Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini's Blog

When I was a child growing up in Puerto Rico, there was nothing scarier to me than a lose juey, the taíno name for the native succulent blue crab.

With their pointed eyes, and their claws displayed as mighty weaponry, jueyes can be feisty and unpredictable creatures. They look like they’d snap at you any moment. And they do.

Bolstering their size and power upon sight of the enemy, jueyes resemble angered warriors feeding on each other’s rage. The male’s larger claw can grow up to around six inches in length and can surpass the size of the carapace itself. You can hear their legs ticking as they move sideways. If you listen closely, you may even hear their war cry.

Often, when driving, we’d see a fisherman walking on the side of the road carrying a bundle or two of tied jueyes on a stick. “How much for the dozen,” my father would slow down the car and ask, through the open window. If the price was right, they’d go in the trunk, and it was jueyes for dinner. Other times, dad would come upstairs with a dozen. A gift from a patient. Sometimes he’d treat us to a jueyes farm visit where we could see them in cages. An unforgettable memory.

We (I should say “they,” because I remained quite the observer on this), carefully placed the jueyes in the bathtub, both to contain the crab mob and to clean them. And they’d often got loose from their ties, becoming unhinged, pointing their eyes and raising their claws, furious, moving left and right and charging at anyone or anything that approached them. I can still hear their legs making the tick-tock sound. The sound of time fleeting.

We kids sat for hours in the bathroom, dumbfounded, watching them. Never mind the TV when the jueyes arrived home. My older brothers threatened to pull one out, just to frighten me. They’d warn that if the claw grabbed one of my fingers, it would never let go. I may lose my finger. The terror.

Sometimes the crab army was given a day’s reprieve and stayed in the tub overnight. And occasionally, a rogue soldier would crawl out of the slippery high-security prison that contained he and his mates. How security failed remains a mystery. But I suspected there was surely help from insiders. (Did I mention I had five brothers?)

Inevitably, after all the war-monguering, tick-tocking, and weapon posturing, all the jueyes ended up in the pot. Like all scary, evil, and caught jueyes do. (So I thought, anyways.) And then we’d eat them for dinner and for days after that, in different ways, like Thanksgiving turkey.

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This article is provided under a Creative Commons License.

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This article is provided under a Creative Commons License.

On New Year’s Eve 1972, my older brothers and I were at San Juan’s Isla Verde International Airport, waiting for our parents to return from a short holiday trip. I had just turned 8. I stayed with my aunt and uncle by the arrival gate, while my brothers negotiated a few minutes to rush to the terrace where –back then– one could watch planes take off and land. Those were the days!

My brothers’ attention was drawn to a DC-7 plane on the takeoff line. It was one of those smaller planes with four propeller-driven engines. They still remember seeing smoke come out of one of the engines and hearing a loud pop. Then the plane reluctantly took off, seemingly overloaded.

I remember hearing the news. There was a plane crash. I remember I was nervous for my parents. I remember waiting at the airport to know more about the plane and the flight number. I remember my brothers returning from the terrace. I remember waiting.

We soon learned that the plane that crashed was the one my brothers had seen taking off minutes earlier, not my parents’. It had crashed into the sea, about a mile away from shore, by the airport. That aircraft was actually Roberto Clemente’s plane, which he had chartered for a humanitarian mission to earthquake-stricken Nicaragua. It was loaded with aid from the generous people of Puerto Rico. He wanted to take the donations there, personally. A total of five people died in the crash, including Clemente. We later found out that the accident was the result of inadequate maintenance, the plane’s No. 2 engine failing allegedly after takeoff, among other mechanical issues. To my young brothers, it was evident that the plane had malfunctioned before taking off. A preventable accident, no doubt. Clemente died at 38, leaving a widow and three young children behind –the oldest a year younger than I was– plus a world of desolate baseball fans. He also left quite a legacy.

Roberto Clemente was “one of the world’s greatests.” Pittsburgh Pirates #21, The Hall of Famer was not only one of the greatest baseball players in the history of baseball, but he was also one of the world’s greatest humanitarians. Clemente’s determination to become the best at his sport, despite his humble beginnings in Puerto Rico, only pales in comparison to his compassion and dedication to others.

Every September, Roberto Clemente Day is celebrated around the baseball world. Read about him. In these times where many of us feel cooped, down-spirited, divided, tempted to lose our faith in humanity, and some people’s selfishness is at an all-time-high, Clemente gives us a lesson on strength, excellence, compassion, unity, and leadership, and reminds us of what really matters in life.

* Book: Clemente: The Passion and Grace of Baseball’s Last Hero Paperback (2007) by David Maraniss

See also:

* Roberto Clemente Foundation

* Roberto Clemente Day, National Baseball Hall of Fame

* Smithsonian Institution, Traveling Exhibition: Beyond Baseball, The Life of Roberto Clemente

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This article is provided under a Creative Commons License.

