Fernando
Robert
Elizondo

Fernando was born in San Antonio, Texas, in 1943. He spent much of his early childhood in Texas where he bonded with his elderly grandfather who instilled in him at an early age the value of education and sparked his early curiosity about people. He and his mother later moved to Southern California with his step father, where Fernando would grow into a young man calling California his home. 

He attended Humboldt State in Northern California for his bachelors. And then went on to get his Masters from Baylor back in Texas. As a young man in his twenties, Fernando set off alone to backpack and hitchhike across Europe. He would tell stories about those travels for decades — about wandering into bars, striking up conversations with strangers, and spending evenings in German beer halls and sleeping in hostels. A young latino man from Texas and Los Angeles getting his first taste of the outside world. 

The places fascinated him, but so did the people. He wanted to know their stories, experience their cultures, and discover what lay beyond the next town or border.

That restless curiosity never left him.

His early years as an educator helped give that curiosity a purpose. During the Vietnam War era, Fernando taught at a high school in Watts, a predominantly Black neighborhood of Los Angeles. The experience exposed him to profound inequalities in public education and helped shape convictions he would carry throughout his professional life.

He saw a school system in which positions of authority were overwhelmingly occupied by white men, while Latino educators and other people of color faced significant obstacles to advancement.

Fernando believed things could be different.

Why couldn't Latino educators become principals, administrators, and superintendents? Why shouldn't children from immigrant and working-class families have access to the same opportunities as children in wealthy communities?

He would spend much of his life trying to change the answers to those questions.

In the early 1970s, Fernando met a young woman from Southern California named Claudia. On their first date, they went out for pizza. Fernando ordered anchovies, something Claudia had never even heard of.

They fell in love, married, and shortly after had a son, Gabriel.

The story of Gabriel's arrival became family lore. Claudia had been in labor for hours when Fernando asked whether she was hungry. When she said yes, he announced that he was going to find some food.

He eventually returned to her hospital room carrying a bag full of tacos.

It was classic Fernando: resourceful, a little unconventional, and always ready with a solution that might also turn into a good story. And, he was hungry, and got what he liked most to satisfy it. 

Fatherhood did not diminish his professional ambition. Already working as a teacher, Fernando was determined to earn a doctorate in education.

When he explored attending the University of Southern California, someone there expressed doubt that he would be accepted into the program. Young latino men didn’t go to USC, and certainly didn’t get a PhD.

Fernando took the skepticism as a challenge.

Watch me.

Living in Palm Desert, working full time, and helping raise a young son, Fernando began making the long drive to USC for evening classes. Claudia held things together at home while he pursued his goal.

The schedule was grueling. But Fernando was, as Claudia puts it today, “determined and driven.”.

He earned his doctorate.

In the Elizondo family, there was a saying: People could take many things away from you, but they could never take away your education.

Fernando believed that deeply, and he wanted others to have the same opportunity.

His career took him from the classroom to positions as assistant principal, principal, and eventually superintendent of several California school districts, including communities in the agricultural heart of the Central Valley.

Many of the children attending those schools were the sons and daughters of farmworkers, immigrants, and working-class families.

Fernando refused to believe that a school district's limited financial resources should determine the quality of a child's education.

He fought for better classrooms, modern technology, improved athletic fields, gyms, swimming pools, and other facilities. Long before computers became commonplace in classrooms, he pursued opportunities to bring laptops and new technology into the schools he led.

He was proud of the buildings and facilities his districts constructed and renovated. He loved pointing them out to his son when they drove through communities where he had worked.

But what mattered most to Fernando wasn't the building itself. It was what the building represented.

A child growing up in a family where mom and dad worked all day hunched over picking grapes in the farms, deserved a first-rate school just as much as a child growing up in one of California's wealthiest neighborhoods where mom and dad were doctors and drove fancy cars.

Fernando was not inclined to settle for second best.

If obtaining the best equipment meant negotiating with companies, making countless phone calls, or knocking on doors that weren't readily opened, he would do it.

He could be demanding, relentless, and stubborn when he believed something mattered. He was not afraid to tell people no, when it meant making hard decisions for a school district.

One colleague later remembered him as a "take no prisoners superintendent."

Fernando would probably have appreciated that description.

His determination extended far beyond the districts he led.

Early in his career, he helped establish organizations dedicated to advancing Latino educators and bilingual education, including the California Association for Bilingual Education (CABE) and the California Association of Latino Superintendents and Administrators (CALSA).

At a time when bilingual education faced considerable resistance, Fernando advocated for children whose first language was Spanish and for educational systems that recognized their immigrant status as strengths rather than obstacles.

He also wanted Latino educators to have something that had often been denied to them: a seat at the table where decisions were made? Yes, but at the head of the table. Latino educators should be the decision makers. 

His involvement in these organizations became one of his lasting contributions to California education. He helped build networks of encouragement, mentorship, and professional support that would benefit generations of educators.

But Fernando wasn't interested only in institutions. He was interested in individuals.

He mentored younger teachers and administrators, offered advice, opened professional doors, and encouraged people to pursue opportunities they might otherwise have considered beyond their reach.

