“It’s Not the Color. It’s the Character”
“Take the U2 U-Bahn (subway) and transfer to the No. 62 bus, advised Fernando (“Fred”) Rivera. Get off at the 17th stop, by a cemetery. My wife, a blond, driving a red and grey convertible, will pick you up.”
I hopped off the bus when it stopped at a cemetery and walked along the line of parked cars behind a tall, rangy guy wearing a baseball cap bearing the sobriquet, “Top Gun.” Ahead was a convertible with an attractive blond at the wheel. She hailed the other gentleman, waving him toward her car. Clearly flummoxed, he responded in German (maybe that he was happily married?). Realizing her mistake, Inga Rivera noticed my approach and inquired whether I was Bob. We laughed on the short drive to the Rivera home, as did Fred when he heard the story.
The weather was perfect—sunny and warm—so we sat at the patio table in the Riveras’ cozy, manicured back yard. Inga had prepared a breakfast feast of eggs, cold cuts, pastries, and fruit. She seemed disappointed that I could only accept coffee and a roll, having fortified myself with a hearty breakfast at my hotel. I apologized.
Fred said, “This is my third wife…”
“And the last one!” added Inga.
They both laughed and fist bumped. “You’ve got the fist bump thing going,” I said.
“Ja, ja,” said Inga. “We have fun with each other. We also fight, but this is normal in a marriage. We have differences of opinion…”
Fred put his coffee cup down and glanced at my legal pad. “I've been trying to write my memoirs since 2000. It looks like I'm not going back to the States anytime soon, so I might as well write something for my kids, so they'll know their bloodlines. I'm a Hispanic out of Puerto Rico…”
Inga held out her phone and showed me pictures of her cats, Jessie and James—her “babies.”
As happens so often, when Germans meet Americans, the subject of Trump came up. Inga mentioned a recent European Union meeting in Brussels, when the U.S. president pushed someone out of the way during a photo shoot. Fred and Inga discussed at length the litany of complaints about Trump that had become familiar to me, both in Europe and in the U.S., including the stark contrast with Barack Obama, whom Germans admire and respect.
Politics aside, Fred got into his life story. Born in Arroyo, a small village in Puerto Rico, he arrived in Florida in 1958, at the age of six or seven. His parents had been forced to flee the wrath of his mother’s family because Fred’s father, 19 at the time, had gotten his mother pregnant when she was only 14.
When they landed in Florida, they didn’t understand racism because they had not experienced it in the Caribbean Islands. Fred’s father worked his way up to New York’s Spanish Harlem.
“My father was an alcoholic,” Fred told me. “They were always fighting, and then my father went to jail.”
Fred recalled that when Fred was nine or ten years old, the FBI came to his house, looking for Mr. Rivera. His father he had gone out to a local bar with Fred’s uncle and come home around 2:00 a.m. with blood on his shirt. Fred’s uncle had started an altercation in the bar, and a man had attempted to stab him. Fred’s father took the knife away from the man and “poked him,” putting him in the hospital.
“They sent him to the ‘Tombs’ (Municipal Detention Center), and then Rikers Island… They gave him five years or something like that.”
Fred then showed me family photographs: his aunt, his uncles, kids, grandmother, his mother… “We’re white, we're black, we're dark, we're Indian...We're Taino Indians actually,” he said.
“That's the tribe that lives in Puerto Rico, right?” I asked.
“Exactly,” Fred said. “They got mixed over the years...the slaves that they brought from the Portuguese, or the British, or the French...to the Caribbean Islands. That's why we have dark Puerto Ricans like me, you have white Puerto Ricans with blond hair and blue eyes, mostly from Spain. My grandmother had six kids. My mother died the day I was born. She was 14 years old.”
“That's terrible,” I said.
“I need to write something to let my kids know, because my kids are mixed. My first wife was a half breed, Black and German. I married her in the States. Seven years went by, and we got divorced in 1977—the year Elvis died.”
Fred met his first wife, Sharon Mini Brown, at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky. “She was an Army brat,” Fred said. “She and her father were stationed at Ft. Campbell, Kentucky, where I was at the time.” Fred and his first wife, had two children, (son) Angel Rivera & Eva Raquel Rivera who died in 2006. They divorced after seven years.
