Welcome to Cinfuegos’ Class
Part 1: First Day at Holy Cross Academy, 1972
I remember walking into the classroom that morning, having just turned twelve, heart pounding, eyes wide, the weight of my parents’ expectations pressing down. It was my first day at this new religious school, and everything felt immense: the smell of polished desks, the scratch of chalk on the board, and thirty boys watching me in silence from their desks.
Then came Padre Cienfuegos. Calm, stern, his voice carrying across the room, he studied my face for a moment — probably recognizing me as a new student — before commanding me to the blackboard.
My instructions were simple: write my full name, and do it with impeccable handwriting. Easy enough, I thought — my pulse steady, my hand sure. My chalk traced each letter with care, each curve deliberate. When I stepped back, I felt satisfied — proud even.
I was returning to my seat when Padre Cienfuegos stopped me abruptly.
“Who gave you permission to return to your seat?” he demanded.
Panic surged. His next order was absurdly precise:
“Write your father’s first name and your mother’s first name over your name on the board.”
My pulse quickened. Carefully, I traced Raúl and Judit, more like drawing each stroke than writing, trying to follow his command without causing extra trouble.
When I finished, I quietly asked if I could return to my seat. He studied the board for a moment, then said, “Only if you think you’ve finished.” I looked again at the words, then at the thirty boys staring at me from their desks. To me, the task was complete. I returned to my seat.
Then it happened.
When Padre Cienfuegos approached, I thought he would give me another set of instructions. But without warning, he began striking me hard — blow after blow — as the class watched. I endured it silently. My face burned; my ears rang.
When he finally stopped, he said, “I hope you at least understand, Roberto, why I’ve punished you today.”
The truth was, I had no idea. With my cheeks and ears stinging, I looked around at the boys as if searching for an answer, but every head dropped instantly.
Without meeting his eyes, I said, “No, Padre, I don’t know.”
He snapped back, “I am Padre Cienfuegos. Now repeat your answer properly.”
I forced out the correction: “No, Padre Cienfuegos, I don’t know.”
His verdict came cold: “So you’ll never, ever forget that your mother’s name ends with an H. It is Judith.”
I turned toward the board — and there it was. I had written it as it’s pronounced in Spanish: Judit, without the final H.
When I got home, my father — a retired military man, disciplined and stern, yet a good father — asked how my first day had gone. I told him matter-of-factly that I had been punished with a few blows to the head — for leaving out the final “H” in my mother’s name.
He paused, thought it over, then shrugged with rigid logic:
“Probably the punishment was harsher because Judith is a biblical name. Sure, it’s from the Old Testament, not the New, but that doesn’t make it any less important. Now go to the corner store and grab me a box of Marlboro without filters. If there’s any change, get yourself a piece of gum. Hurry up, son — time’s precious!”
Part 2: Locker Room at Holy Cross Academy: The Revenge of Humor
That afternoon, after sports practice
The steam from the showers still hung thick in the air — sticky and hot, smelling of cheap soap. Hair littered the floor. The guys were drying off, cracking jokes, banging lockers. I sat on the bench, still dazed, trying not to show I was shaken up.
Pereira was the first to come at me.
“Hey, new kid… did old Cienfuegos beat the hell out of you over your mom’s H, or what?”
The others watched, sizing me up. They still didn’t know how I would react.
I draped my towel over my shoulders like a priest’s robe and, in a deep voice, imitated Cienfuegos:
“Roberto! The final H is sacred! Anyone who leaves it out shall be punished without mercy!”
Soto doubled over laughing, and Rodríguez started pounding the lockers.
Encouraged by their reaction, I switched to Father Felipe’s high-pitched voice:
“My son, you won’t even get into purgatory until you learn!”
Pereira dropped to his knees, pretending to tremble.
“Holy shit, that bastard Felipe’s got it in for the new kid too!”
Rodríguez raised his towel like a shield.
“Run, sinner! The wet bench is coming to get you for heresy and stupidity!”
Then the jokes got nastier.
“Cienfuegos, you dirty old creep! Stop staring at me like I’m going to steal your sacramental wine!”
“Felipe, quit acting like you’re so pure — nobody’s buying that!”
I straightened up, puffed out my chest, and adopted a solemn expression.
“Guys, today we make history! It’s time we got our own back!”
Rodríguez adopted Cienfuegos’s deep, cutting voice:
“Roberto, how dare you! A hundred Our Fathers, standing up and facing the wall!”
Pereira jumped right in:
“Stop staring at the boys’ underwear like you’re looking at Communion wafers!”
I put on the face of an enraged priest:
“If you ever leave out another H, I’ll drag you by the neck around the whole school until you learn!”
Rodríguez stretched out an arm to block our way.
“Halt, sinner! You’re banished from this locker room until you beg my Holy Towel for forgiveness!”
The boys coming in joined the fun, copying the priests’ voices, exaggerating their gestures, and inventing increasingly absurd punishments.
“Felipe, you pervert! Stop talking as if you were the Holy Father!”
“These priests think they’re hot shit, but we tear ’em apart with our jokes!”
When we finally calmed down, we were breathing hard, wiping tears from our eyes and patting each other on the back. The fear was still out there, in the classrooms and hallways, but in that locker room, we had reclaimed some of our dignity. If only for a little while, the priests no longer seemed so powerful.
Part 3: Epilogue — The Broken Executioner: Reunion with Cienfuegos
It was 1981. I was twenty-one and studying journalism. I worked some afternoons in a stationery store, earning extra cash among pens, notepads, and staplers. That day, a gaunt, battered-looking man came in — his face lined with scars, his presence fragile. It took me only a moment to recognize him: Father Cienfuegos — the very same man who had “welcomed” me at twelve with a vicious beating and who went on to torment me through those endless Latin classes for the next two years.
He walked in without a cassock, without a hood — stripped of anything that once gave him authority. And I, now tall, broad-shouldered, and confident, was no longer the timid child he had known. He could never have recognized me — not for a second, not in a million years.
After the 1973 coup d’état and his detention in the National Stadium, he had endured terrible things. It showed on his face, in his hands, in the way he moved. Now, his presence carried an air of humility — almost fragility.
He shuffled closer, unsteady on his feet, wanting to buy a refill for his Parker pen. Before paying, he asked me — more humbly than I could have imagined — to help him replace it. With an embarrassed smile, almost apologetic, he said, “My hands are so clumsy and stiff these days. I never seem to manage it right. And I have terrible luck with these springs — they always end up flying into my face or eyes whenever I try to replace them myself.”
I took the pen calmly and helped him. As I did, I felt a quiet mix of satisfaction and deep, private delight — seeing the monster of my childhood so broken, so humble, so willing to admit his helplessness. His need to offer me so many excuses only deepened that satisfaction.
He left never knowing who I was. And I was left with the image of the man who had haunted my childhood, now reduced to something deeply human — awkward, humbled, and, to my surprise, utterly vulnerable before the very boy he had once tormented.
