This is the 3rd letter of López to his granddaughter Karina
Published September 21 2013
Oscar López Rivera / imprisoned for 32 YEARS
On Saturday, El Nuevo Día periodically publishes letters that political prisoner Óscar López Rivera sends from jail to his granddaughter Karina, who has only known him through the prison bars.
Dear Karina. A few weeks ago, I wrote you to congratulate you on the greatest and most memorable day of your life: at 22 years, you graduated from the University of Chicago.
I told you then that life is full of challenges, and, sometimes, of disappointments. But you should never let anything or anyone discourage you, because you have the fortitude to confront and overcome any obstacle.
When you entered the university, you ended up living in an environment very different from mine. That makes me happy: the reason that people struggle, collectively and personally, is so that things will change and that their children and grandchildren will have a better future.
I was three when I first approached the school. I walked behind my older brothers and sisters, who complained because I was following them. I bothered them so much that my sister decided to teach me to read and write. Since I was left-handed, she tied my left hand and made me use my right. At five, when I started first grade at the school in Aibonito-Guerrero, in the town of San Sebastián, I was very advanced thanks to those lessons. I got bored in the classroom and dedicated myself to making mischief, and invited the other kids to escape to the river, where we set about knocking down oranges.
When I finished the sixth grade, despite my mischief, I won the first honor prize of my class. From there I went to the middle school of Hoya Mala, but soon after the start of classes, I got sick. They took me to the doctor in Aguadilla, who diagnosed me with a parasite that I had caught in the river. It was my “just desserts” for my misdeeds.
They gave me anti-parasitic medicine, but I did not get better. When I entered the ninth grade, I was so miserable that my mother, desperate, decided to send me to Chicago with my uncles. I was accepted in a high school, and when I got there, I had to pass a physical exam: I was 53 inches tall and weighed 58 pounds.
All the other students of that school, Tuley High School, seemed like giants compared to me. My vocabulary in English was less than 100 words. Every time I opened my mouth, the other kids laughed, and I became an introvert. At Tuley in the 1950s, there were only a handful of Puerto Rican students.
I had to deal with discrimination, and I can assure you that when I look back, I see the injustices that took place. We were not treated like we were going to study at the best colleges. We were immigrants, we had a reputation for having problems, and sometimes we were given punishments we didn’t deserve. For example, once they accused me of copying on an algebra test.
I liked algebra so much and was so confident that i understood it, that I answered the teacher rudely and she sent me out of the classroom and to the office of the director. There I told the boss that I hadn’t copied, and that to prove it, he could give me another test right then and there, with questions from the last chapter of the book, which we had not even covered yet in class. He was the one who had registered me when I arrived at Tuley and knew of my good grades, so he smiled and told me not to worry.
Within that hard world for a Puerto Rican who could barely express himself, I met a handful of great people.
For example, I had an unforgettable teacher at Wright College, a junior college where I went after I finished high school. We were poor and I confess that I was ashamed of my clothes, which were garlicky and ugly, and of my old tennis shoes, which were the only shoes I had.
But this teacher, who gave classes in diction, didn’t care about my appearance. She dedicated a lot of time to me, with patience and love. She discovered that I stuttered when I spoke English and explained how to stop; she had me do exercises and readings. During that period, I started to pass my free time in a part of Chicago where the beats hung out, a group of writers and artists with a great sense of freedom.
I had to quit Wright College when my father abandoned us and I had to go to work to help my mother. It was not until 1967, when I returned from Vietnam, that I returned to the university. The scene had changed drastically. There were many progressive teachers, debates about human rights in the classroom, and a political activism that influenced my life.
Now I see your success in the university as an extension of my aspirations. Keep going forward in your life, fill your heart with love, compassion, hope, and valor. Love yourself, your family, your compañeros and compañeras, the earth, the ocean, freedom and justice, and everyone who represents and makes life possible.
A kiss and a hug with small Puerto Rican arms, but with much love. In resistance and struggle….