Years later, many would remember not simply his professional guidance but his personal investment in their lives.

After his passing, one former colleague recalled meeting Fernando while working as a representative for an educational publisher. Having grown up without a father, he found himself drawn to Fernando, who took the time to offer advice, friendship, and mentorship.

That was the kind of relationship Fernando cultivated.

He believed in people, often before they fully believed in themselves.

But the communities Fernando helped create weren't confined to education.

Early in his career, Fernando bonded with some men over running. They formed a running club with an unforgettable name: the California Association of Chicano and Hispanic Athletes — CACHA.

They would gather before dawn, sometimes beginning their runs at five in the morning.

Among those friends were Cliff Rodriguez (“Cliffy”), Mayo de la Rocha (“Mayo”), “The Doctor,” and other men who would become a lifelong brotherhood.

They knew one another by nicknames. They shared jokes, stories, victories, disappointments, marriages, children, grandchildren, and eventually great-grandchildren.

What began with early morning runs grew into relationships that endured for decades.

There is the family we are born into, and there is the family we choose.

For Fernando, these men became the family he chose, and they chose him.

Even after decades had passed, the friendships required little introduction or ceremony. They could pick up a conversation as though they had been together the day before.

Fernando treasured those bonds.

One of his deepest relationships of his life was with his younger brother, Howard, whom everyone knew as Howie.

Although separated in age, the brothers shared an exceptionally close bond. They spoke regularly, often once or twice a week, confiding in one another about careers, family, and life's challenges.

Fernando was protective of Howie, who looked up to his older brother.

In 1994, Howie - an avid triathlete - died suddenly from a rare blood disease. His unexpected death devastated Fernando. It was probably the hardest personal moment of his life. 

That same year, however, also marked the beginning of another defining chapter of Fernando's life.

He met a woman named Susan Trinity.

Fittingly, the two had met through a shared love of scuba diving.

Fernando loved adventure, and in Susan he found someone who shared his enthusiasm for exploring the world and building a life filled with experiences.

Their relationship took them through years of travel, job changes, stretches of long-distance relationship, and eventually to California's Central Coast, where they established the “forever home” they would share for the rest of his life.

It became a place of belonging, friendship, hospitality, and hundreds of gatherings over the years.

Fernando and Susan loved restaurants, travel, good food, and the pleasure of spending time together. Many waiters at Monterey area restaurants got to know them on a first name basis. 

Fernando and Susan also understood each other's personalities, including Fernando's sometimes elaborate sense of humor and surprise.

One of the best examples came shortly after they settled on the Central Coast.

For Susan's birthday, Fernando presented her with an enormous wrapped box and announced that they were taking it to dinner.

Susan was having none of it.

They were going to a fancy restaurant overlooking Monterey Bay, and she wasn't about to carry a giant package into the dining room and open it while at dinner.

Fernando insisted. Susan refused.

Eventually, Fernando relented, and the box stayed home. When they got home, she opened it. It was a bread maker. 

Another birthday, Fernando came up with another surprise, but planned it out weeks in advance. 

At another fancy restaurant, after dinner during dessert, two waiters appeared carrying a  large, heavy box.

They opened it to reveal a beautiful handcrafted sign for Susan's hand therapy practice, Trinity Hand Therapy.

Fernando had arranged the entire surprise. The entire restaurant got to see it. 

Susan was delighted, embarrassed by the attention, and probably a little exasperated by her husband's elaborate production.

Fernando loved every minute of it. 

It was exactly the sort of mischievous, generous, slightly outrageous surprise Fernando delighted in creating.

He didn't merely want to give someone a gift. He wanted to create a memory.

And he created plenty of them.

Travel became one of the great shared pleasures of Fernando's life, particularly with Susan, Gabriel, and Gabriel's wife, Maria Elena Romero, whom Fernando embraced as a daughter.

He had introduced Gabriel to adventure at an early age, taking him scuba diving in California's Channel Islands and on family white water rafting trips.

Those early experiences helped instill in his son the same curiosity about the world that had driven Fernando to backpack alone through Europe decades earlier.

As Gabriel grew older and built a career that took him around the world, Fernando remained eager to visit and explore alongside him.

When Gabriel and Maria lived in Brazil for roughly eight years, many friends and relatives talked about visiting.

Fernando actually came.

Not once. Not twice.

Three times.

And these weren't ordinary sightseeing vacations.

Together they ventured deep into the Brazilian Amazon, traveling by boat to a remote floating lodge in the jungle, where they explored the rainforest and climbed enormous Amazon trees.

They visited Fernando de Noronha, a remote island off Brazil's northeastern coast, where Fernando indulged his lifelong love of scuba diving.

They explored the Galápagos Islands, diving with Hammerhead sharks, traveled through South America, eating ceviche in Peru, cruised in Alaska, and shared adventures that spanned continents.

There were countless moments along the way, but sometimes the smallest ones captured the most.

On one trip to Colombia, shortly after Gabriel and Maria got married, Fernando and Gabriel took a father-son trip to Cartagena, Colombia. They were walking through the old city of Cartagena when a sudden and unexpected tropical rainstorm erupted.

Within seconds, the rain was coming down in sheets.

