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Chapter 2 The Lost Generation Finds Its Way

TRAINED IN THE principle of Men for Others, I left high school with a strong sense of public service, wanting to help others. However, in order to do so, I would have to navigate uncharted waters. Politically and culturally, I was part of the first group of Cuban Americans who grew up in the United States. Even though we were born in Cuba, most of us were too young to remember much of anything. America is what we knew, but Cuba was never far away. Our parents and grandparents would never let us forget. One minute you’re having dinner with your parents and the conversation revolves around Cuba and what is happening there. The next minute you’re watching television shows in English, going to American movies, reading American books, attending an American school, listening to American music. You are exposed to all the influences of growing up in America, much like any other child your age. You’re an American through and through.

This presented a huge challenge for those of us who grew up as members of the lost generation. I was raised in the 1960s and 1970s by a father who was very strict, very military, very old school. He even sported a crew cut. You don’t know how difficult it was for him to come to the realization that just because I wanted to have long hair, wear shorts,jeans, or sandals didn’t mean I was any less of a man. Culturally, in Cuba, men didn’t wear sandals. Men also didn’t wear shorts, especially if they were tight—that was a “gay” thing. Then there were tank tops or letting your hair grow long. Going to a dance at school wearing a tank top and stained jeans meant being stopped by my dad with the question, “What are you doing?”

There was this tremendous cultural clash between what my father was used to, how he was brought up, and this new reality in our new country. Thank God for my mom and my grandfather, who were both nearly always on my side: “It’s just the way it is. That’s how this country is. You have to understand,” they would tell my dad. “You have to adapt.” “No, I will never adapt” was his stern response.

Feeling comfortable in two often very different cultures created this same tension for most of my generation. We all went through much the same experience. A political gulf also separated my generation from that of my parents. Having been misled by a young charismatic leader into Communism, it was natural for them to think it could happen anywhere, including the United States. They were, understandably, more conservative, anti-communist and, because of the Bay of Pigs fiasco, anti-Kennedy, anti-Democratic Party. Cuba is where they were born, where they had started their lives. It didn’t matter how long it took; they could not stop dreaming of their return. My generation shares these strong feelings about one day returning to live in or at least visit our country of birth. When we live the pain and witness the tears, those of us who have lost their parents no doubt reflect that their parents have passed away without realizing their dream of being buried in the country where they were born.

The political gulf between our generations widened when my call to public service led me to actively participate in a number of local organizations. Many in our community believed this action treasonous. Why are you forming or becoming a member of community-based organizations—groups dealing with the elderly, education and youth? Because the plan was always to return to Cuba, there was no need for such organizations. It was as if being involved in any kind of organization not focused on overthrowing Castro was an acknowledgement of a truth no one wanted to admit—that we weren’t going back, at least not for a very long time. This was a harsh reality for my parents and their generation. They were focused on change in Cuba. Many in my generation focused on change in Miami and of building our future in our new country.

I HAD MY first taste of politics in high school. It was in ninth grade, when I joined the A class, the class with the more studious kids. They were holding elections for class president. One of the students turned to me and asked if I would like him to nominate me. Another student offered to second the nomination. Fearing the smarter kids would not vote for a street jock, I accepted nevertheless and then became class president. It happened again in tenth and eleventh grades. My senior year, I was elected school president. This experience would serve as the launching pad for my career in public service.

At the first opportunity, I registered to vote as a member of the Democratic Party, despite the fact that my parents and most other Cuban Americans at the time were registering as Republicans. Friends of my parents would often refer to me as “Fidelito” (little Fidel) because of the Belen connection and because they considered me a liberal. “He’s too young to be a communist, so we’ll just call him a ‘pinko’ or ‘little Fidel.’” Of course, they meant this endearingly.

The summer of my graduating year, I married my high school sweetheart. That was not my immediate post-graduation plan. Rather, I had planned to attend Columbia University in New York City on an academic scholarship, where I would join my best friend and former basketball teammate, Pedro Mencia. Concerned about starting a family so far from home, I decided to enroll at Miami Dade Community College, the largest community college in America, now known as Miami Dade College. I graduated with high honors at both Miami Dade College (1975) and Florida International University (1977). I attended both institutions on a full-time basis, worked full-time (often holding multiple jobs at one time), and regularly played the role of Mr. Mom, staying home to care for my son Manny while my wife worked and went to school to pursue her career in nursing.

Working full-time made it possible to pay for my studies and support my family. In fact, I never had to borrow money to finance any portion of my undergraduate education. Regrettably, while many state governments profess to lower taxes, they are continually raising fees, including college tuition. Tax and budgeting decisions are supposed to reflect a society’s priorities. Obviously, these legislators do not place a high priority on postsecondary education and the future of our state. I am shocked by the costs of a college education today, and wonder whether it would have been possible for me to achieve what I did under these circumstances.

