Autobiography - The Galindo Group

Ram Galindo THE MAKING OF AN AMERICAN Page 62
had been a true value-creator and had not, until his election as senator, ever involved
himself in politics.
The block commissar in our neighborhood kept track of who came to the house, who my
dad or my mother talked with, where they got the money to buy things with, and what
their whereabouts were. My father was a man who had done nothing but good for his
country and for everyone he touched. He had created industries and built cities, and
was now condemned to stand in line for hours to beg for coupons to buy a few groceries
for his family. His sin was not to be a socialist. This sad image is still with me now and it
reminds me of the evils of the dictatorship of the proletariat. All along the new bosses
were educating the public on the well-known Marxist oratory of “from each according to
his abilities and to each according to his needs.” They “expropriated” whatever little
wealth there was and lived as lords while the people starved. I never saw one of them
standing in line for anything, but I did see the country sink into misery, famine and
terror. This state of socioeconomic affairs outlined the framework of my high school
years.
Spurred by a not-delivered prize promised by my maternal grandfather, when I finished
grammar school I tested out of the first year of high school, which at the time was a sixyear
program, equal in duration to the previous six years of grammar school. This made
me, if not the youngest, one of the youngest of the class with which I eventually
graduated from high school. My senior year, 1955, was at the apex of the socialist
revolution of 1952.
As it happens everywhere, it seems that in my class we also had a couple of bullies who
liked to take advantage of their bigger size and age. On more than one occasion I found
myself on the winning side of some quick fistfights, in self-defense, I might add. By the
time school let out at the end of the day, the bullies were ready to take their revenge.
Since most of the students walked to school, it was very easy to get ambushed on the
way home. I often feared the closing bell and the walk home. I was very fortunate that
an upperclassman, who was also the strongest weight lifter of the school, lived near me
and was my friend. Guido Quiroga became my protector by walking home with me. I
owe to him the fact that no bully ever carried out promises to break my nose or beat the
tar out of me. Ever since, and for all years afterwards, the bond of our friendship
continued to grow and we now share the joy of a very warm and loyal relationship. Run
out of the country during the first purges of the Bolivian Army where he had gone to
train for an officer’s career after high school, Guido became a successful hydrologist in
Brazil. He now splits his time between Brazil and Bolivia. But despite the fact that we
seldom see each other, our friendship and mutual respect have continued to increase
through the years, and I have never forgotten the value of a powerful protector.
I attended a Catholic school run by Spanish La Salle Christian Brothers in
Cochabamba, the city of my birth. The clerics were quite prudent about not taking
antagonistic positions against the new secular authorities, which surreptitiously
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