ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2012

Go to the light! https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/11400/dulick_021712

HEARTS ON FIRE

"Honduras is the most murderous country in the world, ravaged by violent street gangs, rampant police corruption, dysfunctional courts and brutal drug cartels." (AP News)

When Maria Magdalena from Nueva Palmira came to my door a couple weeks ago, I had a funny feeling, a dread, let us say. The news had just broken the night before (Valentine’s Day, no less) of the inferno at the Comayagua prison that claimed over 350 lives as the flames swept like a hurricane from cellblock to cellblock in a matter of minutes. When Maria arrived, I had the television on. “You’re watching the news about the fire,” she said. My heart sank. “My husband is there.”

I switched my mode to calm, as I had been taught way back when I had to handle emergencies at Holiday Valley swimming pool, but my fingers were trembling as I got on the Internet to look through the preliminary list of the dead published by the newspaper. It went by cellblock. “He was in Number 6.” According to reports, that’s where the fire started! Over a fight for a mattress. But Julian Dominguez Rodriguez was NOT on the list of 98 dead, the most for any cellblock. Maria was hardly relieved, and by the next morning she couldn’t take it anymore. “I have to go. Everybody’s telling me I have to go.” She asked for a “loan.”

So horrible a story (http://news.yahoo.com/many-300-killed-honduras-prison-fire-221239375.html) broke through the red-carpet gaffes of celebrities on Yahoo News and the posturing of presidential candidates on Drudgereport, and you would think the whole world would catch its breath at the sheer scale of the tragedy--the crime!--bodies melted into each other, fused to cell bars, shot by panicking guards who “couldn’t find” the keys, a young neighbor’s iPhone recording the screams from a hundred yards away, Honduras, the shame of the world. But did you see any of the “comments” left by readers? Check it out:

--”Looks like they were just cleaning house.”
--”Burn the whole country! LOL
--”Too bad some innocents got crisped, but as long as the majority were gang-bangers, I say good riddance to bad rubbish. Clean the vermin by any means necessary! Bravo!”
--”They should do that in every prison!”
--”No pity here. No big loss, the #$%$ of the human race just lost a few. Too bad more didn’t burn to hell. Just think of the money saved not feeding them anymore.”
--”Time for a second fire.”
--”I only wish the entire prison would have burned to the ground. Oh well, good start :)”

That last one came from someone in Aspen, Colorado. Probably runs a film festival. Why do news sources even indulge our narcissism by inviting such comments? The display of depravity is as depressing as the news itself.

On the other hand, the “cleaning house” theory is a likely one, since the same thing has happened twice before, when Honduran prisons have burned off their overcrowded inmates like a farmer burning off last year’s growth for a new planting. Another, more complicated theory, again with the guards’ heftily bribed compliance, is a fire to cover up a general break-out. If so, the guards may have double-crossed the gangs by setting so voracious a blaze that no one could escape. Whatever, I am sick.

You know what? I didn’t even know about the fire, till your emails came pouring in. Sheila Merrell, former librarian at Parkway North, was first: “Condolences for families of prisoners.” What? I was on the bus, coming home from Morazan. I read the email on my little cell phone. Then another, and another. Once back in Las Vegas, I could watch developments on TV, which, unlike U.S. telecasting, does not hide a thing. Everybody (every BODY!) gets their close-up.

But I had been a lot farther away than Morazan. When Christy Tharenos asked me to marry her, in Mexico, I hesitated only a moment or two. OK, I wasn’t the groom! “Marry” meant officiate at her wedding to Ben Gerber! They had already had a “civil ceremony” in about the least romantic setting you can imagine; a magistrate’s office that shared space with a “Breathalyzer Test Center.” So the Mexico wedding, scheduled for February 12, would be the “real” version, the “sacrament,” as Christy herself called it, in one of the loveliest spots on the planet, in fact, a “pueblo magico” called Tepoztlan.

