Puerto Ricans, Blueberries,Tito Puente and Spaghetti with Garlic

I was born on 19th and Green Streets in Philadelphia. The Spring Garden neighborhood was the original center of the Puerto Rican enclave in the city. My parents came from New York. My mother was raised there and attended school with Tito Puente. He was an upper classman in her high school. She was an only child who was abandoned by her father and thus never knew him. Her mother died of cancer while my mother was still young woman. My father arrived in New York in 1951 at the age of 20 after my grandfather arrived to start a new living. My father spent some time in New York. My parents met in Brooklyn and got married. My sister was born there in 1956. Some time later my parents moved to Philadelphia. I was born in 1964.

Archive Photo

Before arriving to the states my grandfather was a man of some prominence in Ponce Puerto Rico. He owned an auto repair business and at a time where you were considered well off if you had a car. He had two cars. My Grandfather worked on Ford Model T’s and was first generation Puerto Rican and half Italian. He had a strong personality, from what I am told. I never met my grandfather; he passed before I was a year old.


My Padrino(Godfather), Uncle Robert before he passed this year (sadly from cancer), he told me a story about my father and uncle Angelo selling rice and "tosino" (fatback) during the Great Depression. My grandfather had stored the Puerto Rican staples, like rice and fatback in his repair shop. My dad and uncle were hustling the food to the townspeople unbeknownst to my Grandfather until a customer came into his shop asking for his sons, because he was out of rice. Once finding out my father and uncle had to hide out in in the cemetery that grandfather’s house overlooked. My grandmother would hand them food and blankets until grandfather cooled off which was about three days. My father always told me that he slept in a cementary when he was young ,but he always edited the part of selling his fathers stored supplies.


My grandmother was one of these short in stature, but fierce in nature Puerto Rican women. She had to be fierce. She had more than seven children. She was also a relation of the transformational governor of Puerto Rico, Luis Munoz Marin, responsible for the Commonwealth status of the island. My Grandfather and Granduncle Colin lived through the Ponce Massacre against the Nationalist’s peaceful procession inspired by Puerto Rico’s Independence leader, Don Pedro Albizu Campos. Granduncle Colin, father of the pioneering Puerto Rican Radio Disc Jokey, in the city Alberto, told me a few years back that he hid as a boy under a house where some people were killed in front of him.

Archive Ponce Massacre photo

Archive Photo of Don Pedro

Other Puerto Ricans came to Philly to obtain seasonal work in the 50s, 60s and early 70s. By the 70s Puerto Ricans avoided the exploitative sometimes-brutal work conditions and sought there fortunes elsewhere. Farms looked to new people to work, undocumented Mexican workers. Due to the new anti-immigration laws preventing farms to hire illegals, they are looking at poor island Puerto Ricans again. There used to be school busloads that would come into the neighborhood and transport many Puerto Ricans to the blueberry farms in Jersey. I couldn’t understand at the time why they called these busses the “Pepa buses”(blueberry buses) if the were all yellow school buses.  They later had multiple colors. Philly is right over the bridge to Jersey. Puerto Ricans mostly males would gather at pick up points at 3 am to work the fields, they would earn money by the barrel.

My sister and I went to St Francis Xavier Catholic elementary school in Fairmount. I was in First and she was in eighth Grade. Catholic school was way more affordable than it is today. It was still a sacrifice for my mechanic father.  It wasn’t too far Moving from Fairmount section to NiceTown. After getting of the first grade jitters I had to move to a new neighborhood and a new school.  

 File Photo: St. Stephens Church

I finished first Grade at St Stephen’s Catholic school located at Broad a Butler. I remember being disappointed on the first day because it was picture-receiving day. All of my classmates had taken their pictures before I arrived and were being handed their portraits. They were taking them out and showing to each other. I remember feeling so isolated and alone as a new student with no pictures.

I did make some friends. There was Baron, Todd, Donovan, Jimmy Michael, Brian, Holly, Ava and especially Francisco. It was a mixed school with White, Brown and a few Latino students. I remember going to see Mr. Fairchild since that’s where all the Hispanic children went since he was the second language specialist. Since I spoke English clearly and was reasonably intelligent, he returned me to regular classes.

Frankie, as we called him, too was a bright kind friend. We became friends almost immediately. I would go to his house to hang out. My father would often worry, erroneously, because I was fair skinned and had to walk past a Nation of Islam school on Butler St. and Germantown ave in order to go to Frankie’s house. I never had any problem with NOI men, as a matter of fact they gave me bean-pies all of the time.

Frankie’s mother would always make us sandwiches after playing. I didn’t meet his father until I got older. He was a chef at a hotel and then at an Italian restaurant where I got my first cooking job. I later became friends with his brother, Angel as well. Frankie had caught the shingles and was left back due to to many absences. Sadly Frankie passed when he was just a young man.  I had already become closer friends with Angel at the time of his death. My later girlfriend and future ex wife though that Frankie was the handsome one of his family. I always felt a little guilty that I didn’t spend more time with him before he died. When you loose someone in such a way, I guess there are always "what ifs...".

My father worked hard all week, but on rare occasions would invite me to cook with him. Sometimes waking me up in the middle of the night. We would make Spaghetti and Garlic. It’s a family recipe from my Italian heritage. My father would make spaghetti and cook the garlic in Olive Oil. He broke all the rules when it came to Olive oil and Garlic. His recipe calls for frying the garlic until its black and bitter to taste and the oil is smoking up the kitchen. He would then pour the garlic infused oil over the spaghetti sizzling the pasta in the process. He would add a little salt and Voilà! This is the family recipe for spaghetti and garlic.  I will hopefully show my grandson how to make when he is old enough.

File Photo