Click here for source of Roberto Clemente’s photo. Public Domain.

Viseu Cathedral, Portugal

Alonso lifted the curtain to steal a look. The extant rays of sundown peered through the window, bathing his face in glitter and setting his eyes on fire. His gaze froze on the outside through the thin cloth shade, a veil over embers of despair. Alonso turned his back on the light and approached his brother. Simon sat on the bed of the small chamber the brothers had secured in haste in a Portuguese village, not too far from Viseu.

“Hermano,” Alonso placed his right hand on Simon’s shoulder and softly pressed his fingers. “I find myself weary of living like peasants, in hiding.”

“How much longer do you reckon we will be wanted men?” said Simon.

“I wish I knew,” responded Alonso. “However long our terrene life lasts, I suppose.”

“It has neared thirty nights since we arrived, yet there is no clear sign of movement. Last we heard, Mistress de Monroy remained secluded in her quarters, back in Salamanca, not receiving any visitors. Miguel said he’d heard word that she was bound to Segovia soon, a journey set to ease her mourning,” said Simon.

“Knowing the mistress’ true nature, she is surely charting her revenge,” said Alonso. “She’s had enough time to mourn. No reason to head to Segovia now, a month after.”

“You reckon?” said Simon.

“I had a vision last night all through my slumber. My blood traveled thick within my body, like wet soil after a torrent. My heartbeats slowed down and finally came to a halt, but my body remained woke, listening, though unable to move. My eyes were wide-open. Dust particles danced in mid-air, suspended in the pitch-black darkness, twinkling in the moonlight. My skin shivered, and I smelled my own fear. My mind could not command my body to move. I was … I was dead, brother.” Alonso sighed.

Simon locked eyes with Alonso, knowing his brother felt that his dream was more like an omen.

“We must flee. Tomorrow night, at the latest,” Alonso continued. “Her men are bound to find us,” he said. “She will crave retribution. You know this to be true,” his voice deepened as he looked into his brother’s eyes.

Simon nodded. The harsh reality sunk even deeper.

Alonso walked back toward the window and lifted the shade, once again. He caressed his soft auburn beard, while fixing his gaze on an emaciated fox roaming outside, looking for prey, the animal’s fur of the same color as Alonso’s locks. His thoughts lingered in contemplation of what neared. He and his brother would surely lose their lives. He was almost certain of it. The sun had forsaken the sky, as did his last vestiges of hope. Moonlight now dripped over the dirt road below. He thought about her. What would she do when she learned he was no more, gone for good? Would he be able to see her again, from wherever his soul traveled in the afterlife? Soon the wolves’ howls would begin. The brothers could hear them nightly, soaring towards their ears from within the mountains caressed by the Dão River.

“I am afraid we have waited too long to move. We should have been elsewhere by now,” said Alonso.

“Agreed,” said Simon. “We became overly comfortable here. I thought we were safe, among dear friends, but now I know we are most certainly not.”

“Maria Rodriguez de Monroy is powerful and unwavering,” said Alonso. “She has the favor of all the Santo Tomé families. And with our recent deed, well, whether provoked or not, rest assured that her soul will not find repose until we lose our heads and our bodies are cold as winter.”

“Well, Miguel must be close to procuring a new place of abode,” said Simon. “He will return with news about our next move tomorrow.”

“Not one creature must know that we are leaving,” said Alonso. “And no one must suspect that we are her sons’ killers. We are to trust no one. Do you understand?”

“I do, my brother. But I fear our fate has been cast. We will pay the ultimate price for our sins,” said Simon, staring at nothingness.

“We shall remain hopeful,” said Alonso. “Faith is all we have left.”

Miguel, the brothers’ servant, had left the shelter on horseback that morning en route to secure a new hiding place. Or so the brothers thought. Instead, Miguel had returned to Salamanca, to claim a bounty from Mistress de Monroy, in exchange for the brothers’ whereabouts.

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* This is an unedited excerpt of my work in progress (WIP) “Alonso’s Curse,” a historical fiction novel with elements of time-travel, fantasy, and romance taking place in Scotland and Spain.

Copyright © 2019, Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini. All Rights Reserved.

[image error]For seven years I was confined to La Cueva. There, He forced me to be a pupil to his lessons in black magic. I did it to save my soul. Or so I thought. You may or may not believe me. But I don’t give a damn. You have not lived under my skin. Felt the agony. You don’t know what it was like. The angst my mind, flesh, and bones endured. The barrenness of my soul, while I was there.

For seven years I witnessed how six other pupils surrendered their almas to Him. But I managed to save mine. How, you wonder? I was a keen apprentice, but it was love what saved me, mind you, not what He taught me.

I transformed, you may say. Hid in plain sight from Himself. I suffer from visions, still. Nightmares of the grotesque image exuding when rage engulfed him. His blood-thirsty eyes. The scorching ire emanating from his face. The scent of sulfur. I can still feel the wrath of his fury penetrating my skin. Inhabiting it. The raw infestation of vermin. A flaring burn.

