In life’s journey, a lasting gift from a beloved grandfather
On the Monday before Christmas, I accepted the job of my dreams as multiculturalism reporter for the Washington Post. On the Monday after, my grandfather passed away.
In my application to the Washington Post, I described the column my grandfather used to write in El Puertorriqueño, a local Puerto Rican paper in Chicago, called “Cositas que ni se dicen, ni se comentan.” Or, the things people don’t say or even mention.
Growing up, I said I wanted to be a journalist before I knew of my grandfather’s columns. When I did learn of them, it made sense. Of course, the humble man who had long admired journalists would have a granddaughter who would become one. It was genetics — or the American dream.
Some connect the decline of my grandfather’s health with the arrival of Hurricane Maria in 2017. He stayed with my family for more than six months in the harsh, Midwest winter waiting for electricity to return to his home in Jayuya, Puerto Rico. He got a bad case of shingles, and his arthritis worsened. He kept say
ing he couldn’t die there, in Galesburg, Ill. He had to die in his homeland.
He got his wish. He was asleep in his home in Jayuya when he passed. Etched into the doorstep of his house is the shape of the coqui, the island’s singing tree frog, a symbol of resiliency and
hope.
My grandfather — Guillermo Antonio Frau Rullán, or Abuelo, as we called him — was one of a kind. Years ago, he bought a bright red Smart car, named it Junior and drove it around Jayuya — top down — on the uneven roads that are still frequented by men on horseback. He later spent a large sum of money to ship the thing to my mother in Galesburg as a gift. My mom drives it to work at the local high school, a Puerto Rican flag dangling from its rearview mirror.
Abuelo was a schoolteacher in Jayuya and a postal clerk in Chicago. He was bookish and brainy, with a cap often on his head and a mustache above his lip. Years ago, back in Jayuya, he won a local good Samaritan award for his daily routine of picking up litter on morning walks. And decades before that, Abuelo was a Borinqueneer — a Korean War soldier in the 65th Infantry Regiment, a segregated unit of Puerto Rican soldiers. In 2016, President Barack Obama awarded the Borinqueneers with a Congressional Gold Medal.
Abuelo was also a big fan of Facebook. His sentimentality for the past — something we share — was on full display there. In eloquent, old-fashioned Spanish, he wrote long posts about his immense love for his family and his past lives as an activist in Chicago and a soldier in Korea. He shared many of his past columns — and then shared them again when they resurfaced on Facebook Memories. If you asked him a question that pertained to something he already wrote about on Facebook, he would kindly refer you to his latest post (“No lo viste?”). It was like his column all over again.
He once told me I reminded him of his late wife, my abuela, who died when I was around 2 years old. I looked in the mirror afterward, turning my head to match the photo I have often seen of her — a sepia-toned profile. I was intrigued; I had always thought myself to be like him.
Last year in Jayuya, I pulled out a book from Abuelo’s bookshelf: “Personal History,” the autobiography of the Washington Post’s first woman publisher, Katharine Graham. He told me to keep it.
When his health began to deteriorate several weeks ago, when my mom and uncle flew from the U.S. mainland to care for him in his final days, I hoped that if I did get a new job, I would get the chance to tell him.
A week before Christmas, I got my wish. His voice was unrecognizable, his words slow. I didn’t understand him. It made me cry.
But he understood me. “Es nacional!” he later told my mom — “It’s national!”
I thought getting the job of my dreams at the Post was the best Christmas gift I’d ever received. But the greatest gift was my grandfather’s pride in me before he left.
Que en paz descanse.