F. A. H.

I was born in the 1970s at the Río Piedras Medical Center in San Juan, Puerto Rico, though I am a native of the Quebrada Negrito neighborhood of Trujillo Alto. I was the second son of my father, Félix (1942–2019), and my mother, Marina (1956–2024). As was typical at that time, my childhood unfolded surrounded by family—most notably, my father's side, affectionately known as Los Rolos. From an early age, I had constant access to my grandfather Pedro, known in the neighborhood as Pello. He loved recounting stories of the past, brimming with emotion and often sprinkled with local myths. I believe I inherited his love for storytelling; some of the tales I’ve written came straight from his lips.

My childhood was marked by poverty and my parents' constant struggle. Six of us lived together in a small house, and my father didn’t have a stable job. We survived thanks to a mix of government assistance—most notably food stamps—and a patchwork of odd jobs: mowing lawns, selling fried foods and local sweets like coconut candy, and collecting aluminum cans to sell. These jobs didn’t bring much income, but they spared us hunger and the need to ask for help. From that environment, I learned that struggle would always be a fundamental part of life. Many might see such a past as a source of shame; I consider it a badge of honor. I cannot bring myself to look down on anyone’s honest work, and I would never laugh at someone for doing whatever is necessary to support their family. To do so would disrespect the sacrifices of my parents—something I could never forgive myself for.

In the 1980s, I studied in local public schools: José Julián Acosta School (elementary, now closed), Rafael Cordero Second Unit School (elementary and intermediate, also closed), and Miguel Such Vocational High School in Río Piedras. Without a doubt, I am the product of my teachers’ dedication and hard work. I would love to honor them by name, but unfortunately, I can’t remember them all. Still, their commitment opened doors that would have remained shut to my parents and grandparents, and for that, I will always be grateful.

After graduating high school, I worked for two years at the Amigo de Cupey supermarket. Yet I felt lost—trapped between the dreams I carried and the reality of packing groceries for a living. Driven by the need to change my future, I moved in 1993 to Brooklyn, New York, with my maternal grandfather Ismael and my step-grandmother Teresa. There, I began my undergraduate studies at Hostos Community College, earning an associate’s degree, and later completed a Bachelor of Science at Lehman College. In 2005, I moved to Philadelphia, where I’ve worked as a public school special education teacher ever since.

Although I have a university education and appreciate the doors it’s opened, I do not believe a degree makes me superior to others. I’m repelled by arrogance dressed as achievement—especially when it belittles others. I suspect my parents and grandparents were wounded by such attitudes, and I cannot endorse them. Personally, I dislike etiquette rules that promote artificial behavior to please others at the cost of our authenticity.

My father was the person I admired most. From his determination in the face of hardship, I learned not to give up without a fight. I learned to act, not talk—to let my work speak for itself. I’ve never claimed to be perfect, nor have I ascribed perfection to others. I believe our imperfections teach us how to live fully. I lost my father in 2019, and shortly after, my last surviving grandmother.

My writing was born of pain and the need to give voice to deep emotions. In 2020, after the deaths of my father, Félix Adorno, and my grandmother, Antonia Ramos, I found refuge in words. This led to my first book, Lives: Stories and Thoughts, where I tried to illuminate the darkness of loss and express the inexpressible. I initially thought it would be my only book—but I quickly realized I still had many stories to tell. Memories of Other Lives (2022) followed, in which I explored stories predating my own birth, including those of my grandfather Pedro, whom I affectionately called Papá Pello.

From there, I set out to uncover the deeper meaning of my Puerto Rican heritage, which gave birth to Prsona (2023)—a work celebrating our identity and how it resonates through us. In 2024, troubled by a growing sense of unease about Puerto Rico’s future, I wrote The Last Flight to Puerto Rico. In it, I present a haunting scenario: a land stripped of its people, emptied by necessity and corruption.

That same year, I also lost my mother, Marina Ramos—another pillar of my life. Like my father, she faced profound struggles and frustrations, themes I hope to explore fully in my next book, which will be dedicated to her. For now, the details remain close to my heart.

This autobiography is an offering—an attempt to show that I am just a passenger in this world, trying to leave it a little better than I found it. If my stories enrich even one life, I will feel immense pride, because that honor belongs to my parents and grandparents. I thank them for the education they gave me at home, and for making sure my teachers could build on that foundation at school.