He hunted me intently. I reckoned fortune must have favored me in some way or another. But this was beyond fortune. Believing the iron gate was my escape, He hassled outside and dashed down the steep cobblestone hill towards the San Esteban Convent, searching for me. He left the gate ajar. The fool! I took my chance. As I fled, my chest pounded all the way to my eardrums. My lips savoured my freedom. Finally!

I made it out of that infernal place! I escaped the binds of the cavern that had imprisoned me for so long. I only had to go as far as the Catedral Vieja. He could not fetch me there, you see, for Evil was not welcome in a sacred place. He knew this.

His senses were masterful, indeed. I could hear the echo of his screams. Feel the reverberation of his guffaw.

“Alonso, what art thou doing? Mine pow’r is supreme to yours and argal thou shouldst be mine sub’rdinate?” He commanded I could only leave when He said I could, and not one second earlier. That He was the master of my soul.

At the sensing of the slightest shift, He sprang to clench his claws on my body. Well, on what He thought was my body. You see, I was a model student. My body never left La Cueva. Not through that heavy iron gate, anyways. Only my shadow did. He captured my shadow, while I remained free to escape Him.

Townspeople’s rumors are that I am a wizard, for I am a shadow-less man. For this, I am shunned, shamed, and often prosecuted. But this is not what enables my magic. My powers live in my genes. They were a gift passed on to me from my ancestors. I am certain this is one of the reasons why He chose me.

I was once His student, but I am not evil. I limit use of my magic to the times I am left without choice, as when I must save my own life. Also to find her, wherever she may be.

And I am not returning to that forsaken cave. Not ever.

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* This is an unedited excerpt of my work in progress (WIP) “Alonso’s Curse,” a historical fiction novel with elements of time-travel, fantasy, and romance taking place in Scotland and Spain.

Copyright © 2019, Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini. All Rights Reserved.

[image error]It is true that our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter, as Martin Luther King said. But people are often silent, sometimes by choice, others by compelling forces beyond their control. I have been silenced by both.

I know I cannot drive a stake on the land of loss and claim it my own. It belongs to all of us at one time or another. Loss is in our destiny on this earth. But the past year of losses has stirred up every drop of creative energy within me. It has drawn my strength beyond description, and it has demanded that I reassess everything that has defined me as a human being to date.

Losing three family members within a year, well, has silenced me. I lost my father and two brothers within the past eleven months. The last two unexpected. With the most recent loss in March, I stopped writing. I stopped speaking beyond my inner family circle and focused on family and work. I have kept to my own thoughts, searching for a healing light. Still am.

I know I will bring myself to slowly break my silence. To write again. I am told that this is inevitable. Heart-wrenching experiences force a writer to find an escape valve in the written word … sooner or later. I trust my loved ones will lend me a hand beyond their graves.

This is a small, first step. Thank you for staying with me.

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Copyright © 2019. Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini. All Rights Reserved. 

The Tirado-Chiodini Post

It seems like yesterday. A chemistry student at the University of Puerto Rico, I was at Dr. Muir’s Inorganic Chemistry Laboratory preparing to go to lunch. Then the call came in the lab’s black rotary phone by the rear window. I was in disbelief, devastated at the tragic loss of our astronauts. And so was the entire world. I thought about the grief of their parents, children and relatives. I thought about the students who lost a beloved teacher. I thought about the pain of the entire NASA family. This loss was personal.

The summer prior, I had been part of something that changed my life. I represented my island of Puerto Rico at the Space Life Sciences Training Program (SLSTP) 1985 at NASA, Kennedy Space Center. This was the first SLTP. As part of the six-week-long program, undergraduate college students participated hands-on in space life sciences lectures (many delivered…

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Flor de Yautía (Taro) (Foto: Manuel Tirado Manzano) 

Ví por primera vez la flor de seda rosada de una planta de “yautía” puertorriqueña en una foto que tomó mi hermano Manolo. La había cultivado en su patio trasero. Y si alguna vez hubo alguien que pudiera hacer florecer una yautía tan gloriosamente, era él.

Manolo, el segundo de los seis hermanos con los cuales he tenido el privilegio de crecer–y el más bueno–tenía el dedo pulgar más verde que jamás haya visto. Estoy convencida de que debe haber hecho un pacto con la naturaleza, tal vez incluso desde el inicio de los latidos de su corazón en el vientre de nuestra madre. Fue uno de los pocos bebés en el pueblo que sobrevivió a un brote mortal del cual los médicos–incluyendo a mi padre–nunca supieron la causa. Más de 80 bebés perecieron, pero de alguna manera, Manolo se salvó.