Christy, who had been my student at Parkway North, and dear friend ever since, discovered “Tepoz” during medical brigades that she had joined. She became friends with Helena and David Luhnow, who offered their home for the wedding. The guest list would not be extensive, about 20 family and friends, an intimate affair. Christy would pay for my ticket. The trick, it turned out, was trying to order it! It took me about five tries over three days, an hour each time with my lame dial-up Internet, on the AeroMexico website. By the time I’d finally click “Purchase Ticket,” the message appears, “Your bank has not approved this transaction.” And this after calling the bank repeatedly and being assured, “Yes, sir, I’m putting a note in your file...” Finally, a wonderful man named Giddish (maybe in India, maybe in Indiana) said, “Stay on the line, and I’ll call AeroMexico myself.” Of course, none of the numbers worked, till I got a brilliant flash and gave him a number for the New York City office that I had seen on the website. Immediately, a wonderful woman named Laura, herself from Mexico, answered. “Yes, Mr. Dulick, I see your reservation right here.” Giddish told her to run the charge, which he then approved on the spot; she launched me the e-ticket, and I wished everyone a Good Day! Just like that. So, as I told Christy and Ben, it was meant to be.

But I did have my doubts when I saw the plane.... I watched it land at the San Pedro Sula airport, and from a distance it seemed normal, but as it made its way up to the terminal, it seemed to shrink to the size of a Cracker Jack toy. Not a lot of traffic, I guess, between Honduras and Mexico. From the air, Mexico City, home to 22 million souls, looked like an infinite jigsaw puzzle, every square foot occupied with hardly an open space. It was almost claustrophobic. Christy had told me to text her when I landed, and I had brought my GoPhone that I use in St. Louis because it’s ATT, which supposedly has an arrangement with a carrier in Mexico. Nothing. Dead air. But I left the phone “on,” in case, maybe, possibly, Christy could text me. Suddenly, after about two hours on the bus I had boarded heading south to Tepoztlan, I felt a buzz in my pocket. I grabbed the phone and flipped it open: “TELCEL” glowed on the screen. A connection had been made! I texted Christy, I texted St. Louis, I texted Honduras, I texted everybody!

At the hotel La Buena Vibra, set against a picturesque wall of mountains that jump straight out of the ground, mythically “carved” by native spirits, I met the other wedding guests. The next day was for exploring the town, so I joined Kristy Engle, a nurse missionary working in the Dominican Republic, and Corrine Shannon, a physical therapist from Chicago, for what was billed as a “quick” hike up to a mountain-top pyramid built at least a thousand years ago. Over two hours later, we straggled into the open air at the top.

I had been preparing my “remarks” for the wedding ever since Christy invited me, but I did not fully appreciate what she and Ben were asking of me till the rehearsal Saturday afternoon. Christy and I had been exchanging e-mails for a couple months, refining and designing the service. Each time, she would say how much she valued my input. Turns out she meant it! “And what do you think you will say here?” she gently asked at the run-through, about the exchange of rings, for example. Oh, I get it now, this really is a wedding! She and Ben needed me for the whole ceremony, not just a walk-on. So I searched my heart for the loveliest, most gracious, most prayerful words I could express.

Our host, David Luhnow, is chief Latin America correspondent for the The Wall Street Journal; flying below the radar, as it were, of the Journal’s crazy owner Rupert Murdoch, he reports on the reality of our life “down here.” And if the name Luhnow sounds familiar, David’s brother Jeff Luhnow was Vice President of the St. Louis Cardinals, 2003 through 2011, helping to stock the Redbirds with the winning combination of players for your World Series champions. The photographer that David and wife Helena invited for the wedding is a major artist whose stunning work has been published in National Geographic, Sebastian Belaustegui (www.photosuki.com). His next project just happens to be the Dominican Republic, where he has arranged to consult with Kristy for some prime sites of indigenous culture.

I was nervous about the wedding, but that’s nothing compared to my next assignment, home-schooling Chemo. You see, when I took Chemo to the school in early February to register him for 5th grade, they told me, no, he’s “too big.” Profe Flor, the principal, cited the “new law,” which excludes anyone 18 or over from grade school. Chemo will turn 18 in September. I had been joking that he’d be the only fifth-grader voting for president; now the joke was on me. His fourth-grade teacher Profe Juana Maria was there, too, all sweet and nice, you know, citing the “difficulty” when there’s a student who’s twice as old as everyone else. I felt like crying, so I was not going to cave without some defense: “You know, it’s not Chemo’s fault he didn’t start school till he was 13, and he’s passed every grade; doesn’t he have the right to finish up to sixth grade?” Well, no, blah, blah, blah, like the teacher in the “Peanuts” cartoons. If they don’t want him, how will they treat him if I “force” them to accept him? They’ll make sure he flunks! You know what, Chemo’s not “too big”; you are too small!

