To say that the 10 years extending from 1970 to 1980 were formative in my life is an understatement. I started the decade as a kindergartener and ended it as a sophomore in high school. This was the decade I became an adult in the faith, becoming both conscious and observant of it. I was innocent in 1970 but by 1980 I had accrued some blatant sins. It was the decade of increasing misunderstanding and abuse by Mom. This decade also saw my meeting with the love of my life, and the light at the end of the abuse tunnel – though not its end. I started the decade as a little boy and would end it as a young man in love.
The Music, again
This is a sampling of the music sounds surrounding me back then:
In 1970, Simon and Garfunkel had the number 1 son, Bridge Under Trouble Waters. The Beatles were number 9 with Let it Be and the Jackson Five were ascendant.
In Spanish Leo Dan was number 1 with Te he Prometido. José José made number 4 with his song El Triste. Marisol (now known as “Pepa Flores”) con No Me Quiero Casar made number 6.
In Puerto Rico salsa music was in full force. The former Nueva Ola singers Lissette Álvarez, Lucecita Benítez, and Chucho Avellanet were engaging in new musical styles. The Argentinean sibling duo of Nelly and Tony Croatto had stumbled upon a new sound for Puerto Rican country music and began to shine. The Spanish youth group La Pandilla began its artistic arc back then. Puerto Rican contestant Marisol Malaret was crowned Miss Universe. The Apollo program continued its moon landings and Apollo 13 had its mishap along the way. Protests and riots and the Vietnam War didn’t enter my consciousness.
Welcome to school!
The principal convergence in 1970 took place between me and my new parochial school. This was the year I arrived at Academia Santa María (“St. Mary’s Academy”). Founded in 1959 by the Redemptorist Fathers and the Sisters of St. Joseph of Brentwood, NY La Academia became the center of my existence. The school and its mother parish church would remain my center for the next 13 years of my life.
In August 1970 I arrived at my Kindergarten home room. My teachers were Mrs. Aida Rosa Cardé de Reyes and Miss Almodóvar – I never learned her first name. There were many crying children after their parents had dropped them on that first day of school. Me? I told Mom to go away, that I would be OK.
While in kindergarten I never respected the timeout time. I saw no reason to rest when I wasn’t tired though others crashed and slept like little angels. I was impatient, for I needed to improve on things like “waiting my turn” and such. That’s what my scorecard says.
I had problems drawing the lower-case “a.” Its belly proved a challenge to my unaccustomed hands. I was only able to draw an unending arc without closing the loop. The teacher always had to guide me when writing on the blackboard – which was green. In any event, I got it, but for a long time my “a’s” were tepid, showing a shaking, insecure hand. Numbers were never a problem, though “5” also posed a challenge. I wrote “8” by drawing two little balls, one on top of the other.
One day we were using our safe scissors to cut something. Mrs. Reyes told us to await the step-by-step instructions. I didn’t care, I was ready for the scissors, so I took them. She came by my activity table, raised the hand I was holding the scissors with and said, “See this child? He’s not following instructions. He took the scissors.” I didn’t see the problem but if that was a problem, I decided to grab the scissors with my other, free hand. Mrs. Reyes with her unending patience, raised again the hand I’d used to grab the scissors, and pressed them in such a way I was unable to drop them. She was determined to see the example take.
Since I remember the event after so many years had passed, I guess I took the lesson to heart.
Don’t remember much about home life…
I’m ashamed to say my memories of home at that time are vague. Mamá Ana’s visits to the doctor increased but the adults kept insulating me from the worries. Sometimes she would come out of her room, sometimes I would go to see Mamá there and then scurried out to let her rest. The ubiquitous ornamental irons keeping the good people of Puerto Rico locked inside their homes, while the bad ones roam about, were added to the house during this year. The house now had the aspect it would maintain for the rest of my life there.
A picture taken this year that I haven’t been able to locate, shows us on our porch. I’m sitting on Mom’s lap, content, my head covering half her face. Mamá Ana sits on a rocking chair in the center of the picture, deep age marks covering her face, her expression serious. My Tío Jorge’s daughter is all smiles, wearing 1970’s bell-bottoms.
The picture was a Polaroid black-and-white picture taken by Tío Jorge. It was to be Mamá Ana’s last picture, at least that I have knowledge of. That’s why I remember it in so much detail.
I didn't know it yet, but 1971 would be a bear of a year. It would become the year my childhood died.