Además de cultivar las mas bellas plantas, incluyendo orquídeas, palmas y árboles frutales, mi hermano también era amante de los animales, incluso de criaturas que algunos consideran no ser tan “amorosas.” Cuando tenía 11 años, Manolo me enseñó a cómo usar una cuchara para desenterrar una tarántula en nuestro patio trasero en Dorado, Puerto Rico, sin hacerle daño a ésta, y sin que ésta nos picara. Había desarrollado el sistema como una ciencia exacta. Se tomaba su tiempo, la punta de su lengua asomándose levemente por la esquina de su labio, su lustroso cabello liso color ónix peinado hacia un lado, cubriendo ligeramente su ojo derecho. Raspaba la tierra suavemente, cavando un foso circular perfecto alrededor de la madriguera de la araña, durante unos cinco o diez minutos, hasta que la criatura peluda se revelaba, de pie sobre sus patas traseras, embistiendo y lista para enfrentarse al invasor de su hogar. Todos observábamos con asombro, como invitados “VIP” en un documental de la National Geographic en el cual Manolo era el protagonista magistral.

Era uno con el mar y la montaña. Fue el primero de los muchachos en pescar pulpo, y el primero de nosotros en subir al Yunque–sobre 450 metros–a la torre más alta, sin titubear, cada vez que íbamos a la selva tropical. Allí, también arriesgó su vida para rescatar a uno de nuestros hermanos que se ahogaba cuando las aguas de la cascada La Coca subieron repentinamente. Un nadador pereció ese día, pero mis hermanos se salvaron, gracias a Manolo. Él era nuestro gran protector. Cada vez que un acecho asomaba su feo rostro, allí estaba, arriesgándolo todo por nosotros.

Manolo podía resolver el Cubo de Rubik de una sentada. Era un ávido lector. Tenía los más hermosos ojos negros y una sonrisa honesta y contagiosa que iluminaba toda oscuridad. Daba los mejores abrazos de oso. Tenía la mas alegre carcajada. Era desorganizado, obstinado, y propenso a los accidentes. Agitaba su pierna cuando estaba nervioso, pero nunca se mordió las uñas. De niño, tenía un gran cangrejo ermitaño llamado “Bruno” que medía casi ocho centímetros de ancho y tenía una la garra peluda con tonos brillantes azules y rojos. Cuando era estudiante universitario, en su habitación incubó huevos de un nido caído y alimentó a los pájaros cuando nacieron, para luego liberarlos. Hacía la mejor sangría. Se vestía como “El Jorobado de Notre Dame” en la noche de brujas (Halloween), se cubría un diente con papel de construcción negro, y se volteaba los párpados hacia atrás, haciéndonos correr del susto. Le intrigaba la ciencia paranormal y me tenía convencida cuando éramos adolescentes de que una vez había visto un fantasma. Le encantaba ver “The Twilight Zone” y “Galería Nocturna”. Disfrutaba el cantar desde su infancia y–afortunadamente para todos nosotros–podía cantar de todo, desde “Camelot” hasta “Nino Bravo” y “Ligia Elena”. Le di su nombre a mi gato favorito.

Era un niño zurdo, pero como en aquel entonces ser zurdo no era “normal”, sus maestros le forzaron a escribir “como todo el mundo” y Manolo se tornó ambidiestro. Como resultado, tenía la peor letra, lo cual se compaginó perfectamente con lo que se convertiría en su profesión. Le encantaba ser doctor. Era el “Patch Adams” del pueblo de Dorado. Dentro de él vivía una memorable combinación de habilidades de médico de pueblo mezcladas con atributos superiores de psicólogo y mejor amigo, cualidades que brillan por su ausencia en la industria médica moderna. Ignoraba su reloj cuando te estaba examinando, y su mente no pensaba en dólares y centavos. Se centraba solo en ti y en lo que te enfermaba a ti. Si estabas nervioso, te decía que podías rezar mientras te inyectaba cortisona en la rodilla, realizaba cirugía menor en la uña del dedo gordo del pie, o te ponía una simple inyección. Te veía, pudieras pagar o no, hacía visitas médicas en tu casa, y te regalaba la camisa que tenía puesta, si la necesitabas. Frecuentemente, sus pacientes le traían frutas y comida en agradecimiento, lo cual compartía de inmediato, especialmente con mamá. “Mami, aquí te traigo esta calabaza que me dio un paciente”, puedo escuchar su voz como si estuviera a mi lado. Aun así, algunos constantemente abusaron de su bondad e incluso le hicieron daño. A pesar de esto, Manolo poseía el don de mirar más allá del mal y enfocarse en lo bueno dentro de cada persona. Hubiese hecho que Hipócrates se enorgulleciera y era fiel a su famoso juramento: Ante todo, no hagas daño.

Pero, mientras cuidaba a los demás, olvidó cuidarse a sí mismo.