So I thanked them politely, grabbed Chemo, and flagged down the moto-taxi, now manned by Walter, who is all of 14. “Take us to Victoria!” We would register Chemo for Maestro en Casa, a sort of home-schooling program sponsored by the Catholic Church, specifically for poor teens and adults who still want a high-school education (7th, 8th, 9th grades), a GED, you might say. I’ve always been fascinated by this program, which has done so much good; I always wanted a closer look, and now I’ll get it! And I had just met David Suarez, the young man currently in charge in these parts, when he was in Las Vegas, registering applicants. Even then, I had a sort of intimation I might need him. They offer a pre-high-school course that combines fifth and sixth grades in one year; so if all goes well and Chemo passes, he’ll actually jump ahead of his former classmates. But it’s going to be a lot of work, for Chemo and for me!

That’s why I had stopped in Morazan on the way back from Mexico; I wanted to consult with Fermin and his brother-in-law Javier, who run the best Maestro en Casa program anywhere. Kids even come from Progreso two hours away every Saturday for classes. Chemo lit up--”I’ll just stay in Morazan!” Actually, I’d love that, too, but I did at least assure Fermin and Javier we’d be making frequent visits, especially when a big test is coming up. Everybody, even David Suarez, says the course is really “easy.” I hushed them, “Don’t say that! Don’t tell Chemo that! Tell him he’s really got to concentrate and apply himself!” And for Chemo it will be a challenge, despite the fact that the answers are in the back of the book...except math. (OMG!)

Maricela’s little Mariana Teresa (“Mari-Te”), 2, just got baptized February 3, along with about 10 other children, at an open-air celebration at the soccer field in Paraiso, where they were celebrating their annual feast in honor of the Virgin Mary in her Honduran patronage as Our Lady of Suyapa. Lovely day, which some potential rain clouds did not dare to spoil. But, not long afterwards, Mari-Te was all puffed up like a Cabbage Patch doll, and we feared the worst, since a little girl in Paraiso has been in treatment already for a couple years for the “same thing.” After repeated trips to doctors here in Las Vegas, Victoria, and Yoro, it just became inevitable that Maricela and Mari-Te would have to go to Tegucigalpa for some serious help. So off they went, with as much cash as I could muster. Things were going well, test after test narrowing down the diagnosis. But Maricela always seems to find herself in Tegus at the “wrong” time. This time she was minding the baby daily in the hospital just as the charred, disfigured, putrefying bodies from the Comayagua jail fire began arriving for autopsies, hundreds of them, overwhelming the totally inadequate morgue. They had to pile them up in their body bags outside in the heat, where family members started opening the sacks looking for their loved ones. The penetrating stench was overwhelming. Maricela was alarmed for Mari-Te, who hardly needed any more setbacks. Finally, a kidney problem was diagnosed and they got out of there as fast as they could. Back home now in Las Vegas, Mari-Te is guzzling Prednisone and calcium tablets the size of her thumb three times a day. We just hope medication will stabilize her condition and nothing more drastic will be required. If she ends up needing dialysis...!

It was close, but I made it back from Mexico and Morazan and all my travels in time for Beto’s birthday! Turning 29. Try to describe a birthday cake for a blind person...fortunately, Beto is getting used to our efforts since we started making a big deal of his big day a few years ago. I called in advance to his neighbor Carlota, who makes cakes every bit as good as Lake Forest used to in St. Louis, and we loaded up Walter’s moto-taxi like a clown car and headed to La Catorce. We surprised Beto, because I had warned him I might not be back from my travels. So we waited while he “washed up,” and rounded up kids all around to celebrate. Beto may be blind, but his taste is no doubt enhanced. He ate three big slices of Carlota’s masterpiece.