In juggling full-time work with a full-time school schedule, I was employed in a hodgepodge of jobs. I served as executive director of the Spanish Speaking Democratic Caucus. I served as a youth counselor and soccer coach for Hebraica (a social group of Cuban Jews); I had a field inventory route for the National Enquirer; I cleaned a bingo parlor between 4:00 and 7:00 A.M. (my first class started at 8:00 A.M.); I worked as an administrator of a surgical center at a local HMO; I was a private tutor in math and English for junior high and high school students; I served as campaign coordinator and chairman for various local and state races; and I would continue to do weekend and summer work at the auto parts factory where my parents still worked.

I attended the University of Miami School of Law. During my first year, I secured student loans (all of which were paid off on schedule). It was the policy of the law school to schedule classes throughout the day so that students would not be able to hold an outside job during their first year. After my first year, I was fortunate to secure a clerking job at an old-line Miami law firm, and I continued thereafter to work full-time throughout the balance of law school, while maintaining a full class load. I became the first member of my family to be awarded a college and professional degree.

ALTHOUGH I WAS quite busy studying, working, and raising a family, I never lost sight of politics. My first foray occurred immediately after graduating from high school. In 1973, I worked on my first political campaign. The mayor of Miami, David Kennedy, had been removed from office. Maurice Ferre had been appointed to fill out the remainder of Kennedy’s term and was now standing for election. A local businessman, Jim Angleton, was running against Ferre and against public corruption. It was music to the ears of a young idealist.

One Saturday morning, I drove to Overtown, a black neighborhood of Miami. The Ministers-Laymen Group in Overtown hosted a weekly breakfast and that day they were staging a debate between the mayoral candidates. I had already pegged Ferre as part of the same corrupt politics that had spawned Kennedy. Angleton portrayed himself as a religiously motivated businessman who wanted to change the world, change Miami. I thought to myself: that’s just what Miami needs, someone like him.

I approached him after the debate and offered to help in his campaign. And I did. This was to be my first actual campaign job. We had an incredible grassroots operation, which included many of my Belen friends whom I recruited. With a throng of young volunteers, we walked door-to-door throughout the city. We did well, but Angleton fell a few points short. Nearly thirty years later I ran for mayor against Maurice and beat him.

I soon became deeply involved in Democratic Party politics. I became executive director of the Spanish Speaking Democratic Caucus. I was the kid in a group of very prominent community leaders. At Miami Dade College, I helped form a Young Democrats chapter that became the largest in the State of Florida and helped elect a statewide president from Miami, Kendall Coffey, who coincidentally would become my law partner years later.

I continued to sharpen my organizational skills within the Democratic Party. In 1974, the local party was controlled by Joe Robbie, former owner of the Miami Dolphins. Robbie had come to Miami from Minnesota, where he had been a state house member. He also had connections with Hubert Humphrey, the Minnesota senator and former vice president. The local executive committee—of which Robbie was chairman—comprised forty men and forty women. A group of young organizers—Mike Abrams, Sergio Bendixen, Mike O’Donovan, and myself (just to name a few)—believed it was time for a change in the local party structure. Joe Robbie did not represent our generation. We organized our own slate of eighty candidates to run for the executive committee. We called it Campaign 74. Our slate won and we elected Mike Abrams chair of the local party. We then took our “machine” statewide, electing Alfredo Duran, a member of the Spanish Speaking Democratic Caucus, chair of the Florida Democratic Party. Then we helped elect Jimmy Carter president of the United States.

In January 1975, I attended a college Young Democrats convention in Atlanta. Carter had just announced his candidacy, and was considered a long shot. Jimmy Who? At the gala dinner, the speakers were Andrew Young, Julian Bond, Maynard Jackson, … and Jimmy Carter. The first three wowed the group. The Watergate scandal (which had led to the resignation of President Richard M. Nixon) was still very much the rallying cry for young idealists. They were all very funny and very articulate. After the dinner, almost everyone ran to Young, Bond, and Jackson. Everyone wanted to meet them, secure their autographs, and get pictures with them. Jimmy Carter was standing by himself, in a corner of the room.

I have always cheered for the underdog. Feeling sorry to see him standing by himself, I decided to approach him and introduce myself. After a brief conversation, he invited me to join him for a cup of coffee. It was just the two of us; we spoke for hours. Mostly, I just listened to the reasons he had for running for president, and to the multiple references to his honesty (post-Watergate). On the drive back to Miami, I reflected on our conversation. He’s a decent man, a good man; he has a pretty progressive record. As soon as I returned, I contacted Alfredo, Mike, and Sergio with an idea.