[image error]Manolo murió repentinamente el pasado 17 de julio, tres meses después del día en que falleciera mi padre. Volé a Puerto Rico ese mismo día. Aún no estoy segura de cómo me armé de fuerzas para limpiar y empacar la oficina de mi hermano, pero sentí su presencia a mi lado–el calor de su mano en mi hombro– consolándome durante todo el proceso. Y tuve el honor de hacerlo. Luchando con las lágrimas, toqué música de “bomba y plena” de vez en cuando. Sabía que la estaría escuchando y cantando a su son. “Canta Manolo, canta en el cielo”, decía mi voz interior. Él me dio las fuerzas para poder descolgar los dibujos de sus hijos, su diploma de la facultad de medicina de la Universidad de Salamanca, su certificado del Colegio de Médicos y juntas de medicina, y las muchas placas de reconocimiento otorgadas por sus pacientes y organizaciones comunitarias, las cuales adornaban las paredes de la oficina que ocupó durante más de 30 años. Su televisor todavía estaba sintonizado al canal donde se transmitía El Mundial de fútbol, del cual disfrutaba solo unos días antes. Aún había algunos regalos del Día de los Padres en sus estantes, junto a portaretratos de familiares y libros de medicina. Se veían recordatorios de los muchos desafíos con los que había luchado para sobrevivir las presiones de ser padre soltero y el único sustento de tres adolescentes, y se percibían algunas de las herramientas que usó durante el huracán María para mantener su oficina abierta a sus pacientes. Acaricié su estetoscopio, el cual había pertenecido una vez a mi padre.

Me senté en la silla de su escritorio, y atrajo mi atención un álbum de fotos que descansaba sobre la mesita de su computadora, colocado como si fuera un libro de referencia que consultaba regularmente. Abrigaba viejas fotos de todos nosotros, de sus hijos, sus orquídeas y sus mascotas. Incrédula, descubrí que había guardado todas las tarjetas de Navidad y las fotos de mi hija que le había enviado a través de los años. Igual con las recibidas de sus otros sobrinos. El álbum sintetizaba su esencia. Era cariñoso y modesto. Daba todo por su familia, especialmente mi madre y sus hijos, que lo adoraban. El tiempo se congeló en esa oficina médica como en un museo de historia natural. Excepto que se sentía más como una capilla.

El torrente de dolor y condolencias fue abrumador. Muchos de sus pacientes se presentaron llorando a recoger sus registros médicos. Murió rico, pero sus riquezas no eran materiales; nacieron de su amor y pasión por los seres humanos no importa su origen, por la naturaleza y los animales. No juzgaba. Amaba incondicionalmente. Y por ello, pagó un alto precio. Pero dejó una huella inmortal. Se ganó no solo nuestro amor y respeto, sino también el cariño de todo un pueblo que nunca lo olvidará.

El gran corazón de Manolo se cansó demasiado pronto. Su pacto con la naturaleza terminó prematuramente. No puedo hablar de su pérdida sin llorar. A cambio, elijo escribir. Le escribí dos semblanzas para sus ceremonias fúnebres, una “plena”, y el epitafio que se grabaría en su tumba. Pero eso no fue suficiente. Las palabras que me vienen a la mente no son las adecuadas para honrarlo. Me siento minúscula en la presencia de su memoria e impotente en esta carrera contra el tiempo que no puede retroceder. Y me arrepiento del tiempo perdido en lo mundano, y estoy furiosa con este sufrimiento que me consume, con el cual debo conformarme, como si fuera un ensayo para las otras pérdidas que vendrán.

El escaparate de su consultorio médico se adorna con un hermoso lazo negro y una nota escrita con letras brillantes: “Hay quienes traen al mundo una luz tan grande, que incluso aun después de haberse ido esa luz, permanece. Nunca te olvidaremos.” Siento su luz aquí, a mi lado. Me consuela ver cuánto fue amado por tantos. Es que él no era solo mi hermano, era el hermano de todos. Sé que nuestros caminos volverán a cruzarse. ¡Pero, Dios, cómo lo extrañaré! Descansa en paz mi querido hermano. ¡Canta, Manolo, canta en el cielo!

For English version click here.

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Copyright © 2018. Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini. All Rights Reserved. 

Yautía (Taro) Flower

I saw the silky pink flower of a Puerto Rican “yautía” (taro) plant for the first time on a photo by my brother Manolo. He had grown it in his back yard. And if there was ever someone who could make a yautía bloom so gloriously, it was him.

Manolo, the second of the six siblings I’ve had the privilege of growing with–and the kindest one–had the greenest thumb I have ever witnessed. I am convinced that he must have made a pact with nature, maybe even as early as the onset of his heartbeat in my mother’s womb. He was one of a handful of babies in town to survive a deadly outbreak for which doctors–including my own father–never unveiled cause. Over 80 babies died, but somehow, Manolo was spared.

