The family in 1947. In the back row, Aunt Elisa, Lilita, Dad and Mom. In the front row the four boys, Pepe, Me, Guido (+) and Pancho (+)We were a family of seven children, three girls and four boys, the girls were born before all the boys. My father loved his children beyond any doubt, but I have no recollection of him being very tender affectionate with the boys, on the other hand, he was always very tender with the girls. Most likely because of his upbringing and the influence his uncle Juan Celio had on him, he must have thought that tenderness with the boys could be easily interpreted as weakness, and “weakness was inherent to women”. “Boys had to be raised tough”, and, tough kids we were all raised.
At this point, the three girls in the family had married; Letty had no children of her own but was raising a five year old girl who was her husband’s daughter. Lilita was married and had four children, and Florcita, the youngest of my sisters, had married while I was in the Seminary and had no children yet but was expecting her first child. As to my three brothers, Jose (Pepe), was 18 and was already working as a bookkeeper at a small wholesale grocery store, and he was attending night school, Francisco (Pancho), 16, was also working or in the process of finding a job and attending night school, while my youngest brother, Guido, 10, was still attending grammar school in Pallatanga under the close supervision of my mom.
At Letty’s apartment in Guayaquil, the walls separating one room from the other, were thin wooden walls with newspapers glued as wallpaper; this allowed conversations in one room to be easily heard in the next room. My big sister Letty had heard all the conversation my mom and I had that morning. At breakfast, Letty came to show her understanding and solidarity with my cause and wanted to help in the task of conveying it to dad. Being his first and oldest daughter, Letty was kind of dad’s favorite child, so when she volunteered to help, my reaction was, thank God!, we are now three to do the talking. Mom, Letty and I had agreed that we would wait until dad actually began the questioning before any one of us would talk, at which point Letty would talk first, then mom and I would follow, as needed. That was the “strategy” we decided to use when my dad showed up and started the questioning.
At mid day, coming back from his visit to the market place where he used to sell the cereals he brought from Pallatanga (corn, lentils, beans and peas). Dad was invited to head the table for lunch. After the usual praying and blessings, lunch was served. Contrary to my usual place on the left of my dad, this time, as looking for physical protection or using mom and Letty as human shields, I sat between my mom and my sister. Soon we started to eat lunch. Faithful to his bluntness but without being rude, dad began to talk. “As we eat lunch, let’s resume our interrupted conversation”, he said, looking at me directly in the eyes, and began his interrogation. “What is it that you have to tell us, Rafico? And continued, “I believe you were afraid to talk last night, weren’t you”? Please tell us what you have to say”. As agreed that morning, Letty started to talk. “Dad,” she said, but was abruptly interrupted by dad. “Letty, I’m asking Rafico, not you,” Dad looked like a severe judge in his bench ready to hear the defendant in a criminal case, not his lawyers. His eyes were wide open and looking directly down at me, his chin lifted and his mouth closed, not a shadow of a friendly face. “Rafico let’s not delay this conversation any further, will you?” he said. My heart pounded in my chest like a big stick on a drum, my palms grew clammy and wet, and my jaw locked—I was a mute.
Thank God, mom came to my rescue once again. She brought me a glass of water and said, “Mi’jito, don’t feel afraid to tell your dad what you had explained to me this morning. Your dad loves you, first and foremost, he is reasonable, he is intelligent and caring, and just as I did, he will understand, please go ahead mijo!
It was like mom had just said the magic words. All of a sudden I felt courage coming right up from somewhere in my chest; I breathed deeply and started to think and articulate my answer as I felt my jaws and my tongue were miraculously loosening. “Dad, I’m sorry but you are not going to like what I’m going to say, in fact you are going to feel seriously disappointed, and perhaps even angry at me, but please, please, I beg you to listen carefully to me first before you react”, and continued, “I do not feel like I’ve done anything wrong, nor would I ever do anything consciously wrong to hurt you, my mom or the rest of my family”. I was still scared but kept my cool. I surprised myself—I did not know where my newfound strength and looseness to talk came from, but I went on making full use of them. I conveyed to my dad the message from father Gonzalez (whom he knew very well), and, just hoping that it would help, I did not forget to mention the academic awards I had gotten, as well as the good wishes from the School´s Rector and his whole faculty.
Dad sat in his chair as absolute silence filled the room. Mom, Letty and I were looking at one another as if trying to guess what was next, afraid of the worst but hoping for the best. Finally, dad got up from his chair and started to walk around the rectangular table, he seemed to be utterly confused. He was pale. He seemed to be in a total state of despair as he covered his face with both of his hands and vehemently shook his head. After what seemed like an eternity of silence and tension, he started to cry out loud.
That was the first time I ever saw him shed a tear. It was only thirteen years later, in July 1969, in the cemetery, at my mom’s burial that I saw my father crying again
In my next posting: A FULL TIME WORKER AT 14
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