By MARY ANASTASIA O'GRADY

In life, the giant pig tipped the scales at 90 pounds. Since its demise it had lost perhaps a third of its weight. But it was still a huge piece of meat, fitting for the occasion we were about to celebrate: the escape of two more refugees from Fidel Castro's Cuba.

At sunup the slain porker had been laid out, belly-down, on a tray over glowing coals. Its limbs extended to the four winds; its fat head and broad snout stretched out in front so that it resembled a bearskin rug.

By the time I arrived for the party, in the early afternoon, the pigskin had turned to a rumpled, bronzed amour and the smoky aroma of grilled meat hung in the air. My stomach growled. But I had to wait. There were still hours of roasting to go. Green plantains were dumped into the deep fry. Black beans and white rice simmered; the yucca was boiling. Two lavishly decorated cakes with large sugary flowers arrived with another guest. A family reunion, like so many in the past 50 years, that had at times seemed impossible was finally here.

Most of the party guests were also immigrants, many having arrived within the last five years. But the scene was pure Norman Rockwell: a backyard barbeque with beers by the swimming pool. "I'm living the American dream," my grinning host, who is now a citizen, told me as he showed me around the home he owns.

It was a solidly middle-class afternoon. Yet as we toasted freedom on a patio full of former prisoners of the Cuban system, I think we all felt fabulously wealthy and fortunate. I had a lump in my throat all day, thinking about the struggle of my own immigrant grandparents and the wonder of this place called America.

Anyone who truly wants to understand why walls and border guards and threats of felony charges aren't likely to change the dynamics of U.S. immigration really ought to spend some time with new arrivals, as I did last Saturday. What you learn from migrants is that escaping the dead-end life of privation and bad government is only part of what pushes them to set sail. An equally powerful force is the irresistible attraction of America, a pull so strong that it brings the voyagers through perils they are extremely lucky to survive. What you learn from their American employers is the unequaled value placed on these tenacious and grateful newcomers as employees.

In Revolutionary Cuba, the voluntary exchange of goods and labor does not exist. "Everyone has to steal in order to survive," one of the guests explained to me, "and this dependency is how the state keeps control." The government knows about the theft and records it. Employees even have to share some with their bosses. Should the employee decide to buck the system, the record is the evidence that lands him in jail. When human rights groups ask about political prisoners, Cuba can claim there are none, that there are only convicted thieves repaying society.

Every Cuban also knows that this is not the way life is lived across the Florida Straits. Most new arrivals from the island will tell you that everyone they know back home wants leave. Unfortunately, their struggle to migrate is more difficult than ever because of a policy put in place by the Clinton administration that says those caught at sea will be sent back to Cuba and only those making it ashore will be granted asylum. Under this policy, known as "wet foot/dry foot," not only do refugees have to evade Castro's thugs, who are known to sink boats loaded with defenseless women and children, but they also have to dodge the U.S. Coast Guard.

Yet even these lower odds haven't dissuaded would-be Americans from fleeing Cuba. One young man I met Saturday, who I will call Rafael, is a perfect example. He boarded a raft for the States a few years back. When the motor on his not-so-seaworthy craft broke down, he was picked up by the Bahamian coast guard. The Bahamas has a policy of keeping captured Cuban rafters in an overcrowded, rat-infested and rather primitive jail until Fidel gives the green light that he will take them back. This can take many months.

But Rafael wasn't giving up so easily. He says that he escaped the detention center, climbing over two fences, was befriended by some locals, who gave him refuge for a short time, and eventually made his way to the home of a Cuban family. From there he managed to stow away on a cruise ship, which two days after he boarded, docked in Florida. About his "cruise" he says, "I was afraid to go to the buffet."

He may have arrived hungry but Rafael's mode of transportation had one big advantage: He was "dry foot" when he met U.S. customs and immigration and he qualified for a green card, allowing him to get a job and become a tax-paying asset to his adoptive homeland.

Rafael's employer, also at the party, couldn't be happier with the Cuban-born workforce that immigrant networking has brought to his small business. Among their common traits, this group is known for its work ethic and a knack for being able to repair just about anything. That, undoubtedly, has something to do with the fact that the modern Cuban automobile is the 1957 Chevy. Speaking about the owner of the business, a mutual friend told me, "He thinks he's died and gone to heaven with these guys working for him."

Not all the immigrants at the party had arrived in the same harrowing fashion as Rafael. Some of them had won the annual lottery of 20,000 U.S. visas or had come through the Immigration and Naturalization Service's family reunification program, a path that took one migrant I talked to 15 years to travel. But they all shared a bitter disdain for the dictatorship. "Fidel Castro hates the Cuban people," one guest told me with a mixture of sorrow and anger. "Cuba," he said, "is one big prison."

Beyond these short commentaries, all of which I pulled out of them, most of the party goers weren't particularly interested in talking about the past. That may be because most have left family on the island and worry about retribution from the regime, which is why I have protected their anonymity. But I suspect there is another reason: The details of all the accumulated injustices experienced under a ruthless regime amount to just too much heavy baggage to lug around. Better to dump it in the straits upon crossing, travel light and look to the future. After all, once you make it to "La Yuma" -- Cuban slang for the U.S. -- everything is possible.