Some days I still get homesick for Cuba, with its warm sea breezes and its mango trees. I live in Georgia now, far from the sea. There is winter here, when the days are short and cold. There is only one tree in my yard - a magnolia tree. It has no fruit, but does bear flowers.
It is no odinary tree. It has story.
When my family came to this small town in Georgia, it was a big change from our tropical island. In time, thought, I started to like my new home. Soon I learned enough English to make a best friend. An American friend.
One day, we had a silly fight over a bike, and my friend called me an ugly name. I remember that Saturday as if it were today...
My face is hot and red. I drop the bike in the driveway and run to find my father. I see him in the garden under the big magnolia. He is digging in the red Georgia clay. He stands up as I run to him. I cry angry tears.
A moment like this comes for every immigrant child.
It is hard to leave a home you know. It is even harder to make another place home. Everything is new. Everything if strange. Everthing is different.
I tell Papi how I feel.
"I hate it here! I am not like them, and they are not like me!" I say to him.
Papi pulls out a handkerchief and hands it to me.
My father, the gardener, looks at me intently for a few moments. Then he asks, "Carmita, do you remember our mango tree in Cuba?"
"Yes," I sniff. I am curious now.
"Do you know what it means to graft a tree?"
I nod. "You take a branch from one tree and attach it to another tree. The branch and the tree grow together. Right?"
"Sí, that is right," Papi says.
My father tells me that I am like a branch from that Cuban mango tree. He says Georgie is like the magnolia tree. I must wait. Eventually, the mango and magnolia will grow together.
I lean over and smell a sweet magnolia flower from the tree in our yard.
I smile. I will wait.
I am a tree that gives forth both mangoes and magnolias.
I am an American.
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About the Author
Carmen Agra Deedy (1960-) based this story on events from her childhood. She was born in Havana, Cuba, and came to the United States with her family in 1963. Deedy grew up in two cultures. She was always trying to find her own place. Her father's words were helpful.
"Sometimes I still feel like I don't fit it," Deedy said. "Then I remember Papi's story, and I know that I don't have to stop eating the fruit to smell the flowers."
