An Arrival

The first hello to a father I did not know; the first impression; the first arrival at the house; the first meeting with a new stepmother; the first day at the new university. Too many firsts in too short a time. But then, it wasn't the first time.

It was an arrival. Laura, my step-mother to be, happened to be outside when the car came into the driveway. First, she looked at me and the expression on her face was sort of a “and now, who is he bringing home for lunch without letting me know?” Then, she looked again and, as she put it afterwards, the angle of my face was just like that of a picture they had, and there was a big smile of recognition, followed by an out and out laugh. I would come to know that full throated laugh over the time I was there; it was part of her personality.

-“Dios mio!!” she exclaimed, -“Pero si eres tú muchacho!!!”… -“Oh My God!!!” “It’s you my boy!!” she practically yelled. It took me a while, but I eventually became re-accustomed to the normal levels of local Spanish conversation: loud and louder. This was, after all, the Caribbean and we Caribbean Spanish are not known to be quiet and reserved. If there is a group of us and we have something to say, we will say it out loud. In fact, even when we have nothing or little to say, we will still say it out loud. We also tend to use our hands a lot, waving them around so we can punctuate whatever is being said... And the less we know about the subject, the faster the arms rotate a windmill fashion. As if the faster movements will bring more credibility to whatever is being said. For an outsider looking in, a lively conversation can look like a fight or an argument. We love it. That is a character trait for our “raza” and it is something we will carry to our grave. Probably argue with St. Pete before the pearly gates about just how long they should remain open. And why.

That afternoon, after we (I) had talked for a while, taken a shower and rested a bit, it was time to go to my sister’s school to pick her up. She didn’t know I had arrived; my trip had been kept a secret to give her a surprise. Since it was fall already, by the late afternoon (no “sissy” schools like here where kids are out by 2:30pm, back then they finished at 4:30) pick up at 5 pm, it was dark. We came in and parked at the usual spot, and my father got out of the car to call her over. As she started to walk towards the car, I came out of the other side. The moment she saw me, she screamed (again, not too gently) “Hermano!!” –“Brother!!!” and, dropping her books, she ran and jumped into my arms. Whatever doubts I may have had about any future consequences resulting from those decisions which had to be made for me to come to Puerto Rico, that moment made them all disappear.

We had a lot to catch up on; almost three years of separate lives. And we started right away; there was no one else in the car as far as we were concerned. We talked and talked into the night. For me it was a welcome reassurance that let me know that the reason that caused me to come was a valid one. For her, it was the reassurance of something, or someone that belonged to her original life was now again a part of it.

It does not make any difference how much the family with whom you are –even being your own blood, like it was in this case- will try to make you feel at home. Yes, if all works out well, you will come to eventually feel comfortable and a part of the family and this is extremely important. Yet, these people are not part of your life, as it you had known it to be, before it was terminated through no action of your own. In Richland it took, at least for me, several months before I really felt a part of the Crowley family. And this was a family that never ceased in their efforts to bring me in, for which I am forever grateful. I know it was the same for some, if not most, of the other kids who had come as part of the group. And a few, as is always the case, were not really able to adapt to the change.

Back to Puerto Rico. I truly had no idea what I was walking into. I did not know my father; I did not know either my step mother or my step sister. As to my little brother well, he was that, the little guy. And happy to be a part of this “revolú” (Puerto Rican word which implies commotion, of a constant type).

Life in PR started for me the very next day. –“C’mon” said my father –“We need to get to the university this morning, we have an appointment”. I realize that my coming to the island was on short notice, as far as the enrollment procedures for the freshman classes were. Also, my father did all within his power to get me into the University of Puerto Rico, the largest, government run school. The equivalent of the state universities on the mainland. But this could not be done, because the incoming class had been filled long in advance of the beginning of the school year. But he told me that Inter-American University was a private university, originally run by the Presbiterian Church, but now non-sectarian. I said –“fine, let’s go”. Honestly, I had visions of the universities in the US (very similar to the state run one over there) and expected to drive into a campus like set up, with the administration building, etc. What I did not now at the time, was that this university had a main campus elsewhere in the island, but this was their first year operating in the metropolitan area. Sort of a new, franchise venture.

My father parked the car and started to get out, saying –“OK, we’re here”. I looked around and, truly, saw nothing that could be called a learning center. “We’re where?” – “At the university” he answered. My face must have shown some of the bewilderment I felt, for he quickly added: -“don’t worry, it’s a good school, even though it doesn’t look like much”

I asked him –“Are we here because it is a good school, or because it is the only one that would take me now?”

He looked at me and said: -“in reality. A little of both”... “but” he added with a smile –“it is a good school”.

That’s how I came to know Universidad Interamericana in Hato Rey, Pto. Rico, circa 1964. An old 3 story house (no elevators or air conditioning), converted into a school of sorts, which along with another building, optimistically called “The Annex”, a converted warehouse some 7 miles away, made up the metropolitan campus of the university. There are those who complain when they have to walk from one building to another between sessions but... 7 miles?.

In the long run, my fears turned out to be totally unfounded. The time spent there was a learning experience, in the full sense of the word. Not only academically but, since there was nothing established, a group of us were able to bring the experiences which we had lived in schools Stateside and do a lot of developmental work insofar as the different inter-relational areas... -"Huh, what the... you ask??" Well, what this extraordinarily confusing description refers to, are student groups, social activities, student-teacher committees, newsletter (yours truly being the first editor in chief, reporter, writer, copier, human eraser and distributor) and a few other issues. We actually got to design and order the first flag, with the figure of the Bengal tiger, the mascot image of the university. Today, I’m told that the University has a beautiful, huge, sprawling campus in Rio Piedras, part of the metropolitan area and not too far from where the “Annex” was then.

Well, ‘nuff for now. Next time we’ll go deeper into the life of a college student in Puerto Rico in the 60's, living under the threat and fear of the encroaching Viet Nam era, and other things.