EntertainmentFlavia Lugo de Marichal: in memoriam

Flavia Lugo de Marichal: in memoriam

In times of continuous change like ours, fidelity is a rare virtue. Flavia Lugo de Marichalwho has just died in the best way in which this transcendental step can be taken – at 95 years old, in peace and surrounded by her family – was a faithful woman. He went to his homeland, whose right to independence he always defended, ardently wishing that he fulfill his historical destiny; he went to his town, Yauco, which he remembered fondly and to which he returned again and again, not only in person, but in his conversation and in his request to promote his cultural well-being; She went to the UPR, where she worked for years as a professor and associate dean of Humanities, and also to the Colegio Universitario del Sagrado Corazon, where she studied for her baccalaureate, distinguishing herself for her dramatic abilities. She was faithful to the theater not only as a performer but also as a playwright, and she was faithful to writing: to her credit she has hundreds of children’s stories that she wrote or adapted for WIPR radio. She was faithful, above all, to her family.

Her life has fairy tale overtones: a beautiful young girl, engaged to be married; an exiled Spanish artist who was her teacher and fell in love with her; an initial rejection followed by a gradual infatuation that never abated in intensity. She told the story herself in an interview years ago: “I was engaged to get married. She worked at WIPR, the radio station. One noon, when taking the bus in Santurce, Marichal (that was the name of the teacher, Carlos Marichal), got on one stop later. The seat next to me was the only empty one. He looked at my hand and asked, ‘Do you still have a boyfriend?’ That day – he told me later – he decided that he would marry me”.

Then began a constant siege: flowers in the morning, flowers in the afternoon, daily visits to the radio station and the offer to accompany her by bus back to her lodging in Rio Piedras, a trip invariably punctuated by invitations to have a ‘juice of orange’ at El Nilo, the emblematic cafeteria at Parada 22.

A possible ending to this love story would have been for Flavia to marry her boyfriend and remember all her life, with a certain nostalgia, what could have been and was not. But he didn’t have to remember her, because Flavia lived her love story. “December 22,” she said in the interview. “Marichal went to WIPR, he came to my desk, he touched my head and said: ‘Young girl, I’ve fallen in love with you.'” Then there was a breakup with her boyfriend and… a wedding with the teacher.

That of “And they lived happily and ate partridges forever and ever…” was fulfilled during the eighteen years of the marriage of Flavia and Carlos Marichal, with the added culmination of the six children that the couple had. The love lasted even after the artist’s death in 1969. Flavia kept the memory of her husband alive and educated her children in that love. While she lived he, every first day of the year she dedicated a letter to him in the form of a beautiful little book that he himself had illustrated. The Christmas that he died – December 29 – Flavia found, on January 1, a letter for her on her table. It was from her children and said: “Today we start a new year without Papi, but it will be as if he was always here with us.”

Patriot, writer, actress, wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother, Flavia was also an extraordinary friend. Her joy was contagious; trustworthy her solidarity. It is difficult to think that she will no longer be among us to smile, to tell, to listen. Those of us who knew her and loved her owe that friend her fidelity to her memory.

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