Meet Vicky Diaz-Camacho
Latino staffers at NPR share their family stories of perseverance, sacrifice, and hard work to achieve the American Dream. These stories are defined by universal values of pride, hope, and an endless determination to help shape the new American landscape.
I’m a third generation Latina — my mother is Puerto Rican, born in San Francisco when my grandfather was stationed there for the army. Because my grandparents raised me, my grandfather’s story of struggle, victory, and everything in between stuck with me. He defeated the odds and reached success, never forgetting where he came from. Without his history, I wouldn’t be so committed to listening to the stories of others.
My grandfather, Fernando Diaz-Ball, was born in Santurce, Puerto Rico. He was enveloped by the political and social tumult as a child in the 1940s. He was also the sole caretaker of a suicidal father and his epileptic brother.
The family of six lived in a studio-like apartment with one bathroom to share. He was only 7 when he decided to become a doctor. He cared for his family, though many of his younger siblings died at a young age because of illness. That only cemented his dream to become a doctor.
He struggled, but he was persistent and had his uncles’ and neighbors’ support. When he didn’t have money to pay for school or the bus, his neighbors pitched in. Still, during medical school, he took care of his father and brother. He wasn’t the smartest kid in class, he says, and struggled in chemistry. He had to take it twice but that’s how he met my grandma, Celia Ramirez-Muxo, the chemistry professor’s daughter.
They wed in June 1959 — the year they both graduated from medical school. She was a gem, too. Creative. Smart. Spunky. After my grandmother got her degree, she decided to become a painter and a florist.
After his residency, my grandfather became a doctor for the army and earned the title Colonel F. Diaz-Ball. He served in the Vietnam War in 1970–71. Most of his time was spent treating wounded soldiers in the tunnels of Củ Chi, but in his spare time he’d record serenades and send tapes back to my grandma. “The best thing to do is laugh away your troubles,” he’d say. And: “Tiene que seguir pa’lante.” (“You have to push forward.”) He also found catharsis in music. I remember watching him as a child; he would play his guitar, seated on the edge of the gray sofa in our living room — the walls plastered with paintings by my grandma — and sing tunes by Trio Vegabajeño. My sister and I were raised in a home where karaoke meant belting out a heartfelt “Sabor a Mi” rather than “Beat It.” And our after-school snacks meant slivers of pasta de guayaba.
“The best thing to do is laugh away your troubles,” he’d say. And: “Tiene que seguir pa’lante.”
We were lucky to be immersed in a bilingual home in El Paso, a vibrant border city. I’m most fond of the Puerto Rican feasts spent with family for the holidays. And I will never forget the impromptu jam sessions — güiro and all.
He retired in El Paso, Texas where he had served as the chief of urology at William Beaumont Army Medical Center for more than a decade. Through difficult childhood experiences, he learned empathy, patience, and strength. He made it but remained humble. He taught me how to persevere when the odds are against me. His story isn’t only that of a boy with a dream for a better life, but also of someone with the grit to make that dream his reality.