Celebrate life! In all its wonder! I don’t care if it’s Lent--every day is someone’s birthday!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2012

Donna Korando of The Beacon has beautifully condensed my recent massive “Letter”:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/115673-letter-from-honduras-family-in-december

AT LAST

The buses were still crowded even a week after New Year’s, so the seven hours to Tegucigalpa on Sunday, January 8, stretched into eight, assuming anyone had room to stretch! We were crammed in there like a week-old gym bag. Chemo, 17, Marcos, 15 (Chemo’s “little” brother, still a head taller), Dionis, 14 (their cousin), and I had at least one deadline, to renew my Honduran Residency Visa by January 9, when it would expire. But I knew fun and clothes and food, food, food, were the boys’ real priorities, so once we checked into the hotel, we headed off to the Nova Centro Mall, the site of the “carros chocantes,” the dodge ’em cars. They were running a special, 600 Lempiras worth of rides for 300 Lempiras. I thought, We’ll be here all night! But the boys racked up about ten sessions of bumps and grinds in about an hour and a half. “One more! One more!” they kept crying, but I thought we’d all have concussions if they indulged any further. So, as per our agreement, it was off to 6:00 p.m. Mass at one of Tegucigalpa’s prettiest churches, the Milagrosa, just across the street. It was the feast of the Epiphany, and they had a sort of “native” band for the music with lots of drums and spicy rhythms. I loved it, Chemo liked it, Marcos didn’t really notice, and Dionis hated it. That was more or less the breakdown for the next three days.

After Mass, also as per our custom, we crossed back to the mall to eat at Chile’s. (Our schedule is stricter than the Constitution!) Chemo got his pasta, only available off the Kids Menu; the rest of us got fat, juicy hamburgers. Dionis put his aside after a few bites, so Marcos, the bottomless pit, helped him out. I thought about ordering something else this time, but, like Lennie in “Of Mice and Men,” I like my food “with ketchup,” and lots of it, and the hamburger comes with fries.

The bill was not too, too much, so I thought maybe this trip could be kept within reason, but even as I signed the Visa charge, I knew what awaited us at the hotel. “We’re hungry!” Now, remember we had had a big lunch on the trip when the bus stopped in San Ignacio; we’d just eaten at Chile’s, but, as tight as any conspiracy theory, Dionis’ lack of interest in his hamburger provided the excuse for everyone to eat again, this time plates of fried chicken (with fries!) and at least two sodas apiece. I did not order again, but picked off the boys’ plates, especially Dionis, who abandoned his meal half eaten.

I splurged that night because I was going to leave the boys holed up in the hotel all morning the next day while I renewed my residency. I left them money so they could get breakfast at the mercado nearby, with Angelica, the best “baby-sitter” in the world, riding herd. She sells gum and candy and cigarets and such in front of the hotel and has been my guardian angel for at least 15 years.

My first stop Monday morning, the bank, to request a “constancia,” or statement, that I have exchanged at least one thousand dollars for Lempiras every month. Yearly though it is, the folks at Banhcafe remember me and process the thing in minutes. Then, off to Migración, now a very expensive cab ride away at the far end of the city, by the airport, where the biggest mall in Central America is going up. I had heard about City Mall, but until I saw the acres and acres of raw concrete pillars and floors and towers, still in skeletal form, I could not have imagined it. It’s bigger than our whole town of Las Vegas! Is this a sign of prosperity? Honduras rising? The swelling tide that lifts all boats? No, it’s a giant money laundering of drug profits. Well, that’s just a guess. Next year, we’ll probably be eating at the Food Court, but it’s more depressing than exciting to contemplate how much misery and mayhem have sponsored this monstrosity.

Renewing your visa is a hurry-up-and-wait exercise, in at least four slow lines. But I am careful to thank everyone along the way, for allowing me to stay in their country. And I mean it! I don’t want to take it for granted. I finally got back to the hotel about noon, and the boys were eager for their turn. Off to the Mall Multi-Plaza, the very first mall opened in Honduras back in 1998, remodeled any number of times, but familiar and comfortable as an old shoe. Also the site for the past several years of the most elaborate “nacimiento” or Christmas crib scene, in Tegucigalpa, designed by architect Alejandro Martinez, who’s been doing them since his dear mother died in 1950. In those days, he built them inside his house, visitors following a path from room to room.

Baby Jesus is nice and all, but the boys wanted clothes, shoes, and of course, lunch! Dionis led the way, since he never gets in on these outings, with Marcos right behind, who would be returning to dirt poor subsistence in Tocoa, and that made Chemo an inevitability, and he knew it, playing the game to perfection. But I had an ulterior purpose myself. I told the boys they needed new digs for tomorrow night, Mema’s 63rd birthday party.