At the time, many of us were highly concerned about George Wallace, the white segregationist governor of Alabama who had run for the presidency in 1972 and performed better than expected—even outside the South. Democrats worried that Wallace might perform even better than he had in 1972, possibly winning the primaries in states like Michigan and Illinois. He had to be stopped early and his campaign had to be derailed in the South. If Wallace were to pick up momentum in the Southern primaries, who knew what could happen in the later primary states? And, in the South, where’s the best place to beat him? Florida. But how do we beat him in Florida? The answer for me was Jimmy Carter, another Southern governor who could win Florida. He’s progressive enough to appeal to the more progressive side of the party, but he’s still a Southern governor and can connect with the Southern Democratic conservatives. Carter had the right combination. The group agreed to support his candidacy.

We started a statewide organization for him and held the first mock convention vote by the Florida Democratic Party—a straw vote that proved to be instrumental to his candidacy. The straw vote was a great way to bring exposure to your candidate (the same strategy would later work well for another Southern governor, Bill Clinton). The party faithful and leaders vote, and the candidate the national pundits never expected would win, does. That is what we did for Carter. The headlines went from “Jimmy Who?” to “Carter Wins Florida Straw Vote.”

The strategy and execution were a testament to our ability to organize and mobilize a strong turnout at the convention. Although it is never simply one factor that determines winning or losing an election, there can be no doubt that winning the straw vote gave Carter a huge lift, attracting the support necessary for him to later win the Florida primary, and ultimately win the presidency. Interestingly, a Carter presidency was not my original plan. In fact, after Florida, he was no longer my candidate. I merely wanted to beat Wallace and open the field for other candidates I was more prone to support for the presidency.

During my early years, I also devoted a significant amount of time helping get Cuban Americans elected into office at all levels of government. Those first campaigns were extremely tough. It was practically impossible for a Diaz to beat a Smith, regardless of qualifications. Voting patterns essentially followed demographic lines. Electing the first Cuban American judges required first convincing our Florida governors to fill vacancies with Cuban Americans. Governor Bob Graham (later U.S. senator) is to be commended for heeding our call to make these early appointments. However, once appointed, our attention turned to helping them get elected. I was actively involved in both efforts, lobbying our governors to appoint Cuban Americans and helping the appointees and non-incumbents organize their judicial campaigns.

The electoral process was itself a game, even before qualifying to run. The game was to succeed in running unopposed. For the most part, only a handful of people actually ran for judicial office. There were plenty of seats and only a few candidates. Naturally, Cuban American candidates would be vulnerable in any race with even a handful of candidates.

Here is an illustration of the game. In order to protect the few Cuban American incumbents and candidates, I was required to meet with a political operative who for years had been the behind-the-scenes kingpin of judicial campaigns. He singlehandedly decided which candidates run for which seats. He would threaten me with running his candidate(s) against one of the Cuban Americans. Of course, if we retained his services, our candidate stood a much better chance of running unopposed. Committed to breaking down this long-standing, albeit pathetic practice, our candidates refused to pay his fees and instead relied on me to play poker with the operative. Since he represented candidates running for other offices, I would match his threat with an equal threat, that we would rally the Cuban American community in opposition to his other candidates. Of course, this was a complete bluff; I had no such power. I don’t believe anyone has that power.

But, we had to play the game. The final test of our efforts would occur on the last day of qualifying. At this point, candidates wishing to qualify would have to appear physically in Tallahassee, our state capital, and file their papers by noon. The game went down to the wire as the operatives and potential candidates walked the halls at the very last minute, trying to determine whom to run against. I would stand outside the secretary of state’s office all morning, waiting and watching to see which candidates were running for judge. Rumors were rampant, and in the end we learned how the game was played and how to win. I am so proud of that early group of Cuban American judges and candidates—Mario Goderich, Maria Korvick, Gisella Cardonne Dienstag, Margarita Esquiroz, and others. They served or continue to serve us with great distinction and in the process refused to be threatened by the old political system and stood on their principles. And in so doing, they virtually eliminated the game and paved the way for many others who followed them onto the bench. Being adequately represented in the judiciary by reflecting the community it represents is absolutely critical in ensuring a fair and just society.

While fighting for Cuban American judicial candidates, I also turned my attention to the Florida Legislature and the creation of single-member districts: districts where people elect only one person to represent them in a legislative body. Our success in this area helped not only Cuban Americans, but African Americans as well.

The Florida Legislature was dominated by white males. The system of multimember districts had made it impossible for Cuban Americans and other minorities to win a legislative seat. There simply were not enough pockets of minority voters located within these large districts. Single-member districts were the only plausible solution to achieve minority representation in the legislature. Again, I spent a significant amount of time lobbying in Tallahassee. Ironically, I met a considerable amount of resistance from my own local delegation made up almost exclusively of Democrats. I was well aware of the fact that one of the by-products of single-member districts would likely be the election of Cuban American Republicans—which is in fact what later happened. Nevertheless, this issue was about principle; from a policy point of view, single-member districts are essential to achieve diversity in Tallahassee. This was my priority. Separately, it would be up to the Democrats and Republicans to elect their candidates. But that should not detract from the goal.

