The Legacy of My Grandparents

You are a product of all who came before you. The light and the dark. The legacy of your family. ~ Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings

Remembering the Ones Who Came Before Me

Grandparents Day is celebrated on the first Sunday after Labor Day. It's a day to celebrate our grandparents, whether they are still with us or not. We can spend quality time with them, share a meal, and make new memories. Or, if they have passed, we can honor the lives they lived and the legacy they left behind.

Today, I honor my grandparents who are no longer with me by telling a bit of their story. This is just an introduction—the first chapter of a much longer story about their lives, our family, and our history.

Where do I begin?

MY PATERNAL SIDE

Here are my paternal grandparents, Rafael and Juana. This photo was shared with me by my uncle, Jaime Baez.

My father's parents were Rafael "Feye" Baez and Juana "Juanita" Gomez from the Dominican Republic. They immigrated to the United States in 1972 with the help of my uncle Jaime, who had been in the Spanish military and involved in the civil war of the late 1960s. Perhaps this was his motivation for helping our family move out of the country. They settled in Manhattan, New York City, on 203 West 108th Street.

Two years later, on Thursday, October 10, 1974, my grandmother Juana died in her sleep. My father, Miguel, was only ten years old when he came home from school and found her. I can't imagine the devastation that loss brought to our family.

My grandmother was a pillar who held the family together. I was never fortunate enough to meet her. I've only heard bits and pieces about her from family conversations. My father, the youngest of eleven, hasn't shared any memories of her with me.

From the photos we have, you can tell she was tall, thin, and had long, beautiful dark hair. The family debates whether she was of Native American ("Taino") or Spanish ancestry. I believe she was a blend of both, which her features suggest, but DNA testing (an ongoing project) will either confirm or disprove this.

My grandmother Juana loved to sing, care for her family, and cook. She also loved God, serving in the community and the church. She would wake up in the early morning hours to get her kids ready to go with her to services, though my grandfather was not as religious and rarely participated.

I long to learn more about her. She feels like a missing part of my life, a profound presence that left a mark on me even before my birth.

I did get to meet my grandfather, Rafael, but I never truly knew him. I don't have a single tangible memory of us ever speaking. From a young age, every time I saw him, he didn't remember who I was due to his suffering from Alzheimer's. He would rotate living in the homes of my aunts, though he never stayed with us.

Whenever I visited them, I would sometimes see his room. It was always a mystery to me—a place I was intrigued by and wanted to explore. I think I did get to go inside once, but the memory is vague. I remember thinking it held treasures of our culture and history. How I wish I could sit with him now and ask him about his heritage and his family line, which remains a mystery, just like his room was.

Here is what I do know about Rafael and his family: He came from a wealthy family in the Dominican Republic who owned rice farms. He received an inheritance but lost it all to gambling and partying. The family was of Spanish blood, but DNA points to other possibilities, including Irish ancestry. I've heard he had 20 siblings, which makes it even more frustrating that it's nearly impossible for me to find any of them or their descendants.

MY MATERNAL SIDE

This photo, shared with me by my aunt Evelyn, shows my grandparents Vidal and Lydia.

On the other hand, I was fortunate enough to know my mother's parents, Juan Vidal Lopez and Lydia Horacio. We don't know where the name "Juan" came from, as his birth name was actually Vidal.

They were from Puerto Rico and came to the U.S. around the same time, separately arriving in New York in 1946. It's very likely they knew each other before they moved here, maybe just in passing, but their relationship may have influenced them to settle so close to one another. just few streets away.

I didn't get to know my grandfather, Vidal, for long. He passed away when I was twelve. I do remember him. His hair was pure white and wool-like, his skin was dark, and his eyes were light. He had a quiet, gentle, and kind essence. He was a protector of our family—strong and supportive—and I'm told he even carried a machete.

Vidal was born in Vieques in 1909 and was of mixed African ancestry. His family was poor and hardworking, sometimes working long, hot days in the sugarcane and coffee fields for 12, 14, or even 16 hours at a time. But they never gave up, never lost hope, and remained faithful.

Without even knowing it, I developed a practice just like my grandfather's: getting up in the morning, brewing a cup of coffee, and sitting down with my Bible. This is his legacy. (His Bible is now with his oldest daughter, my aunt Evelyn.)

He would often say something that stays with me and that I pass on to my children:

"Don't leave for tomorrow what you can do today."

He understood the value of living in the present. Tomorrow isn't promised, but today is what we have. That is wisdom.

There's so much more I could share.

When I was born, Vidal and my grandmother took me in for my first years, as they didn't trust my young parents to care for me. My aunt Virginia (the youngest daughter) remembers hearing me cry at night for a bottle and her parents, my grandparents, waking up to take care of me.

My grandmother, Lydia, was a bigger part of my life than any of my other grandparents. Though we only saw her once or twice a year, those visits were rare and I remember them more. I recall us hating the long walk up the stairs to her Bronx apartment at the very top, but hearing her small dog bark as we approached her floor was a welcome sound. She lived in a small space with two of my uncles; Carmelo and Sammy.

My grandmother always looked for something to give her guests as a gift and would never let you leave empty-handed, no matter how small the item was. She reminds me a lot of my own mother.

Even though family members say she wasn't a great cook, I didn't notice. I looked forward to her corned beef and codfish patties. On almost every visit, the Ewoks movies would be playing—do you remember them from the 1980s?

Lydia was a beautiful woman with a rich history. It would take many posts to share her life and ancestry. Her bloodline can be traced back to the 1600s, and it's a beautiful tapestry of culture. I am privileged to be the family historian and genealogist—a gift she gave me.

My best memories with my grandmother were the ones where I didn't even understand what she was sharing. Language separated us, as she spoke fluent Spanish and I only spoke English, but her stories were a goldmine. In a way, they could have been lost, but she was clever. Even after her passing, she left me a gift: a funeral card of her father, whom I had never known or heard about. There it was in my hands—an open door to an adventure I'll never forget. This I thank my grandmother for. Many secrets meant to be buried have been unveiled.

There is a Puerto Rican saying:

“...la sangre llama.” (the blood calls).

I know, without a doubt, that this is true for me. My ancestors have called and are still calling.

I invite you to follow the call for your own family. If you have the chance to sit down with your grandparents, do it. You will regret it if you let this time pass you by. Whether you realize it or not, they are your key to the past and your future. They hold the missing information you need to become whole.