Oscar’s maternal grandfather, José Ángel Galdámez, purchased fertile but unused farmland ringing the base of the nearby volcano that the mayor’s office of Ciudad Barrios had put up for sale. Upon Oscar’s grandfather’s death, he divided the land, giving his son-in-law Santos Romero some 104 acres of it (Valencia and Arias, “Plática”).
12. The word pulgo has no meaning. Mamerto Romero described his father as quirky, a trait he said showed in his naming of his children, farm animals, and farm. At one point Don Santos had two kid goats, named Canario and Orión, whom he turned over to a local woman for two years so she could train them to pull carts. Much to his son Romulo’s chagrin, who hoped to use the goats to transport firewood to sell, Don Santos sold them to buy the cow.
13. Although several biographies describe Oscar as a weak, sickly child, the author’s interviews did not confirm this. Oscar suffered at least one serious early childhood illness, but he was not sickly in general. The confusion may come from the word débil, frequently used in Spanish to describe him as a child. While débil often means physical weakness, another meaning is akin to nerdy or brainiac—a difference cleared up for me when Mamerto Romero used débil to describe young Oscar in our interview, but went on to explain what he meant by it. By all accounts, Oscar was shy and introverted, but he had no difficulty with the farm or other physical chores, nor in walking the distances involved to do so. “He was timid, that’s the word. But for [physical] work he never had problems. He was strong,” Mamerto said.
14. Mamerto Obdulio Romero said about his father: “He was very strict. He didn’t let us get away with anything. Therefore, we were raised in an atmosphere so immersed in fear that we didn’t dare do anything disorderly in the house. And if we told him we were going out to play, he’d say, ‘One hour, from seven to eight.’ If we went over that time, we were punished.”
15. Gaspar Romero told the author that his mother did not scold or yell at her children for misbehavior, but rather talked with and counseled them. She often did not disclose her children’s misdeeds to her husband so they would avoid Papá’s punishment.
16. Rom 8:28 NIV
3. A Time to Blossom
(1931–1935)
In January 1931, after Oscar arrived at San Miguel’s minor or preseminary—it also housed a small major seminary—it didn’t take long for his classmates to learn he played the concert flute.17 His father had allowed him to bring along the valuable silver instrument.
“Play it for us!” some of the boys insisted one afternoon as they chatted in the dorm room.
Just then Father Benito Calvo, the priest who had accompanied Oscar on the arduous trek to the city, passed the doorway. He served as one of their teachers.
“What’s the excitement about?”
After the boys told him, he also encouraged Oscar to play a tune.
Feeling shy and awkward, Oscar opened the small leather case and assembled the instrument. He decided on one of his favorite pieces. Soon he lost himself in the lilting notes, and his nervousness lifted. When Oscar finished, the boys burst into applause.
“That’s impressive, Oscar!” said classmate Mauro Yánes.
“I wish I could play the flute,” said his friend Alberto Luna.
“Do you also sing?” asked schoolmate Fausto Ventura. When Oscar nodded yes, Fausto said, “I love to sing. Let’s sing together sometime.”
“Boys,” Father Calvo interjected, “have you heard we sometimes entertain ourselves here by putting on musical performances and plays? A Catholic high school in the city, run by the Marist brothers, will also ask us to provide an evening’s program for them. Fausto, we’ll arrange for you and Oscar to sing a duet.” He turned to Oscar. “Might you be willing to play your flute at the high school sometime?”
Oscar smiled. “I would like that.” Already he felt welcomed and appreciated in his new home. If his brothers and sisters never quite understood him, his classmates did.
Actually, except for San Miguel’s stifling heat and the pesky mosquitos that made some students and faculty so sick with malaria they had to withdraw, everything about his new home in the flat lowlands agreed with Oscar.18 He liked his classmates, his teachers, and the seminary itself—an inviting and compact campus in the center of the bustling, growing town of about 17,500 people.
Oscar trekked over the mountains to this destination, then the San Miguel minor seminary that Oscar attended. (1998 photo, Emily Will)
Some forty students, ages thirteen to eighteen, lived and studied at the preseminary, and a limited number of older students attended the major seminary. The dorms, classrooms, chapel, and dining hall formed a horseshoe around an airy tropical garden. The terra-cotta tile roofs on the long, low white buildings lent a cozy appearance. There was enough land to assign each seminarian a small plot to grow vegetables. The students also helped tend the fruit trees on the property—grapefruit, lemon, avocado, papaya, and others.
Oscar found his days full and challenging. He and his classmates rose at five thirty each morning. They washed, dressed in their long, black cassocks—Mamá had tailored Oscar’s first one—and meditated and prayed until six-thirty mass in the chapel. Afterwards, they changed into yellow tunics over pants, ate breakfast, and attended classes from eight until noon, with ten-minute breaks between each fifty-minute class.
The students sat together for the noon dinner, with the teacher-priests at nearby tables. After the meal, one of the priests read from the classics. The stories engaged Oscar and his classmates and introduced them to a range of literature from various cultures. They returned to classes from two to four in the afternoon, followed by an hour of recreation. The day ended with supper, homework, and devotions.
Rebel Hair
Oscar, thirteen, and some eight to ten other boys from around El Salvador formed the youngest, or first-year, class. Oscar quickly became friends with Rafael Valladares, a witty, outgoing youth a few grades ahead of Oscar. Rafael, a bishop’s nephew from Opico, a town in western El Salvador, had attended an excellent private elementary school and soon became top student. Before long, though, Oscar, with some extra math tutoring, began to rival his friend in scholarship.
Rafael churned things up with his teasing and joking. He teased Oscar about his prominent nose, proclaiming, “It looks like a cuma,” a curved machete.
A nickname was also in the making. Oscar had been cast as an elderly manservant in a play to be given at the Marist high school. The evening of the performance, a local woman came to help the students with costumes and makeup. She brought a bottle of white talcum powder to “gray” Oscar’s head. Oscar’s hair was so bushy, however, that as she sprinkled it with talc, the powder settled to his scalp where it couldn’t be seen.
“Ai-yai-yai! With this boy I’m going to go through the entire container!” she said