Besides cultivating the best plants, including orchids, palms and fruit trees, my brother was also an animal lover, even with the “not-so-cuddly” creatures. When I was 11, Manolo showed me how to use a soupspoon to dig out a tarantula from our back yard in Dorado, Puerto Rico, without harming it or getting bit. He had it down to a science. He’d take his time, the tip of his tongue peering slightly through the side of his lip, his lustrous onyx straight hair combed to the side, slightly covering his right eye. He’d scrape the soil gently, digging a perfect circular moat around the spider’s burrow for about five to ten minutes, until the hairy creature revealed itself, standing on its hind legs, charging and ready to take on the home invader. We all watched in awe, as VIP guests in a National Geographic documentary in which Manolo was the masterful protagonist.

He was one with the sea and the mountain. He was the first one of the boys to spear octopus, and the first one of us to hike “El Yunque,” all the way up–over 1500 feet–to the highest tower, without flinching, every time we visited the tropical rainforest. There, he also risked his own life to rescue one of our brothers from drowning when the “La Coca Falls” waters suddenly surged. A swimmer died that day, but my brothers were spared, thanks to Manolo. He was our protector, whenever trouble peered its ugly face, there he was, risking it all for us.

Manolo could solve the Rubik’s cube in one sitting. He was an avid reader. He had the most beautiful deep black eyes and an honest and contagious smile that would brighten darkness. He gave the most heartfelt bear hugs. He had the most cheerful laughter. He was beyond messy, stubborn, and ultra accident-prone. He’d shake his leg when he was nervous, but he never bit his nails. As a child, he had a huge hermit crab called “Bruno” that measured over three inches wide and had the hairiest claw with blue and red hues. Once, he incubated eggs from an abandoned nest in his room during college and nurtured the birds when they hatched, for later release. He made the best sangria. He dressed as “The Hunchback of Notre Dame” in Halloween, put black construction paper on his teeth, and did this thing where he flipped his eyelids backwards that made us run away in fear. He was intrigued by the paranormal and had me convinced when we were teens that once he saw a ghost. He loved watching “The Twilight Zone” and “Night Gallery.” He enjoyed singing since childhood, and–fortunately for all of us–he could sing anything from “Camelot” to “Nino Bravo” to “Ligia Elena.”

He was a left-handed child, but because back then being left-handed was “just not right,” teachers forced him to write “like everyone else,” and Manolo turned out ambidextrous. As a result, he had the worst handwriting, which perfectly suited what would become his profession. And he loved being a doctor. He was the “Patch Adams” of the town of Dorado. He embodied the memorable small-town doctor-psychologist-best friend skillset now absent in today’s medical industry. He ignored his watch when he was examining you, and his mind did not think in dollars and cents. He focused just on you and what was ailing you. If you were anxious, he’d sometimes tell you it’s OK to pray, whether he was injecting the dreaded cortisone shot on the knee, performing minor surgery on your toe nail, or giving you a shot. He’d see you, whether you could pay or not, he’d do house visits, and he’d give you the shirt off his back, if you needed it. His patients would regularly bring him fruits and food in appreciation, which he’d immediately share, particularly with mom. “Mami, aquí te traigo esta calabaza que me dio un paciente,” I can hear his voice. (“Mom, I am bringing you this pumpkin a patient gave me.”) Even so, some constantly abused his kindness and even harmed him. Despite this, Manolo had a gift to look past the bad and focus on the good, on everyone. He made Hippocrates proud and stood firm by the famous oath: First do no harm.

But, while taking care of others, he forgot to take care of himself.

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Manolo died suddenly this past July 17, three months to the day of my father’s passing. I flew to Puerto Rico that very day. I am not sure how I drew the courage to clean and pack my brother’s office, but I felt his presence standing beside me–his hand on my shoulder­–comforting me through it all. And I was honored to do it. Fighting tears, I played “bomba and plena” music on and off, as I knew he’d be listening and singing along. “Canta Manolo, canta en el cielo,” my inner voice kept saying (“Sing, Manolo, sing in heaven.”) He gave me the strength to take down his kids’ drawings, his University of Salamanca medical school diploma, his medical board certificates, and the many recognition plaques given by his patients and community organizations, all hung on the walls of the office he occupied for over 30 years. His TV set was still tuned to the World Cup he was just watching days prior. There were some Father’s Day gifts still on his shelves, along with family portraits and books. There were also reminders of the many challenges he had battled to survive the pressures of being a single father of three teenagers, and some of the tools he used during Hurricane Maria to keep his office open for his patients. I took down his stethoscope, which had belonged to my father once.

I sat down on his desk’s chair, and I was drawn to a photo album resting on top of the nearby computer desk, as if it were a handy reference book he regularly consulted. It sheltered old pictures of all of us, of his children, his orchids and his pets. In disbelief, I found out that he had kept all the Christmas cards and the photos of my daughter I had sent him through the years. That album synthesized his very essence. He was loving and unassuming. He’d give everything for his family, especially my mother, and his three children, who adored him. Time froze in that medical office like in a natural history museum. Except it felt more like a chapel to me.