Fred joined the Army January 28, 1971, during the Vietnam War. After basic training at Ft. Dix, he took advanced training at Ft. Jackson, South Carolina, and learned his military occupational speciality (MOS), logistics, at Ft. Lee, Virginia. During the ensuing years, promotions in his MOS dried up, so Fred transferred to the combat arms. “I was attached to the 101st Airborne Division, at Ft. Campbell.” he said. “It was the Vietnam Era. I was selected for retrieving dead bodies--graves and registration. You retrieve the bodies and bring them back.”
Fred took airborne (parachute) training at Ft. Benning and remained there as an instructor for five years. Those rigorous years of jumping and running—over 100,000 miles at Ft. Benning—took their toll on Fred’s back. He therefore got back into logistics and was reassigned to Germany.
There he met his second wife, Petra, a German woman. They married in 1981 and divorced in 2000. They had no children together.
“We was neighbors before,” Inga said.
Fred explained that he and Petra were living next door to Inga and her then-husband. One day Fred invited Inga and her husband over for a barbecue. Inga’s husband, inclined to right-wing views, turned down the invitation to meet his dark-skinned neighbor. Eventually, however, Fred’s natural friendliness won the man over, and they became good friends.
Each of the couples experienced its own marital difficulties, and they both divorced. Inga had to sell her apartment and didn’t know where to go. Fred couldn’t afford his place by himself, so he invited Inga to move in with him. Fred and Inga married in 2003. Inga showed me a photo taken at their marriage in Las Vegas.
Fred served 21 years in the Army, including a deployment to Desert Storm with two of the gentlemen I would later interview for this book, Herb Hall and Dwight Johnson. He was stationed in Germany, off and on and has lived in that country a total of 40 years.
Fred and Inga try to get back to the States every three years. Fred is eligible for standby transportation from Ramstein Air Base, but waiting for space available can be very stressful, especially if one must get back to a job on time. A last-minute commercial fare can cost thousands of dollars.
One reason for Fred to make the trip to New York, in addition to visiting with loved ones, is to research family history. Fred’s stepbrother, Juan, had written him that their father had gotten remarried, to a woman that had 12 kids (Fred’s stepbrother was the 13th child). He later called to say that Fred’s father had died and was buried in Potter's field, where the deceased have no names, only numbers. Fred searched for hours at the Hall of Burial in an attempt to learn where his father died and was buried. He found pages and pages of Juan Riveras—a very common name—but without additional information, such as his date of birth, it was a lost cause.
At this point in our interview, Fred reminisced about his childhood in New York. After his father went to jail, his uncle raised him. “I was ashamed as a little kid to get the welfare food, you know?” he said, “the powered milk, the cheese and all that stuff. Fred’s uncle taught him—sometimes with the aid of a switch—not to be ashamed of himself. “He raised me well,” Fred said, “he was an awesome man.” Fred’s uncle signed with an “X” so that Fred could join the Army.
Fred’s military career and residence in Germany made communication with the two children from his first marriage difficult. His daughter, Eva Raquel Rivera, had given birth to a baby when she was 18 but relinquished it to the father. She later married but had an extra-marital affair with a white man that produced a baby—and a protracted court battle for custody. Stress and postpartum depression took its toll on the young lady. The Atlanta police called Fred in Germany in 2006 to report his daughter had been discovered in the back seat of a car, dead from an overdose of sleeping pills at the age of 33.
Fred’s son, Fernando Angel Rivera, had visited his father in Germany, but Fred was unable to convince him to stay. Angle went back to Atlanta and ended up in jail.
Fred’s grandson, 25, has two kids from different women, making Fred a great grandfather.
“Ingrid showed me the pictures of your family—beautiful kids,” I said.
“A very mixed family—Heinz 57 family patchwork,” said Fred.
Fred has no relatives in Germany other than Inga and her family. Ingrid's two older brothers had already passed away when Inga’s mom had a stroke in 2010. Circumstances during and following their mother’s illness and death resulted in a falling-out among Inga and her sisters. “It took a while, you know, for me to convince her that her sisters are family,” said Fred.
He understands all too well the sensitive nature and depth of feelings surrounding the death of a family member. After his daughter’s tragic death in Atlanta, a relative had her body interred in Maryland, even though her friends and family were in Atlanta. Fred makes a special effort to visit his daughter’s grave in Maryland when he goes home to Atlanta.
“It’s Not the Color, It’s the Character.”
Living overseas has made it hard for Fred to maintain contact with what he calls his “patchwork” family, with its diverse branches of Hispanic, Black, and white bloodlines. His longing for family connection, and a strong conviction that his descendants should know and appreciate their heritage have motivated Fred’s desire to write his memoirs. “All those are going into this book here,” he said, “so they see, you know, the mother's side, the father's, the different blood lines from the tree, how it spread out in so many different directions…so that they learn, hey, I'm part German, I'm part Puerto Rican, I'm part Black, I'm part Jewish… But if they only knew, they would see, you know, it's not the color, it's the character. That was important for me, because I was never raised like that.”
