Deceased July 30, 1996
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25th Reunion Book Entry
In Memory
Jorge Tapia ’68 was presumably the first Latino most of us ever saw and arguably the first Puerto Rican with whom any one of us ever shared a dinner table. Now just imagine what it looked like from his perspective. In September of ’64, when Jorge arrived at Amherst, even while we were in the throes of a loitering summer, he probably couldn’t have felt further from San Juan or the bubbling tarmac of the South Bronx—clearly Jorge was in transition. He’d never seen a college campus, eaten in a restaurant, been to the theater. He’d never spent a whole day just speaking English.
Movies, however, he knew. He’d actually learned English in New York not in the usual fashion but gleaned from the cinema. Only, unlucky lad, he’d unfortunately seen some of the worst movies (Imitation of Life, and the equally execrable remake were faves) ever made and had some pretty skewed notions how the Anglo world operated. Pepper that with a few anomalous Amherst institutions. Like chapel (non-denominational), frat pledging, swimming (required), Spanish as a foreign language (optional), maid service (complimentary). Under the influence perhaps of Andy Hardy’s Double Life, he arrived with one suitcase. Within: one pair of loafers (no socks), one plaid shirt, a pair of chinos and one crew neck. (Actually, I guess some of the Hollywood dross was right on the money for Amherst. Until ’67 anyway.)
And while he was “George” in the beginning, and “Jorge” only later, Jorge was taking it all in, in a surge. Freshman physics with Arnie Arons, The Graduate with Dustin Hoffman, singles on those 30 tennis courts, the double feature at the Amherst Cinema, local eccentrics (Emily, Lord Jeff) and foreign films (every one, four years) at Kirby. Never hitched to Holyoke but, as if an obligation, thumbed his way to Hartford to see Ulysses (the movie, banned in Massachusetts) and drove in a snow storm to Springfield … Doctor Zhivago (the movie, natch). Good or bad, Jorge always stayed ‘til the end.
After Amherst—where for reasons he could not explain, he majored in French (Truffaut, Godard, Chabrol, Malle, Resnais … oh, now I get it)—our marathon man enrolled in dental school in Baltimore. He was miserable there; no decent movie theaters to speak of.
Flash forward to his first job. Dentist. New York City. At last. Back where he started. Not only movies now, but legitimate theater. Older, wiser, richer. That first year, not just every major film released in America, but every foreign film brought to America, every B-film made in America, every Broadway show, every off-Broadway show. And very quietly not incidentally, he became the main support of his father, mother and kid brother Tommy.
Scarcely one year on the Great White Way and a great job offer. A bit north of the city. About one hour and 45 minutes from Broadway; each way. Newburgh? No way! An attending dentist, Dr. Cutler and his wife Esther, took an immediate shine to Jorge, and while Newburgh ain’t New York, he figured there must be a Cineplex nearby. Wrong. He loved the work, but, you know, the commute was killing him. There was always the midnight show (in New York that was), but it too was taking its toll. He was seriously considering chucking the whole thing when one night, Dr. Cutler was murdered and he was asked to assume the practice.
Film Noir turned into It’s a Wonderful Life. Jorge took over, and the patients were crazy about him. In Newburgh there was a large less-than-affluent Latino community, and he was devoted to them. For 21 years Dr. Tapia became for this el barrio a role model, and with his cinematic fervency, perhaps with his own longings, even a spinner of dreams for his extended family. While he was always the definitive urbanite at heart, Jorge remained in practice in this up-river hamlet on the Hudson.
To satisfy his airy hopes of escape, he arranged almost surreptitious journeys. He’d redefined his motion picture dreams in expeditions as far and wide as he could conjure, and in Esther, Jorge found the ideal travel companion. Italy, France, all of Europe, then outward to be among the first to cross from Egypt into Israel, then wider beyond to India and the Far East. Tragedy a second time. Jorge’s father was murdered. A dark thread visited him again.
For all his appearances of levity, Jorge disguised a sadder deeper spirit. When I’d first met Jorge at Amherst, I marveled at his geniality. Nothing seemed to dampen his humor. I recall one college vacation, when I drove him home to the Grand Concourse in the South Bronx. With good humor, he recounted when he had another classmate over for his mom’s dinner and a roach dropped from the ceiling into his guest’s soup. No shame. Amusement. He’d experienced racial intolerance (I’m reluctant to add, at Amherst as well as beyond our ivory tower), but laughed it off, I think, sorry for the instigator. There were those who thought Jorge a carefree guy, since he was always smiling. Those who knew him well knew well how deep he could be hurt.
With precision—even when we hadn’t spoken in a year—one hour before the Academy Awards aired, he had to know who I thought would win. Every category. He couldn’t believe it if I didn’t notice the cinematography in Home Alone. I’d see Jorge now and again during some Broadway intermission. Almost impossible to miss him since he subscribed to every known theater group in New York. I even had the great pleasure to invite him a couple of years ago to Fast!, a show I’d written. Which he loved. But then again, this was the guy who loved Ishtar. More than once, when I was walking out of some theatrical insult, I’d pass Jorge on the aisle entrance. “Welllll” he’d reply if I asked what he thought of the show. His companion Craig would roll his eyes. I wanted to believe that Jorge was only being kind. Which Jorge always was. He was, without doubt, the most gentle, most forgiving, most optimistic (save some presidential aspirants) among us. For all anyone of us could see, nothing could shake that cheeriness.
Last month I had a call from Esther. Jorge was in the hospital. His kidneys were failing. He was very ill, she said. But during three weeks he seemed to revivify. His mother Elena, brother Thomas and sister-in-law Cenaida, along with Esther, her sister and brother-in-law and the very closest of friends were all taking care of him. I think we were all beguiled by his cheer, misled by his laugh and grace. Why, he even duped the hospital into sending him home. He was definitely on the mend, TV on and movies non-stop. I had the remarkable opportunity to watch The Wild Bunch followed by The Brady Movie. Westerns I’d never heard of, space creatures from galaxies unfathomed. He sat up, transfixed, a constant video blitz. He’d wave the solicitous guests aside, out of his field of vision. “Low production values. I love it,” he’d crack. He didn’t want to miss a frame. That remote was aimed like a heat-seeking pistol, out of the way or you were toast.
Every so often he would doze off, snapping back in a salute to the final credits. Channel change and another movie. More nods, more frequently. Less energy. Don’t turn that TV off!
Jorge passed away in August. It wasn’t easy at all. Even while he couldn’t hold a spoon, he held on to life with implausible vigor. I guess it was just his usual thing. He always had to stay ‘til the end. Might miss something.
Andrew Goldman ’68