The outpour of grief and condolences was overwhelming. Many of his patients showed up in tears to pick up their medical records. He died a rich man, but his riches were far from material; they emerged from his love and passion for people of all walks of life, nature, and animals. He did not judge. He loved unconditionally. And for this, he paid a high price. But he made an immortal mark. He earned not only our love and respect, but also “el cariño de todo un pueblo” (“the love of an entire town”) that will never forget him.

Manolo’s big heart got tired too soon. His pact with nature ended prematurely. I cannot speak about his loss without tearing up. So, I choose to write, instead. I wrote two eulogies for him, and a “plena,” and the epitaph to be carved on his tombstone. But that was not enough. Any words that come to mind are not powerful enough to honor him. I feel minuscule in the presence of his memory and powerless in this race against time that cannot be turned back. And I have countless regrets about time lost to the mundane, and I am furious at this consuming grief, to which I must conform, as though it were a rehearsal for the losses to come.

On his medical office’s storefront hangs a beautiful black bow and a note written in glitter words: “There are those whose light is so bright that even when they are gone, their light remains.” I feel his light right here, beside me. It comforts me to see how much he was loved by so many, and I know our paths will cross again. But God, how I will miss him! Rest in peace my dear brother. ¡Canta, Manolo, canta en el cielo!

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Copyright © 2018. Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini. All Rights Reserved. 

Dr. Raul Tirado, Dorado’s doctor for over 50 years

“Thanks for giving me a ride, Iris,” said the doctor, outside the Dorado Hospital.

Iris was in a hurry.

“Oh God, please, I can’t be late,” Iris prayed.

The doctor’s wife gave her express instructions. Iris would take care of transporting him, personally. Military time is sharp. Being late is unacceptable.

“That’s my wife,” said the oldest doctor in town. “Punctual.”

He had been practicing medicine for more than five decades since graduating from the University of Salamanca in Spain, where he met her, and where they married, later settling in Puerto Rico, the island of enchantment.

“Do you know that the lot next to the hospital was full of palm trees? It used to be mine,” the doctor continued as they passed the post office. “Those coconuts were delicious. The coconut water was so refreshing, and my wife made coconut limber for the kids with them … and arroz con dulce,” he reminisced about the Puerto Rican frozen treat and the sweet rice-coconut-and-cinnamon dessert.

Iris glanced at what had been a palmar years ago, now occupied by concrete structures.

“Turn left, go through town,” the doctor requested. He loved the town and his people. “You have time, don’t worry,” he assured the nervous driver.

Iris used to turn right at that intersection to take the highway to Bayamón. It was faster that way. She knew that there was always more traffic through town. There are people crossing the street at their own pace, you can get easily distracted, there are too many traffic lights, and if there is a tapón on the bridge, the congestion could pose a real problem. Still, she did the very opposite and turned the steering wheel counterclockwise.

«What am I doing?» she immediately regretted her decision.«I’m going to be late!»

“It will be alright,” she was assured.

They passed La Playtex, and when they drove by the residential El Dorado, the eyes of the Taíno Indian characters on its colorful murals painted by Talí, the gifted town artist, seemed to magically follow Iris’ car until they lost sight of it.

“Look, Iris. There–in the corner, on the right–was the health center where I started working as a doctor,” said the physician as they approached the government building now taking its place. “That was a million years ago!” he followed, with his characteristic three-short-laugh mirth.

For a few seconds, her sight toured the government building, shifting back to the road before her. The traffic was slow, but it was moving.

“Have you tried the donuts of Deniel’s? They are delicious! I would eat one right now, with a cortadito,” said the doctor. He was diabetic but loved the sweets and his strong coffee shot.

«The donuts at that place are so good … and the quesitos, too» thought the young woman when passing by the town’s bakery, feeling her stomach grumbling.

At mid-morning, every day, year after year, the doctor walked through Calle Mendez Vigo to Deniel’s. He went for his donut and his cortadito, and along the way he greeted his people, mi gente, as he called them. He walked by without haste, and one could hear the voices of the many who knew him: Goodbye doctor! He often returned in the afternoon, when his last patient had left, to purchase a hot pan sobao to bring it home. He lived with his wife at the top of the building where he worked, in Calle Méndez Vigo, Número 316.

“There’s my clinic, on the left,” the doctor pointed at the three-story Spanish-style structure, its top floor typically adorned with decorative palms and fuchsia and yellow bougainvilleas. “Hey, they painted the building!” he said, surprised, pausing for a few seconds. “The boys do not work today.”

The doctor had always hoped to work along his children in his clinic. Two of them had become doctors and one was a dentist. He achieved his dream, his legacy to the people of the town of Dorado. Many of the children of the babies that the doctor delivered, and their children, had become patients of the doctor’s sons.