Inga’s Preconceptions of Americans
Inga and her first husband had owned an army surplus store in downtown Nürnberg. It sold all kinds of uniforms, knives, guns—everything for a soldier. “In the beginning it was good,” Inga said, “but business went down, our marriage went down…”
I asked Inga about her initial impressions of Americans before she had personal contact with them. “I always liked Americans,” she said. “When I was a kid, we had in our house soldiers with their wives. I come from Hof, very close to East Germany, called the DDR at that time.”
“You liked American music?” I asked.
“Ja, Doris Day, the movies…”
Fred’s Civilian Work in Germany
Fred got out of the Army August 31, 1992. He then had to decide between a civilian job with the U.S. government or a job on the German economy. After dealing with military bureaucracy for 21 years, Fred opted to work under the German system. That meant he would have to be fluent in German, which had not been necessary as a G.I. He brushed up on his German language skills and took a job as a UPS driver.
The pay was good—24 Euros per hour—but there was a lot of stress involved. Packages piled up on his truck because many Germans were reluctant to open their doors to a Black Außlander. “Even though I had the uniform, my truck is sitting there, says UPS and everything, the old lady or the old man, they wouldn’t…they would let the dogs out, the little beagles or whatever they had.”
Fred quit UPS after a year and went into driving tractor-trailer trucks. After seven years driving tractor-trailer trucks, he got a job delivering porte-potties to construction sites. On longer trips, all over Germany, Inga often rode with Fred. They slept in the back of the truck. “It was fun,” recalled Fred.
In 2003 Fred developed sarcoidosis, a lung illness, and had to stop working. “I also have opticidosis--that's where the nerves in your eyes get confused with the nerves in your ass, and it gives you a shitty outlook on life,” he laughed.
Inga piped up: “Sometimes I have CRS. You know what that is? ‘Can't remember shit’ Ha-ha!”
“We like to have a lot of fun,”Fred said.
Home Sweet Home
When they were neighbors, living not far from their present home, Fred rented, but Inga and her former husband owned their home. After her divorce and the decline of her business, Inga moved in with Fred. The landlord raised their rent 50%, so they moved to Fürth, where they lived in a lovely villa for ten years.
When Fred had a stroke in 2010, he and Inga moved to their present home, owned by good friends Peter and Manuela. Fred and Inga were looking for another place to live at the time of our interview (2017) because the owners’ daughter would live in the house upon her graduation from college.
“It's really nice to see you living like this,” I noted, “lovely wife, lovely home, being happy, what more could you ask?”
“That's all there is in life,” Fred replied, “it's no different than living in the States.”
Fred and Inga had discussed moving to the U.S. after Inga’s mother died, but they decided to stay in Germany so that Inga could continue working and earn her full retirement.
Fred said that if they were to move to the States, they would choose either Florida, because it’s close to Puerto Rico, his birthplace, or New York, because he grew up there.
Inga showed me photos of her side of the family: her mother at 18 years of age, and her father, who had been a valet in the Nürnberg Grand Hotel but came up missing on the Russian front during the war.
I remarked that Inga looked quite young herself.
“Ja, I’m over 40, ha ha ha. I'm 60,” she said. I was born in 1956, and the war was finished in 1945—when did the Americans come?”
“American forces captured Nürnberg on the 20th of April, 1945,” I said.
“On Hitler's birthday?”
“Yes,” I said, “That's probably why they entered Nürnberg that day—for propaganda purposes.”
“Some people still celebrate it [Hitler’s birthday]” Inga said.
A New Generation, Forgotten Roots, and Social Norms
When the discussion turned to history, Fred returned to his pet project. "My purpose [for writing my memoir] is because my daughter had three different types of men in her life: white, black, and whatever. This is your bloodline. My kids don't speak Spanish like I do because they were raised in the United States, but I tell them, you're a Rivera! Learn the language! Make an effort! This new generation, when you ask, are you Mexican? Yes. Do you speak Spanish? Sorry, I don't. They're losing it. They don't hold family like they used to…"
Inga bemoaned the fact that so many people are ignorant of history. “We were in South Carolina. We met a very nice lady and her mom. They were Black. They asked me, does Hitler still live? They know nothing about Europe—nothing.”
