THE LITTLE BOY IN THE MIDDLE

By TAD BARTIMUS

Just suppose:

Your mother tells you you're going to the Promised Land, so you get into a little boat with her and 10 other people and start out across the ocean;

Your boat sinks in the big waves, all around you people slip away, your mother is lost, too, and you are alone;

You drift – cold, hungry, thirsty, scared – on your inner tube and when you haven't got any more tears left some fishermen find you and pull you from the sea and tell you you are saved;

You are in the Promised Land, smothered in strangers' hugs, blinded by flashbulbs, taken to a hospital where you are the center of attention and then given to aunties and uncles who cry when they see you, take you to their nice house, put you in a bedroom with a cousin and tell you everything is okay now…

But you miss your mother and father.

You look up from playing in the yard to see people peering at you through the chain-link fence, strangers calling your name, hugging you to them for the cameras, kissing you for no reason, shouting, shouting all around you;

You open the newspaper and your picture is on the front page;

You turn on the television and see yourself;

You ride in a car and hear your name on the radio;

You accept all of this because it is the Promised Land and your mother told you it would be wonderful and it is…

But you miss your mother and father.

You turn six;

You talk to your father on the telephone and don't understand why he and your grandmothers and grandfathers can't come to your party;

You go to Disney World and don't have to wait in line;

You get lots of new tennis shoes, shirts, jeans and toys…

But you miss your mother and father.

You hear the words "political" and "refugee" over and over and when people say it they look at you. You don't understand why everybody in the Promised Land acts like they hate Fidel Castro when, back home in Cuba, his picture is in as many places as yours is here;

You grow tired of all the commotion;

You wonder what happened, really, to all the people in the boat;

You wonder where your mother went, where Heaven is, what it feels like to go there;

You wish your father would come…

Imagine that you are Elian Gonzalez and in your short life you have lived through all of this already. What will become of you? Will you stay in the Promised Land surrounded by strangers and toys, with people shouting and hugging you to them for pictures, using your name in slogans and plastering your photo on posters all around the town?

Will you go home to once again make and fly kites, see your grandmas and grandpas, live with your father and remember the Promised Land as a nice dream?

You wonder why you can't just go back and forth, stay a while in Cuba, then stay a while in America. See everybody. You ask every adult: Why can't I do that? Nobody can answer your question.

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