They looked around desperately for a restaurant, bar, or doorway where they could take shelter.

It was too late.

Soaked to the skin, father and son looked at each other, shrugged, and burst out laughing.

Gabriel pulled out a camera, turned it toward them, and captured the moment: two men, father and son, dripping wet and smiling.

There was nowhere else they needed to be.

They were together, having an adventure.

That was enough.

Even when Fernando traveled without his family, he rarely stayed still for long.

In retirement, we made repeated salmon-fishing expeditions to Alaska, boarding small planes bound for remote fishing communities and returning with boxes of frozen salmon that could last for months.

He went scuba diving in the Socorro Islands by himself, traveled often to Las Vegas to see Santana perform, and continued seeking out new experiences.

He wasn't someone who looked at retirement as a time to slow down.

If anything, retirement provided more opportunities to pursue the things he loved. When many people apply the brakes in retirement, he pushed down the gas pedal. 

He remained deeply involved in mentoring the next generation of educators, particularly Latino administrators and aspiring school leaders.

He helped organize conferences, raised funds, made calls, and brought people together.

And he retained his insistence on excellence.

When organizing professional gatherings, Fernando wanted the finest venues, the best food, and surroundings that reflected the importance of the people attending.

There was a philosophy behind that insistence.

The same man who fought for first-rate facilities in under-resourced school districts believed that Latino educators deserved to gather in the finest ballrooms and hotels.

He wanted them to know that they belonged in those rooms.

They deserved the best, too.

In retirement, Fernando also devoted time to the natural beauty of California's Central Coast, particularly Point Lobos, where he served as a docent and helped introduce young people to the area's extraordinary coastal environment. Always the educator, he helped lead school walks and even bilingual school walks so Spanish speaking children could learn. 

Once again, his interests brought him back to people — sharing what he loved and helping others discover something new.

His home with Susan became a gathering place for friends, colleagues, and younger generations of educators.

The parties were legendary in certain circles.

Fernando loved hosting people. He loved the conversations, the laughter, the food, the camaraderie, the shots of tequila, and the unexpected connections that could happen when different people found themselves together.

He had an infectious ability to make people feel welcome.

And he loved to have fun.

In the later years of his life, Fernando discovered another kind of adventure that seemed almost perfectly designed for him: cruises with his family. He went on three in what would be his final years. 

There was good food, champagne, new cities to explore every few days, and an endless supply of people to meet and talk to.

Most importantly, Susan, Gabriel, and Maria could share the experience with him.

He was in his element.

The man who had set off alone through Europe as a young adult was still delighted by the prospect of discovering another place, hearing another story, or sharing another meal.

He never lost that curiosity.

And he never stopped believing in people.

After his passing, tributes poured in from friends, educators, former colleagues, and people whose lives had intersected with his over the decades.

Some called him a pioneer. Others remembered him as a “trailblazer,” a “visionary educator”, a “mentor,” but most importantly a friend.

Several recalled the high expectations he had placed upon them.

Others remembered his kindness, generosity, quick humor, and love of bringing people together.

Rebeca Andrade, a fellow educator and longtime friend, reflected on Fernando's belief in people and their potential. She remembered his infectious laughter, warmth, and ability to make others feel welcome.

She also captured something central to his legacy:

"You made room for us. You helped us believe we belonged. And you reminded us to enjoy the journey."

Those words could describe almost every chapter of Fernando's life.

As a young man, he didn’t have anybody to open the door for him. So he did it himself, backed by education nobody could take away. But instead of locking the door behind him  once he got inside, he made sure the doors remained ajar for people behind him. Especially those who had been told, directly or indirectly, that they didn't belong, or to walk down the hall to another door. 

He challenged people to expect more of themselves and of the institutions meant to serve them.

He built friendships that crossed decades and generations.

He loved his family. No, it was more, he cherished his family. Celebrated their accomplishments, and traveled extraordinary distances simply to spend time with them.

He could be ambitious, stubborn, mischievous, demanding, and wonderfully unpredictable.

He was also generous, loyal, and curious.

Fernando leaves behind his beloved wife, Susan; his son, Gabriel; his daughter-in-law, Maria; and an extended family of relatives, friends, former colleagues, and people who considered him a mentor, a brother, or simply someone who had made their lives richer.

The measure of Fernando’s life is not found only in the schools he led, the organizations he helped build, or the professional milestones he achieved.

It is found in the people who became leaders because he encouraged them.

In the children who learned in better schools because he refused to settle for less.

In the friendships that began before sunrise and endured for decades.

In the adventures his family will never forget.

In the laughter around backyard parties, the unexpected birthday surprises, and the countless invitations to come together.

Fernando believed life was meant to be lived fully, generously, and with an open heart.

And if there is a fitting way to remember him, perhaps it is to do what he always loved doing.

Bring people together.

Share a good meal.

Tell a story.

Laugh.

Raise a glass.

And always make room for one more person. Or three. Or ten. Maybe fifty. 

Rest in Peace. We love you. 

When we meet again, we know there will be spicy salsa with the tacos, the champagne will be cold, and there will be some vanilla bean ice cream left over for us.