Archbishop Oscar Romero. Emily Wade Will
footpaths dry to ease traveling.
Father Monroy had journeyed across the wide Atlantic Ocean, to Rome, to study to become an ordained priest. Now he was back. Oscar scarcely dared dream he might someday follow in Father Monroy’s footsteps. Becoming a priest loomed as a large ambition for a boy in his circumstances.
Ciudad Barrios nestles among mountains, the cross on its central Catholic church visible from a distance. (1998 photo, Emily Will)
The visitors would include two churchmen who were even now wending their way on horseback through the twenty-five miles of steep mountain trail separating Oscar’s town from the nearest city, San Miguel. It would take seven or eight hours for the vicar-general of San Miguel diocese5 and Father Benito Calvo Quinta6 to cover the distance connecting Ciudad Barrios to the wider world in that year of 1930. Oscar prayed he’d be able to overcome his shyness long enough to talk to them about becoming a priest.
The lack of paved roads and long travel times led Oscar to believe his homeland, El Salvador, was much larger than its actual 8,260 square miles. Later he would learn why Salvadoran writer Julio Enrique Ávila dubbed the country the “Tom Thumb of America.” About the size of Massachusetts, El Salvador is the smallest nation of the North and South American continents.
A Distinctive Cow
At the pasture, Zaída took the first turn to milk Vallena, a black and white cow with markings around her eyes like spectacles that gave her a distinct look.7
After Oscar finished the milking, he and his sister headed home, carrying the pail between them to share the weight.
“Vallena gave a full bucket today. Guess we won’t have to pass by the spring.” Oscar’s voice contained a smile.
“Don’t remind me!” Zaída replied. “It was a dumb idea.”
Oscar teased Zaída about the day Vallena gave little milk. Zaida became fearful their father might think they drank or spilled some of it and would punish them with a switching or by making them kneel for hours. She therefore suggested they add some spring water. Oscar, honest to the core, would have no part of it.
The family was up, ready to simmer the milk for their breakfast café con leche when Oscar and Zaída returned. It was a good-sized family of six boys and one girl. Gustavo, eighteen, was the oldest. Then came Oscar and Zaída, nine-year-old Rómulo, six-year-old Mamerto, four-year-old Arnoldo, and Gaspar, an infant.8
“Papá, maybe your musician friends will be in town today.” Zaída bit into a warm, thick tortilla.
“How so?” Papá asked.
Oscar’s face grew warm with shame. Papá rarely set foot in church and hadn’t remembered today’s special service. He had had to be instructed in the basics of Roman Catholic faith before a priest would agree to marry him and Mamá in a religious marriage. True, Papá did encourage Oscar to pray daily, but it was Mamá who gathered her children at seven each evening to kneel and say the rosary.
“Don’t you remember?” Mamá shook her head. She ate breakfast while she nursed the baby. “Folks will be coming into town today for Father Monroy’s mass. Everyone’s eager to hear him speak.”
“Indeed?” Papá turned to Zaída. “Well, m’ija, if that’s the case, perhaps we can expect one or both of my musician friends to drop by.”
“Great!” Zaida said, and Oscar agreed. Mamerto clapped with excitement.
All Oscar’s family enjoyed music. Papá owned a fine silver flute and Mamá possessed sheet music for some waltzes and classical pieces. Both the flute and the sheet music were prized belongings.9 One of Papá’s friends played violin and another played cello. Sometimes when one or both came to Ciudad Barrios, they got together to play. Oscar delighted in the flute’s lilting tones.
As adults, Mamerto and Arnoldo would play the marimba in bands, but Oscar alone wanted to learn the flute, and Papá taught him. He’d draw notes on a dusty surface to teach Oscar how to read music. Only when Oscar had it down pat did Papá give him some scored music paper to use. It was expensive for a family on a tight budget.
“Don’t worry, Oscar,” Gustavo said. “I’ll deliver any telegrams that arrive today.”
Oscar said a polite thanks, but inwardly he smiled. Gustavo’s offer was not as magnanimous as it appeared. It was an excuse for Gustavo to stay home from church. Oscar knew he was different from Gustavo and his brothers—they preferred noisy, rambunctious games while he enjoyed quieter pursuits, such as reading. Also, unlike his brothers, Oscar had been drawn to the church and to religion since his earliest years. In this Oscar resembled his mother.
Mamá and Papá
On other days, however, Oscar willingly helped deliver telegrams and letters. Papá’s work as a telegraph operator had brought him to Ciudad Barrios in the first place. Santos Romero grew up in Jocoro, a town in the adjacent department, or state, of Morazán. Beginning in 1902 and over the next eight years, the national Office of Telegraphs and Telephones posted Santos to ten towns in five of El Salvador’s eastern departments. He spent from a few months to several years in any one spot.
After the telegraph office posted Santos Romero to Ciudad Barrios in August 1910, however, he wanted to stay put. He had set his eyes on Guadalupe Jesús Galdámez, a sweet young woman who received enough schooling, likely through grade three, to work as a primary school teacher. Her friends called her “Niña Jesús,” using her middle name. Officials had offered her a teaching position in the village of Guatajiaqua, in neighboring Morazán department, but her parents did not want her to venture so far from home.10
It didn’t take Don Santos and Niña Jesús long to decide to spend their lives together. They wed in a civil marriage on December 8, 1910, and again in a church marriage in January 1911. The newlyweds moved into a house provided by Niña Jesús’s parents. It was one of several houses owned by members of her extended family along one side of the town’s central plaza.
Oscar’s parents: Santos Romero and Guadalupe Jesús Galdámez. (photo credit, Zolia Aurora Asturias and Eva del Carmen Asturias)
The large house—half a block in size—was modest in its construction. Its walls were bahareque—wood canes or laths covered with mud and whitewashed. The roof was of red clay tiles and the floors of earthen brick.
Furnishings consisted of plain but sturdy chairs and tables made mostly of roble, an abundant oak species. Beds were simple wood frames with rope webbings pulled between them to serve as mattresses. The Romero boys slept at least two to a bed.
Don Santos’s telegraph office occupied a partitioned corner of the house, and another small area was devoted to the village post office, which Niña Jesús ran. Once the boys turned six or seven, their parents enlisted them to deliver telegrams and letters. The task was not burdensome, as the tiny town was hardly flooded with messages and mail, and they didn’t have to walk far.
Oscar, about age ten. (photo credit, Elvira Chacón)
Papá taught Morse code to a few of his sons, including Gustavo, Oscar, and Mamerto, and showed them how to operate the telegraph. Oscar also learned to type after his father bought a typewriter.