Maria Ofelia Garcia: 1929-2010
Mama and I dancing at her 80th birthday party in Miami, May 2009
Maria Ofelia and her four grandchildren: Elena, Brian, Mario and Ana
Matriarch: Maria Ofelia and her 11 greatgrandkids last July at Longboat Key, Florida
My mother died peacefully in her sleep this morning, Saturday, August 28, after a year-long battle with cancer, which she fought valiantly, the way she faced everything in her life.
One could write a long book about Mama. Or one could try to summarize this absolutely special woman in a 140-character Tweet that would probably read something like this:
Mama loved unconditionally, cooked expertly and passionately; her weather map was always warm and sunny. Woman of a thousand lights!
That was my Mama.
A woman who responded to a double name—Maria Ofelia.
While it is common for Hispanic women to have Maria as a first name, it is usually accompanied by a second name, and thus they are Maria Elena, Maria Luz, Maria Teresa, etc. Upon arriving in the US, many of these women turn into simply Marias, but not my mother.
She was Maria Ofelia to everyone, including her four grandchildren and 11 great grandchildren who, trying to mix English and Spanish and make it easy for their pronunciation, forever called her Mopeya.
Mopeya had the strength of a titan, in spite of her small physical stature. When she put her mind to doing something she did it—and excelled at it. Her NO was resounding, and there was no return. In between her “si” and her “no” one found a sweet woman with big and vivacious brown eyes who invited everyone into her immaculate home (she took pride in the fact that her tile floors shined like those at the entrance to the Ritz), whose kitchen always had the smell of something delicious at any time of the day (her Cuban specialties have been sampled by my friends from around the world when they visited Miami; she converted everyone who came to her house into a fan of Cuban cuisine, or make that, a fan of Maria Ofelia’s Cuban cuisine.
As I age, I realize how much I am like my mother——except that in the kitchen I can only make coffee. She taught me discipline from an early age; she showed me that sticktoitveness is the engine of making dreams come true; she knew that a smile and a friendly gesture can melt mountains of ice.
She was more than my mother, she was my best friend and confidant, one who never judged, but always offered sound advice if one requested it.
Not only did she give me life, but she also carefully orchestrated what I call a “second life” when she sent me to the United States as a child, alone, one of the many Peter Pans who arrived in this country to escape Cuba’s communism. While my father perhaps wavered and doubted that decision, Mama knew that there was only one way for me to go: to the United States.
“My son,” she said, “is going to grow up in a free country, with opportunities and freedom to do what he wants.”
And so in 1962 she said goodbye to me at the Rancho Boyeros Airport in Havana, for a separation that lasted two years. While only ninety miles separated us geographically, thousand of unknown miles lay between us at a time when nobody knew what course US/Cuba relations would take (not that anyone does even today, almost 50 years later!)
Once reunited in Miami, she had our “new home” set up within days—-collecting old furniture that others discarded, making sofa covers and colorful cushions to, as she put it , “make the place look like home, and like we are here to stay”.
In those days, no Cuban exile thought that he was here to stay, not my dad, anyway, who died almost ten years ago still dreaming of returning to a free Cuba.
Not, Mama, however: in this case, Mama knew best.
She knew that the US was home, became a US citizen, worked as a seamstress making uniforms for Eastern Airline flight attendants, or sewing prom dresses for my high school friends.
Always smiling, and making a picadillo or arroz con pollo, between breaks from her old Singer sewing machine.
At night, she would accompany my dad to whatever nightclub gig he was playing in the golden era of Miami Beach, before it became an Art Deco tourist destination. Mama loved music, and she sat (never dancing) watching my dad play his tenor saxophone. She enjoyed meeting the stars he accompanied: Olga Guillot, Gloria Estefan, Pedro Vargas, Chirino, La Lupe. The house is full of pictures of her, my dad, and the stars. She could tell you stories about the fabulous nights of that biggest and most tropical of all cabarets, Havana’s Tropicana. In those pictures, Mama is always dressed for the occasion: elegant but colorful, a pretty woman who favored pastel colors to the end, with make up and manicure perfect to a T.
When my father died, she insisted on staying in the same house they shared in Miami for decades.
I gave her the option to move out, to a smaller, newer place.
“Mama, why don’t you move to a two bedroom condo in Miami Beach, so you can see the ocean from the balcony,” I told her .
“No, no, no,” came her answer. “I don’t want anyone else telling me to move from my house. I am happy here. Has it occurred to anyone that some of us like to live with the memories?”
Yes, indeed, Mama. I now know exactly what you mean.
TheMarioBlog post # 620