We succeeded in persuading the legislature to adopt single-member districts. This could not have happened without the leadership of the Senate president, a conservative Southern Democrat from the Florida panhandle, Dempsey Barron. After spending a considerable amount of time with him, I became convinced that he truly believed in our goals and that he very much wanted this legislation to serve as his legacy for Florida. He was willing to overlook plenty, both personally and politically. Yet even when some of my Democratic friends from South Florida tried to circumvent the process, he would call them on the carpet in front of me and admonish them in his deep Southern drawl, “Heard y’all are tryin’ to do this. That’s not gonna happen.”

After the legislation passed in 1982, we elected our first Cuban Americans to the Florida Legislature, Ileana Ros Lehtinen (now in Congress), Humberto Cortina, and Lincoln Diaz Balart (recently retired from Congress). Equally as important to me, we also saw the election of Carrie Meek, the first African American since Reconstruction to become a member of the Florida Senate and later the U.S. House of Representatives (her son, Kendrick, later occupied her seat and unsuccessfully ran for the U.S. Senate). The Florida Legislature today is much more reflective of Florida’s diverse population. This was made possible by the passage of the legislation creating single-member districts. In fact, Florida was one of the few, if not the only, state to adopt single-member districts voluntarily and without litigation.

MY BACKGROUND IN electoral politics, especially my love for statistical analysis of voting results and patterns, propelled me in yet another direction politically. My multiple campaign experiences often involved polling. In 1984, I visited friends at the Spanish International Network, now known as Univision, and offered to do exit polling for the station. They were not familiar with exit polling. In those days, very few people were, including the English language networks in Miami.

The station management agreed. The network had no budget for exit polling or me. This effort was to be strictly experimental, and, in fact, they were taking a huge gamble because I was a friend and they knew that I had organized many campaigns that involved polling. We had no resources whatsoever. I had such a skeleton crew that even I had to stand at a polling place several times during the day in order to make sure I had enough of a statistical sample. I would then drive back to my office and use a calculator with a huge spreadsheet—I don’t mean Excel, but the old ledger spreadsheet—to run the numbers. Finally, I would rush to the station, finalize the results, and prepare for live TV.

My job was to announce the results live at 7:00 P.M., immediately after the polls had closed. It was just minutes before going on the air, and I still didn’t have the final results. My team was scrambling, trying to finalize the data I had provided them. The anchors were on the set, ready to start the newscast. The station had announced throughout that day I would be introducing this new methodology that would allow the station to announce the day’s winners even before the first votes were counted. Viewers would no longer have to stay up late into the evening to find out if the candidates of their choice won or lost.

I asked the anchors to stall for as long as possible. We were almost ready. As we go live, the anchors begin to talk, and talk, and talk. It was a long introduction. Finally, a member of my team literally crawls on the floor over to me with the final numbers. The anchors see this and say, “Let’s turn it over to Manny Diaz.” I pull the papers from his hands, turn to the camera, and say, “Today’s election results are ….”

This was the first time exit polling had been done in Miami, and I continued to announce winners and losers at 7:00 P.M. every election night in the years to come. Of course, this newly introduced political methodology had plenty of skeptics. Every election night, history repeated itself. A television news crew would be assigned to each candidate on election night. The candidate I projected to lose would reject the projection, instead suggesting that we needed to wait until all the ballots were counted. His or her precinct results had not yet been counted. Even today, many candidates are in denial, but the process works.

Continuing to employ my love for statistics, I then devoted a significant amount of time and effort in determining which municipality in Miami-Dade County had the best and earliest possibility of electing our first Cuban American mayor. Much to the surprise of many, I concluded that a small, one-precinct town in Miami-Dade County called Sweetwater was beginning to show an increase in Hispanic voter registration and that this would be our best shot at getting our first Cuban American elected as mayor. We understood it was going to be a real uphill battle, but nonetheless we all decided to get behind the candidacy of José Montiel. We raised money, walked door-to-door, fully knowing we would not win this time, but we created an awareness in Sweetwater that ultimately did lead to the election of our first Cuban American mayor. We broke the ice. Sometimes you have to lose to win.

My experience with exit polling, and the multiple statistical studies and analysis I had performed throughout the years, allowed me to become very familiar with practically all precincts in the City of Miami. Not only had I grown up in these precincts, I had studied them, walking door to door while campaigning for other candidates. This grassroots experience served me very well in my own mayoral campaign.