I mentioned that in an interview with a former G.I. a few days earlier, he said, “When you're in the Army, you not only grow up, you grow out. You understand the wider world.”
“Yes,” said Fred, “I was very thankful for that. The Army gave me that opportunity too. To meet different people, different nationalities.”
Inga interjected, “To meet me! Ha-ha!” Then she jumped up to chase her cat Jessie, who was calculating the force and trajectory necessary to jump the garden fence.
“Your cats keep you busy,” I observed.
“She's always worried about the cats,” said Fred.
“She's afraid of this—how do you say it—broom,” explained Inga.
“You have a good, supportive group of friends,” I said, “You get together with them at McDonald’s on Sunday mornings…”
“Yes,” said Fred, “but three things we don't talk about: money, religion, and politics. That's how you keep your friends.”
“I understand it's rude to ask somebody in Germany what they do for a living,” I said, “Is that true?”
“Ja,” said Inga, “but the young people are more open minded. I am open minded.”
“We're different in that respect,” said Fred, “Germans don't talk about money. They hold back, kind of hesitant. The don't know you, they won't talk to you…”
‘But they are nosey too,” added Inga. “They want to know, but they won't tell…”
Fred said that all his neighbors get along well. “We get along and are accepted. In the beginning there was a problem parking cars. They think if they live here, they can park in the street in front of their house.”
I asked Inga how she stays in such good shape at 60. “By avoiding sports!”she joked.
Fred noted that she has inherited good genes; her mom lived to her 90s.
“But I have great respect for her,” said Inga, “because after the war, she had three little kids, and her husband was missing, and sometimes, she told me, they walked 20 kilometers to get some potatoes. And she educated us all pretty well. We all had a Berufsausbildung (vocational training). All five of us.”
“I understand that you have the three types of schools,” I said, “after 4th grade, you had to take a test. You have the Grundschule, the Realschule, and Gymnasium. And after Gymnasium, university. It's a system where people can get trained for a good job.”
“Ja,” replied Inga, “Here, if you go into a store to buy something, chances are that the salesperson knows about the product.”
“Education is good over here,” confirmed Fred.
“And the social system,” said Inga, “is better than in America. Everyone has health insurance, even the bums. And the social security. We pay a lot of taxes too.”
“About 44%” added Fred.
“But you get something for your tax dollar?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Fred, “but then again, she pays, for example, just for her medical, 250 Euros, and her boss pays another 250. The employer pays a portion toward the health insurance. The total comes out to about 500 Euros. That’s included in the 44% tax I mentioned.”
Inga illustrated the contrast between the social system in Germany and conditions in a New Jersey city that she and Fred had visited. “We were in a bad neighborhood—a very bad neighborhood. I never saw that before. We had to close the car windows, even in the daytime, and there were people in the street—crackheads. I never saw that before… That’s where Trump must start—fix his own problems. Make America great that way.”
“He's takin' money away from the social system to buy more weapons,” said Fred, “and those are the same weapons they're gonna use on Americans. Remember that. Now they're taking it from the poor...there's no healthcare plan.”
Fred turned the conversation, once again, to his family back home in the U.S. It was clear to me that, despite the good life that he and Inga share in Germany, a big part of his heart is with his loved ones in America. His ability to share his experience and to influence his grandchildren is attenuated by 3,000 miles of ocean. He laments that the younger generation’s reliance on texting gives him “no real insight” into their feelings.
Fred claimed that, as a child, he was never disrespectful to his parents. “I told everything to my parents except when I started smoking when I was 13. I didn't tell them that. He [Fred’s uncle] caught me coming around the corner with my little buddy from the neighborhood. We went to a little bodega in Spanish Harlem, and I come around the corner with my cheeks full of smoke, and my uncle's like, ‘Where the hell you been? I told you to stay in front of the house.’ He grabbed my ear: ‘You go to your mama! I'll talk to your mama in a little while.’ He took me to the house, sat me down. He smoked a pipe and cigars. ‘You want to smoke? Here! You’re gonna smoke!’ I was sick to my stomach on that damn cigar. “
“Aversion therapy,” I laughed.
“Exactly!” said Inga.
Finally, Fred showed me some photos on his phone taken in 2013, at his 60th birthday celebration. “If you had been there, you would have had a great time. We had 100 people for my birthday.”
Fred and Inga’s marriage is a real success story—full of laughter and love. I am grateful that they shared a few pleasant hours and stories with me on their beautiful backyard patio.
