Rafael Jimenez, RIP
May. 18th, 2020 06:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gridloreFUCK. We just lost one of the greatest storytellers I've ever known. Rafael Jimenez was 97. He was born on a lemon ranch in SoCal to parents who had fled the Mexican Revolution. The first of his family to graduate from High School, he was taking community college courses in accounting in 1943 when he was drafted by the Marine Corps.
After learning that Rafael could not only type, but had some college, his fate was sealed. He spent the rest of WWII on Midway. Which set the stage for a twenty-year career in the USMC where not only did he never hear a shot fired in anger, he rarely bothered to load his weapon.
I think my favorite thing he ever said was about his brief assignment to a Marine airbase in Vietnam. He was issued an M1911A1 .45 Caliber pistol and told where he could draw ammo.
"Why would I do that?" Gunnery Sergeant Jimenez asked.
"Well, what are you going to do if the Viet Cong come pouring over that fence line?" (pointing one way.)
"Run that way." (pointing in the opposite direction.)
He wasn't a coward, he just understood that he was not a combat Marine.
After retiring, he spent the rest of his working life inside the city and county governments. Nothing glamorous, he was very much a "do the dirty job because it has to be done." He was the sole Latino on the Parole Board for a time. After retiring from that, he ran a tax service.
I met him in the Creative Writing workshop I used to attend. Rafael used an electric typewriter and his stories were filled with memories, humor, sadness, and everything his amazing memory dredged up.
He was also an incorrigible flirt and never looked like a man in his nineties.
And he called me a friend. Possibly the greatest title I've ever be given.
I'm not much for belief in the afterlife, but a part of me hopes that Rafael is now reunited with his lovely wife. . .
. . .and is busy reorganizing St. Peter's office.
After learning that Rafael could not only type, but had some college, his fate was sealed. He spent the rest of WWII on Midway. Which set the stage for a twenty-year career in the USMC where not only did he never hear a shot fired in anger, he rarely bothered to load his weapon.
I think my favorite thing he ever said was about his brief assignment to a Marine airbase in Vietnam. He was issued an M1911A1 .45 Caliber pistol and told where he could draw ammo.
"Why would I do that?" Gunnery Sergeant Jimenez asked.
"Well, what are you going to do if the Viet Cong come pouring over that fence line?" (pointing one way.)
"Run that way." (pointing in the opposite direction.)
He wasn't a coward, he just understood that he was not a combat Marine.
After retiring, he spent the rest of his working life inside the city and county governments. Nothing glamorous, he was very much a "do the dirty job because it has to be done." He was the sole Latino on the Parole Board for a time. After retiring from that, he ran a tax service.
I met him in the Creative Writing workshop I used to attend. Rafael used an electric typewriter and his stories were filled with memories, humor, sadness, and everything his amazing memory dredged up.
He was also an incorrigible flirt and never looked like a man in his nineties.
And he called me a friend. Possibly the greatest title I've ever be given.
I'm not much for belief in the afterlife, but a part of me hopes that Rafael is now reunited with his lovely wife. . .
. . .and is busy reorganizing St. Peter's office.
As noted elsewhere -
Date: 20 May 2020 05:41 (UTC)