I’ll not forget my rookie year as a new cop for Dade County in 1960.

Until then, I had never met a Spanish-speaking person. The populations of Miami and Miami Beach were lily-white.

Schools were not integrated and neighborhoods were divided by race. Spanish-speaking folks were a novelty.

With Miami situated in southeast Florida, residents were mostly immigrants from New York and other northern states.

While Americans followed the war taking place in the mountainous Cuban terrain, many were happy to see crooked Fulgencio Batista toppled from power while a rugged, charismatic revolutionary leader emerged from the hills to assume the seat of leadership. His name: Fidel Castro. Cubans, and many Americans, were happy to see a new government take control of the Island nation. So what if he said he was “socialist.”

After Castro took full control over the new government, he unveiled his alliance with the Soviet Union and announced that he was a die-hard communist.

The stranglehold was now in place. Cities and towns in Cuba were “cleansed” of people who stood in the way of a one-party rule government. Thousands of dissidents disappeared. Families were pulled apart. Schools became propaganda strongholds for students. Thousands more frantically risked their lives rafting over ocean currents to America, many of whom never reached the shores. Everyone was stripped of their possessions.

The Cuban people no longer owned their homes or their businesses. There was no such thing as freedom of speech or the right to assemble or control of their future. Within 20 years, some 1.5 million Cubans managed to resettle in America and build new lives for themselves and their families.

In 1961, while in uniform, I had just attended a court session in Miami when I spotted a middle-aged man wearing a Cubavera shirt, selling bananas on Flagler Street at the intersection. Curiously, I approached and said, “Sir. Can I ask a question?”

He looked at my uniform. “About what?”

“Can I ask what you did when you lived in Cuba?”

Proudly, he puffed out his chest and replied in broken English, “I was vice president of a bank.”

“You have a family?” I asked.

“Si, a wife and two daughters.”

He went on to explain that they were living in a two-bedroom apartment with two other families. With furrowed eyebrows he looked at me strongly. With his finger pointing to the sky, he declared they were proud people and would not take welfare.

That was a lesson.

As years passed, I developed a closeness to the Cuban people who assimilated and worked hard to support their families. Many became teachers, business owners, military, entertainers and even police officers. Some of the best cops I ever knew were of Cuban heritage. I came to enjoy their music, their food, their humor, and die-hard honesty.

Castro’s plight was not a one-time event. Twenty years later, the Cuban economy was in dire straits. Multi-thousands were sick and injured, unable to work or contribute. Mental hospitals were beyond capacity. The elderly in Cuba were considered useless. Prisons were in overload. Too many people were taking, but not giving. The remedy? Get rid of everyone. What else?

Starting May 17, 1980, over four arduous months, more than 125,000 desperate human beings were granted exits from Cuba to reach America via rafts and rickety vessels from a port called Mariel. President Carter gave the OK as the infamous Mariel Boatlift conveyed desperate human beings to South Florida, devoid of possessions. Thousands died or disappeared. Miami became the murder capital of America for four years. Bodies surfaced everywhere, in waterways, the Everglades, in car trunks and garbage cans. The medical examiner needed a huge refrigerated truck to house the overflow of bodies.

https://www.floridatoday.com/story/opinion/2021/07/23/cuban-people-sense-opening-freedom-u-s-cannot-let-them-down/8012420002/

Announcing the release of my non-fiction book, “A Boy Who Mattered,” Independently published by Frankly Speaking Enterprises through Amazon (KDP).
     In January of this year, my son, Bennett A. Frank, died at the age 58 of from a mixed overdose of three powerful drugs. He had lived a floundering life in and out of dependency, yet he was loved by many including his son, daughter, brother and father. He wasn’t a bad person. He was, simply, a diehard drug addict with a weak constitution.
     While I certainly grieved, like millions before me, I thought it would be worthwhile to share the story of this complicated life with others who are either suffering from powerful addiction, or are emotionally and physically tied to a sufferer. I hope there is something significant that can be learned from Bennett’s struggle by turning a negative into a positive, imparting the highs and lows, struggles and mistakes along the way.  The book is for those who suffer from the disease of addiction, or – equally important — for others in the arena including loved ones, family and friends who struggle as they hopelessly watch a human deteriorate day by day.
     The following paragraph is the standard promo, including the ordering of books.

A BOY WHO MATTERED – Examining the Roots of Drug Addiction
Independently Published| July 2019 
ISBN: 9781080157594 | Paperback: $14.95
In “A Boy Who Mattered” author Marshall Frank draws the reader into the pathetic life of his firstborn son, Bennett, who entered the drug world in his preteens, turned on by a family member. This ultimately opened the doors of dependency sickness, failure and homelessness that profoundly affected many others, friends and family, for forty years. This saga focuses on the root causes of dependency and what could be done about it. Hopefully, this story will guide abusers and loved ones about options on how to combat this dreaded disease. If but one human being is saved, Bennett’s struggle will not have been in vain.
     Signed-by-author books can be obtained directly for $15 and no shipping costs. For more info, just e-mail: MLF283@aol.com or send check to: P.O. Box 411841, Melbourne, Fl. 32941. Books are also available via amazon.com for the $14.95 retail price plus shipping.
     (Info about all my 15 books can be accessed at www.marshallfrank.com )

Announcing the release of my non-fiction book, “A Boy Who Mattered,” Independently published by Frankly Speaking Enterprises through Amazon (KDP).

