Welcome to Cinfuegos’ Class104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfKTRuzBtct
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Part 1: First Day at Holy Cross Academy, 1972104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSBT8GoYK7s
I remember walking into the classroom that morning, freshly 12, heart pounding, eyes wide, the weight of every parent’s expectation 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 Cinfuegos. 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 Cinfuegos stopped me abruptly.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5fi2CxQx6w
“Who gave you permission to return to your seat?” he demanded.
Panic surged. His next order was absurdly precise:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ5bIpExNkmj
“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 Cinfuegos 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 asked,104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx1pLzJ2V3E
“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,104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡe0Lf2weJLl
“No, Padre, I don’t know.”
He snapped back,104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXU5OCsqLFQ
“I am Padre Cinfuegos. Now repeat your answer properly.”
I forced out the correction:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡD5uvMr8TpF
“No, Padre Cinfuegos, I don’t know.”
His verdict came cold:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUj6gHFn7Pa
“So that you will never, ever forget again 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 spoken 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:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡzDAqNS1zMr
“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: Between Blows and Laughter104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTF3rXGjfHU
The steam from the showers still hung thick in the air — sticky and hot — mixing with the smell of cheap soap and hair on the floor. The guys were drying off, cracking jokes, banging lockers — the usual chaos of the locker room. I sat on the bench, still dazed, trying not to show I was shaken up.
Pereira was the first to come at me.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTyKMj5On1d
“Hey, new kid — did that pervy old priest Cinfuegos chew you out over your mom’s H, or what?”
The others whispered and watched, testing me. Nobody knew me yet, so the teasing started soft — like they were checking if I was worth bothering with.
I lifted my towel like a priest’s robe and, in a deep voice, imitated Cinfuegos:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAFxy8Ln3nC
“‘Roberto! The final H is sacred! He who omits it will be punished without mercy!’”
Soto burst out laughing, Pereira doubled over, and Rodríguez started pounding the lockers like drums. The laughter spread — soon everyone was mocking the priests without mercy.
I switched to a high-pitched voice, pretending to be Father Felipe:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyqoAJrxI3u
“‘My son, your soul and your conscience will be tested until you learn!’”
Pereira dropped to his knees, pretending to tremble.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ10FctYADbb
“Man, this new kid’s already damned by Father Felipe too!”
Rodríguez raised his towel like a shield.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡureI1MONaC
“Run, sinner! The wet bench is coming to smack you for your sins!”
Then the room exploded with insults — wild, friendly, merciless teenage energy.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2Iy899oJ8a
“Cinfuegos, stop staring like I’m stealing your holy robe!”104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnWRFPtupCZ
“Felipe, quit acting like you’re so pure — nobody’s buying that!”104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPdtqcQTcmN
“Hell, these priests are bolder than the neighbor’s dogs!”
The laughter hit full force. Everyone was rolling on the floor, slapping each other’s backs, pounding lockers. I started throwing in more jokes, inventing ridiculous priest voices and dramatic gestures.
By the end, the locker room was pure chaos — fear tangled up with mockery, respect mixed with rebellion. The new kid wasn’t a target anymore; I was one of them, accepted through sharp wit and wild humor. Outside, the priests still ruled, but in here, the power was ours — and words flew faster than any ruler they could swing.
Part 3: Locker Room at Holy Cross Academy: The Revenge of Humor104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIBTy3mQFSz
The steam still clung to everything, towels flew, and the lockers thundered like war drums. I was no longer the quiet new kid; the guys had accepted me, and now I could throw jokes back just as hard.
Pereira shot me a grin.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNttDo0MWcp
“Hey man, now we can really roast that old perv Cinfuegos... you in?”
I raised my towel like a sacred sword.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡs3OJ56ckAm
“Guys, today we make history! Today the new kid takes revenge on Cinfuegos — and we’ll laugh ourselves sick doing it!”
Soto collapsed laughing, and Rodríguez started imitating Cinfuegos’ deep, cutting voice:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPFPFQ5TDje
“‘Roberto! How dare you! My authority is divine, and your soul will be punished for eternity!’”
Everyone cracked up. Pereira added his own spin:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyCsldETjfg
“Old creep! Stop looking at the boys’ underwear like it’s holy!”104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡa5PniuxfFp
“Man, quit brushing your hair like you’re a saint — you’re just another guy in a robe!”
I jumped in, speaking solemnly, pretending to strike with invisible power:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡb0HZ7q1coh
“‘If you ever forget your mother’s H again, I swear I’ll drag you across the whole school until you repent!’”
Rodríguez lifted his towel like a shield.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxP9PQ8nVFw
“Stop right there, sinner! You shall not pass without making me laugh first!”
The insults flew fast and furious:104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiENoWs7V7J
“Cinfuegos, you dirty old man! Stop looking at us like a pervert!”104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpUWVFx0kMg
“Felipe, you total idiot, you talk like you think you’re God!”104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ83VQ4tNkBz
“All the priests at this school are full of fear — but we beat them with laughter!”
The room shook with laughter — banging lockers, echoing shouts, kids rolling on the floor. Even the newest ones joined in, copying the voices, exaggerating the gestures, inventing impossible punishments. Me — the one who had walked in scared that morning — now led the charge. Humor was our weapon.
When we finally caught our breath, we were gasping, crying from laughter, patting each other on the back. It felt glorious — fear was still waiting out there in the hallways, but inside the locker room, we had taken the throne. Cinfuegos wasn’t terrifying anymore. He was a joke — an inside legend just for us. That afternoon would stay with us forever.104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwJMIqxKJEG
The new kid wasn’t new anymore — and with laughter, we’d turned the anger into our own kind of victory.
Part 4: Epilogue — The Broken Executioner: Reunion with Cienfuegos, 1980104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKf6YbclREI
It was 1980. 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 install it. With an embarrassed smile, almost apologetic, he said,104Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLwoCTJWNSo
“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. The fact that he felt compelled to offer so many excuses to me — the once-timid boy he had bullied — only deepened my sense of vindication.
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.
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and then Add to home screen.