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My friend and I were in the hospital room, visiting her grandfather. His demeanor seemed weakened by the extended days of illness, but his eyes were still vibrant, showing their octogenarian wisdom and the kindness of having lived. I knew that in the 40s he had endured the battle of Corregidor in World War II. By the mid 80s, when I knew him, I remembered Mr. Cruz as the calm and light-hearted presence – the patriarch of a loving and large Filipino family. His family had taken me in after I dropped out from the university, thereby losing my cozy rights to student housing. Those were my immersion days, learning to cook the 5 most famous dishes, Pancit and Mongo soup among them, from the masters. My friend's mother and father always having one of those sweet, quintessential married couple moments, with mock-fights about whose Adobo was the yummiest. They would bribe me with heaped spoonfuls, trying to get my vote.
I would take heed of his words. They would stay with me forever. "Finish your degree. It is the most important thing." In my world of being born to my own grandfatherlessness, what an honor, to be told what to do by a grandpa. It didn’t happen for me right away, or in the linear, magical fix-all of your personality once you are confronted with your spirit guide that one sees in movies. I was 21 years old, and I would one day return to UC Berkeley, another lifetime later, at age 42.
Some days I walk by my diploma, perched up on the east wall of our den, and joke to myself, “That is a long way to go, to get The Terminator's autograph!” And that is what happened: in 2008 when I graduated with my degree in architecture, Arnold Schwartzenegger was California’s Governator and, in essence, the person that is President of the Regents and, therefore, signs the diplomas for University of California graduates. I realize that he did not sit at his gilded gubernatorial desk and wet sign 33 thousand diplomas himself, but still, there is something comical about having his signature, or printed facsimile thereof, up on my wall.
Beyond the embedded fuel of Mr. Cruz’s words in my heart, during the wild and eye-reddening days and nights of studies to finish my degree, I thought the whole time that I was doing this for my mom. I wanted to pay respect to her struggle. I know I have said this before, but the thought of her immigration story and her PhD badass self ending up making burritos and grilling burgers in East LA.… You meet the taxi driver from Pakistan that was a mechanical engineer in his country, or the liquor store owner from Ethiopia that is a surgeon, and you never fathom that it is going to happen to one of your own.... but then you realize, this happened to your own mother. So if that is not a good enough reason to dust off your T-square and triangles and get your bum off to finish your degree in architecture, I don't know what is! (Apologies here to those out there that are clinging on to the romantic notions that we still use T-squares in architecture. More like a mixture of a computer mouse and a Ctrl-L command for "draw Line" but yes, I have my wonderful T-square and there are rare and great moments when we still sketch by hand in the trade.)
And in all these years that I thought I did it for her, I began to understand that the reality, the core, is that I did it for me – for my self-esteem, for my respect and reverence for my own Life. This was my opportunity. Not to be squandered but to be realized. And I did not have the excuse of feeling a lack of calling. It was not like I was picking and choosing throughout my Life…maybe be a doctor, maybe be an archeologist (although those two crossed my mind before age 10). There was never a blasé moment. I knew fully that I wanted to be an architect by the age of 14, my sophomore year in high school, elbows deep in vellum and graphite…and those super cool and now extinct eraser dust pillows that we students could not help but overuse, with plop-plops and puff-puffs all over our floor plans until the paper looked like it had gotten a fresh blanket of winter snow.
21 and 42. I was really 42 when I re-entered UC Berkeley. I remember the week before my classmates and I were to successfully complete the infamous, mega-course required in the program: Arch 100A. We asked ourselves, what should we get for our great professor? Something cool. "He is from Chile. How about a nice bottle of wine?" And then my friend blurts out, "Oh, OK. Who can buy it? Is anyone 21?!?" I started laughing, but halted when I realized he was serious.
There is a joke my father used to use when someone was trying to play down their age: “You are 21? 21 in each leg!” ‘En cada pierna’ was big with my dad. I think that is why I have always been pretty upfront about how old I am.
Because of our inherent peer-ness in all we did – all of us classmates spending endless hours at Wurster Hall pulling all-nighters drawing or building models, trying to look presentable and awake and sound coherent after hardly or any sleep for our project presentations the following mornings – I would always forget about the great divide in our ages. I chimed, "I am. Twice!" Yes, I was twice their age. That realization is beautiful. My classmates were amazing and welcoming always. Architecture is a great bonding medium, and hard work and studies are the greatest of common denominators.
I walked graduation at the Greek Theater in May of 2008. I have not felt many other moments in my Life when my spirit was lifted by a light and lightness that I cannot explain in terms of this world.
Mr. Cruz is the only person that has ever asked me for something before dying. It is a miracle to encounter someone that will have an everlasting impression. I wonder whom we do that for? Who are we propelling or inspiring in our lives, without knowing, by the simple act of being, or by a simple comment or encouragement? I had my Mr. Cruz moment, and because I had him and many on my team, beyond the palpable obligations to my family, decades later I had the force to go on and complete what I had started and what was always meant for me.
With much love and appreciation, to the Cruz and Torres Families.
You Raise Me Up - performed by Josh Groban, written by Rolf Løvland and Brendan Graham
www.youtube.com/watch?v=rnztMhtUF6o