     In January of this year, my son, Bennett A. Frank, died at the age 58 of from a mixed overdose of three powerful drugs. He had lived a floundering life in and out of dependency, yet he was loved by many including his son, daughter, brother and father. He wasn’t a bad person. He was, simply, a diehard drug addict with a weak constitution.
     While I certainly grieved, like millions before me, I thought it would be worthwhile to share the story of this complicated life with others who are either suffering from powerful addiction, or are emotionally and physically tied to a sufferer. I hope there is something significant that can be learned from Bennett’s struggle by turning a negative into a positive, imparting the highs and lows, struggles and mistakes along the way.  The book is for those who suffer from the disease of addiction, or – equally important — for others in the arena including loved ones, family and friends who struggle as they hopelessly watch a human deteriorate day by day.
     The following paragraph is the standard promo, including the ordering of books.
A BOY WHO MATTERED – Examining the Roots of Drug Addiction
Independently Published| July 2019 
ISBN: 9781080157594 | Paperback: $14.95
In “A Boy Who Mattered” author Marshall Frank draws the reader into the pathetic life of his firstborn son, Bennett, who entered the drug world in his preteens, turned on by a family member. This ultimately opened the doors of dependency sickness, failure and homelessness that profoundly affected many others, friends and family, for forty years. This saga focuses on the root causes of dependency and what could be done about it. Hopefully, this story will guide abusers and loved ones about options on how to combat this dreaded disease. If but one human being is saved, Bennett’s struggle will not have been in vain.
     Signed-by-author books can be obtained directly for $15 and no shipping costs. For more info, just e-mail: MLF283@aol.com or send check to: P.O. Box 411841, Melbourne, Fl. 32941. Books are also available via amazon.com for the $14.95 retail price plus shipping.
     (Info about all my 15 books can be accessed at www.marshallfrank.com )

Today, January 14, 2019, is the 36th anniversary of my birth…or should I say, rebirth.  Truth be told, in 1983 it was the date that I stopped smoking cigarettes, forever. Had I not, I would have been long dead by now, and a horrible death at that.

     A year or so prior to then, a doctor-friend shared a diagnosis with me that I had the early stages of emphysema which, in today’s jargon, we call COPD.  I’ll not forget his words. “Marshall, I would rather treat an advanced case of cancer anytime, than a patient dying of emphysema. There is very little I can do to alleviate the suffering.”

     This would be no easy task for a four-pack a day addict like me. Like many folks of the early era, I started in 1955 at age 16 mainly to fit in with friends. It was cool. It was in. Movie stars on and off screen, all smoked. So did famous recording artists. Physicians could be seen on billboard ads recommending Camels or Lucky Strikes. In the 1950s and 60s you were not cool if you didn’t smoke.

     But time marched on. Literature was coming out just how dangerous cigarettes are. I was coughing my guts out every morning, before lighting my first of the day. The addiction was so powerful, I smoked everywhere, in movie theaters, in my officers, elevators, the back of airplanes. I even smoked in the shower, having a Pall Mall burning on the edge of a toilet tank. I, alone, set the stink-standards for others to tolerate inside offices and cars.

     But I needed to quit. I figured I’d use some methods and devices that supposedly helped others. I tried One-Step-At-A-Time filters, four weeks later I was still at four packs a day. I tried acupuncture, (in the ears) no success there. I went to a hypnotist. I think it was ME that put HIM to sleep. Finally, the realization occurred to me that I was a hopeless addict, and the only thing that could help me stop smoking was — me. Quitting cigarettes was not up to the devices or methods, it was up to me. I had to do it on my own. No weaning. No clinging. Cold turkey was the only method that could work.

     I had one idea that might help. I asked my doctor if he had a drug that could knock me out for a full day and a half. He administered the medicine on a Friday afternoon, (after work), and I didn’t wake up until Sunday morning. By that time, I had a head start. I woke up as a non-smoker on my second day. Meanwhile, I had warned my co-workers, friends and family that I would likely be on edge for a few days or more, and to please understand.  

     Remaining a non-smoker was the next step. Some folks suggested I get active with exercise. I hate work-out gyms, so I tried the running therapy. My lungs were so bad I couldn’t jog more than 50 yards without coughing my guts out. But I tried again, and gradually went to 100 yards.  Then 200 yards and eventually, a half mile.  I grew to love the running experience. I started entering 5K and 10K runs, not to win, but to endure. Two years later, I completed the Orange Bowl Marathon, 26.2 miles.

     To cigarette addicts who are hoping to quit the habit, here’s my hindsight advice.

1. Don’t “Try” to quit smoking. You either quit, or you don’t. Trying is not quitting.
2. Don’t depend on devices or methods to do it for you.
3. Forget about vaping and pot smoking, you are still smoking and self-damaging.
4. Learn about COPD and the horrors such patients experience
5. View color pictures of autopsies comparing pink lungs to smoker’s lungs.
6. Realize the long range suffering you face if you continue smoking.
7. Just do it.  Believe me, you’ll live through it.