Chapter 1

____________{Chapter 1}____________

“Our families are the bedrock of our lives.”
- HCJ

Gouverneur Hospital

New York City

11:59 p.m.

t was April 13, 1955, when I made my entrance into the world. Not a minute too late, as I was born for my father’s birthday. My mother Julia was twenty-two years young, and my father Hermenegildo, for who I am named, was twenty-seven.

Eleven months later, on March 26, 1956, my brother Ivan, was born. My parents would try a third and fourth time for another child, with both attempts sadly resulting in a late-term miscarriage. Fate would intervene and cut their aspirations for a larger family short as another pregnancy would put my mother’s health in jeopardy.

As I learned, my mom’s mother, Margarita, had also lost several pregnancies. I do not know if this was a hereditary condition, coincidence, poor nutrition, or lack of medical follow up. Those were different times, with lesser knowledge, technology, and resources.

US citizens in search of a better life, my parents migrated to the borough of Manhattan, in New York City, from the small Caribbean city and island of San Sebastian, Puerto Rico. They would find this the land of opportunity, along with their fair share of heartaches and adversity, “Just life.”

They would make the best of both the opportunities and tribulations they encountered. Through their living examples, they would teach their sons to be diligent, optimistic, self-motivated individuals.

My father, born in 1928, and mother in 1932, grew up during the Great Depression of 1929 through 1939. The surviving hardships experienced by the masses living through this period in history is well documented. As the economic recovery in Puerto Rico through the 1940s was slow and challenging, my father would have to drop out of school after the eighth grade and go to work to help his parents put food on the table for his six younger siblings.

When my father would share with us in Spanish, “Coman, mis hijos, que yo sé lo que es pasar hambre,” in English, “Eat my children for I know what it is like to go hungry,” he was not joking. He was referring to the fact that his mother, my paternal grandmother, would cry herself to sleep, due to the passing of three of her infant children, Irene, Amelia and Ana, who died from hunger.

In the fourth grade, my mom was withdrawn from school by her parents and taught to sew to help her family survive. Those were truly difficult times. This kind of predicament can make or break you. Like many having lived through this era, my parents were remarkable people.

In 1948, at the tender age of twenty, my father, for the first time, would leave his island and migrate to Nebraska as an agricultural worker. During those times in Puerto Rico, the core public elementary school grades curriculum was in Spanish, with the distinct exception of English textbooks, and an English class. Despite his limited English skills, he would tell us how during his first job in America, he was able to become an unofficial translator for some of his coworkers, thus begin his ascent up the progress ladder.

Reminiscing on his youth, my dad would tell us how he would save most of the money he earned. And when job conditions were unfavorable or coming to an end, he would pack his scarce belongings in a duffle bag and catch the next Greyhound bus, often during the middle of the night and in the dead of winter, to the next city or state, wherever he could find employment. Always vigilant for a better opportunity and most of the time by himself. What courage!

In 1950 my dad would return to his native island where he would come to meet his bride, my mom Julia. They would marry in 1951. Shortly afterward, the US Army would come calling and take him away from his homeland, family, and wife.

After his stint in the army, my father would return to New York City, still in pursuit of a better life. Although, this time, it was not only for himself, as he would promptly send for his wife and parents. My dad, one of the most resourceful and intelligent persons I have known, with limited formal education, would work during his lifetime at whatever it took to make sure that his family would lack little.

Throughout his employable lifetime, he worked as a farm picker, translator, truck driver, machine operator, pharmaceutical drug aid, carpenter, bookkeeper and who knows what else. Regardless of the job, he took pride in doing it well. He has also possessed the innate ability to adjust to whatever life sent his way.

He is presently ninety-one years of age, in relatively good health, and with a mind as sharp and keen as ever. From him, I learned the “Never throw in the towel” attitude, explore all possibilities, and never complain.

My mom worked all her life as a seamstress. She was quiet and warm with a strong love and devotion to her family and friends, and a beautiful smile to go with her wherever she went. She was my father’s soul mate and pillar of strength. We lost her in 2013, at the age of eighty, to cancer.

From mom, I learned to listen, work hard, and love. My parents were married for sixty-two years. To my brother and I, family and friends, they were a testament of love, perseverance, devotion to each other, and the American dream.

I will not forget the phrase they drilled my brother and me with during our formative years: “We have worked all our lives to provide you with a better life than we were afforded; it is your sole responsibility to study and become better than we ever could.” It is in no short measure due to their youthful experience, why they assigned such a high premium to education.

When all is said and done, my parents’ proudest accomplishments have not only been their long-term marriage, but most importantly to see both their sons grow up and acquire their formal education, become productive members of society, marry excellent spouses, and prosper.