politics began around the time we moved to Vegas, and by 1980 politics was a preoccupation second only to football. Two events had captured my attention that year: Senator Edward Kennedy’s challenge to President Carter for the Democratic presidential nomination and the Iran hostage crisis. I was a Kennedy supporter. With rapt attention I watched the Democratic convention in New York, and was crushed by the outcome of what seemed an excruciatingly slow delegate count that gave the nomination to President Carter. I was inspired by Senator Kennedy’s concession speech.
My grandfather didn’t admire either of them. Ronald Reagan was his man. He despised President Carter because of the Iran hostage crisis, a humiliation Papá seemed to feel personally. America must be a strong country, he constantly preached, or the world would succumb to darkness, and a strong country requires a strong leader. He thought the world didn’t respect or fear Carter. He was weak, he said, and other countries preyed on his weakness. That’s why the Soviets had invaded Afghanistan and the Iranians had seized our embassy. He blamed the failed attempt to rescue the hostages on cuts to defense spending Carter had made. Ronald Reagan would restore our strength, he assured me. He would confront communism. Our allies would follow him and our enemies would respect him.
When Reagan was elected and Iran released our hostages on his inauguration, Papá made certain to point out to me that it confirmed everything he had been telling me. Reagan had barely been sworn into office, and our enemies were already capitulating to him. Reagan’s election and my grandfather’s allegiance to him were defining influences on me politically. I’ve been a Republican ever since. More
Diario Las Américas
, the Spanish-language daily newspaper published in Miami that our relatives mailed to us. He would have already read the paper by then, but insisted I read it to him again so I would learn to speak his native language correctly.
He nodded to indicate when I had read enough, and he was ready to expound on any issue I cared to raise. My questions were often related to some fanciful ambition I had at the time. When I told him I wanted to be a farmer, he recounted his childhood on his family’s farm: the crops they had raised; the care and feeding of the animals they had kept; the harsh nature of the work and the meager living it provided; the tools and techniques they had employed to overcome the challenges of weather, climate and soil.
When I shared that I was interested in the military, he discussed howAmerican soldiers had helped liberate Cuba from the Spanish and Europe from the Nazis. He chronicled the history of the conflicts. He explained their causes, the politics that had led to them, influenced their direction and been shaped by their conclusion. He recounted the actions and motives of the wars’ central figures. He described important battles, and commended the virtues of the military leaders who had won them; Generals MacArthur and Patton were his favorites.
When I boasted I would someday lead an army of exiles to overthrow Fidel Castro and become president of a free Cuba, he narrated the life of José Martí and the heroics of the Mambises, who had won Cuba’s independence. He identified the virtues and flaws of postindependence leaders such as Carlos Prío Socarrás, Ramón Grau and Eduardo Chibás.
Papá seemed to know something about almost everything, or everything that interested me anyway. He was a gifted storyteller, the talent he had learned as a cigar factory lector. His accounts were exciting and forceful, rich in imagery and telling anecdotes. They held me spellbound.
My interest in politics began around the time we moved to Vegas, and by 1980 politics was a preoccupation second only to football. Two events had captured my attention that year: Senator Edward Kennedy’s challenge to President Carter for the Democratic presidential nomination and the Iran hostage crisis. I was a Kennedy supporter. With rapt attention I watched the Democratic convention in New York, and was crushed by the outcome of what seemed an excruciatingly slow delegate count that gave the nomination to President Carter. I was inspired by Senator Kennedy’s concession speech.
My grandfather didn’t admire either of them. Ronald Reagan was his man. He despised President Carter because of the Iran hostage crisis, a humiliation Papá seemed to feel personally. America must be a strong country, he constantly preached, or the world would succumb to darkness, and a strong country requires a strong leader. He thought the world didn’t respect or fear Carter. He was weak, he said, and other countries preyed on his weakness. That’s why the Soviets had invaded Afghanistan and the Iranians had seized our embassy. He blamed the failed attempt to rescue the hostages on cuts to defense spending Carter had made. Ronald Reagan would restore our strength, he assured me. He would confront communism. Our allies would follow him and our enemies would respect him.
When Reagan was elected and Iran released our hostages on his inauguration, Papá made certain to point out to me that it confirmed everything he had been telling me. Reagan had barely been sworn into office, and our enemies were already capitulating to him. Reagan’s election and my grandfather’s allegiance to him were defining influences on me politically. I’ve been a Republican ever since. More
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