«The new color of the doctor’s clinic looks like sand» Iris thought as she passed the medical building. “It’s pretty.”

Hurricane Maria had greatly damaged its walls. The structure had to be repaired. She noticed the sign on the door of the main office, which read: Closed. It was Monday.

“My wife has been busy and restless. She has not slept for days, with all the preparations. It worries me. We’ve been married for sixty-three years! We dated for five. We’ve been together a lifetime. We had seven children together, five boys and two girls. They are all professionals!” he said, proudly.

«That woman is tough,» Iris thought about the doctor’s wife. Iris had recently met with her, and she found her exhausted, but determined. At eighty-two, she had to possess great strength to want to organize every single detail on her own. She was–decidedly–the doctor’s guardian angel. His 93rd birthday was the week prior, on April 18.

They passed the mayor’s office.

“Goodbye Carlitos!” exclaimed the doctor abruptly.

Iris stopped her car as the town’s mayor crossed the street in front of her vehicle towards the Pizza Boy, wrapped in conversation. Both hands at the wheel, Iris kept going, concentrating on her driving. They passed the Plaza del Pueblo and the Iglesia San Antonio, the church the doctor regularly attended with his family. They continued course, leaving behind the Juan Boria Theater, the Casa del Rey, and the residence of Dr. Canino, the town historian and talented writer.

“Don’t be so worried, Iris. We will be on time. The tapón is already gone, see?”

Iris glanced at the time on the dashboard’s clock. Her heartbeat slowed down. Traffic was dissipating.

They continued course to the highway, bound to Bayamón. It was late in the morning. They had to be there at ten forty-five. The ceremony began at eleven.

“My children studied high school in La Salle, right over here,” the doctor remarked when they exited the highway near the school where his five sons had attended.

He remembered the Los Hermanos de La Salle, who taught his muchachos, the parent-teacher conferences, his service on the parent-teacher board, the raffles, the chocolate fundraisers, the concrete block donations that the boys sought for the construction of the basketball court, and the calm breeze that blew on Sundays during the open-air mass, always celebrated the morning before the annual school festival started. He remembered playing bingo, and his excitement when someone from his family won at the games.

“Where did time go!”

«We’re almost there, doctor» Iris sighed, relieved that they were approaching their destination early.

“I told you we’d be on time.”

They parked. Iris turned off the ignition and reached to the back seat for her purse. She exited the vehicle, closed her door and went to open her passenger’s.

«Here we go.»

With great care, Iris picked up the silver urn that contained the doctor’s ashes. It had a beautiful navy blue Victorian engraving.

Iris noticed that the family was arriving. Some were near the roundabout where the ceremony would be held. She walked to approach the widow and transfer the urn to the uniformed officers–the honor guard–in charge of safeguarding it during the ceremony. The dedicated funeral director had never personally accompanied an urn and its sacred contents. Not like this.

“Thanks for my last journey, Iris,” said the doctor, grateful. “Thank you for turning the steering wheel against the clock and for allowing me to say farewell to my town and my people.”

«It has been an honor, doctor» thought Iris, as she respectfully handed the silver vessel to its new custodians.

She walked back to her vehicle feeling a sense of deep solace. As she prepared to leave the Bayamón National Cemetery, a trumpet could be heard in the distance playing Taps, in honor of the deceased veteran. The officers would unfold and re-fold the United States flag thirteen times. They would fold it strictly in the form of a triangle, where, in the end, only the stars embroidered in white would remain visible over a dark blue background. The first fold would symbolize the life of the veteran and the last the national motto In God We Trust.

As a young man, prior to studying medicine, the doctor had served in the United States armed forces during the Second World War, culminating his service with an honorable discharge. He had enjoyed a long and productive life of service to his country, his family and his community.

The flags at the cemetery gates seemed to wave farewell as the breeze blew peacefully.

“Rest in Peace, doctor Tirado,” Iris said.

Her vehicle crossed the main iron gates of the holy field, her work honorably carried out on behalf of a good man, his beloved wife and their seven children.

~

In Memoriam

On April 23, 2018, my father, Raul Tirado Gracia, the town’s doctor for decades–who was often seen walking down Calle Méndez Vigo gifting greetings and smiles–“walked” one last time through his beloved town of Dorado, Puerto Rico. He did so on the day of his burial, in his urn, peacefully, without procession or spectacle, humble and unpretentious. As he was.

In these difficult times, the Tirado-Manzano family thanks Iris Rolón, Director of the Funeraria y Capillas Rolón, for attending to the wishes of our dear mother with such dedication, empathy and warmth, for safeguarding and transporting the remains of our dear father to his final resting place, and for being the source of inspiration for this profound account of his last journey in time, through his beloved town of Dorado.

  – Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini

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Copyright © 2018. Yasmin Tirado-Chiodini. All Rights Reserved.