Tuesday night we took the longest, most expensive cab ride yet, to a remote gated community called Los Hidalgos, where Elio and Mema sought refuge three years ago after they were chased out of their house and business--a grocery store--by a gang demanding exorbitant “protection” fees and threatening to kill their grandchildren if they did not comply. Since they both thrive on hard work, they have been literally sick without anything productive to occupy their time.

But this night would be different. With contributions from their (grown) children, food was abundant, including four different kinds of meat. I joked that I’ve read Genesis but I didn’t even know there were four kinds of meat! And three birthday cakes. It was so wonderful to see Mema enjoying the gathering, though of course what made her happiest was making sure everyone else was well served. I have not seen the family so happy in years. The boys were pressing for an early exit, so we could get to the dodge ‘em cars one more time, but even they succumbed to the good times, as Mema and Elio and practically everyone else fussed over them and gave them little jobs to do like passing out the cake. At the end, Elio drove us home, while Mema stayed behind with the last guests; with traffic so light and a direct route, we arrived in minutes, but I know Elio was wishing Mema could have gone along.

We got up before dawn to dispatch Marcos to Tocoa on the Mirna Bus, while Chemo, Dionis, and I got the Reyes Bus back to Victoria/Las Vegas. Long trips, both, but we got home about 2 hours before Marcos did. We kept in touch the whole way by cell phone, and finally, after dark, Marcos could report he had crossed the log bridge over the creek by his house, his sister Rosa waiting for him with supper, “and it was still hot,” to quote my favorite line in literature at the end of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are.”

When we got back, the annual festival had already begun in Victoria, dedicated to the Black Christ, a devotion inspired by a shrine in Esquipulas, Guatemala, that has attracted pilgrims for a century, ever since the “miraculous” crucifix in the church mysteriously turned black. You may remember I talked about the festival observance last August when a big crowd of us at a “cabildo,” or open meeting in Victoria voted to ban the very popular “beer-booths” this year. Guess what? It didn’t take. There were still at least 10 beer vendors, their rusty refrigerators stocked full. Well, our pastor Padre Jaime wasted no time drafting a letter to the mayor reminding him of the commitment to clean up the disorder. Jaime even hinted at “consequences” of breaking the “law,” which we were all told in August was the force of the democratic decision taken at the officially sanctioned “cabildo.” But, you know, when you have to pass a law in a supposedly Christian community to suppress public drunkenness during a week-long celebration of God’s mercy in Christ--I mean, haven’t you lost already?

On the other hand, Las Vegas’ contribution to the vigil on Saturday night--the Seven Last Words of Christ on the Cross--was so well done and so moving that I guess I really believed Jesus: “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.” The drunks are really just a distraction from the sinfulness we all indulge in and choose to excuse or ignore. Each “word” included a short introduction read by Carmen Hernandez, a “dramatization” by the Youth Group, a brief commentary by a delegado, a penitential song from the choir, and it drove home the reality of what Fr. John Kavanaugh of St. Louis University calls the “radical contingency” of our common humanity. Ultimately, we prayed, “O Lord, have mercy on me, the sinner” (Luke 18:13).

The next week, another excursion. Checking last year’s calendar confirmed that Chemo and I had gone on “vacation” with Fermin and Maria’s family in Morazan at this time. We sort of hated to pack up and go again, but we knew it would be worth it. Chemo loves to play with José Miguel, and this is our only chance all year to spend more than just a day or two with them. It’s also a great excuse for everyone to enjoy time together. So one day we went to Los Murillos, driving through at least six branches of the same river, where Fermin and María grew up and fell in love as teenagers back in the 80s. María’s mother and father still live there, and they just built a big new house, financed in large part by six of their children living and working in Charlotte, North Carolina. (María is the only sibling still in Honduras!) Another day we spent at another river, but not just any river; this was in the shadow of Pijol, the biggest mountain in Honduras. It won’t surprise you I’m sure if I say the highlight of every day was the abundant, delicious food! Please don’t call me a sexist if I say María really loves making great meals, which I facilitated in my humble way with the cash I gave her as soon as we arrived. “In case you need to get anything....”

Back home in Las Vegas, it had been so long since anyone showed up with a bloody cut that I had stopped stocking iodine, gauze, Neobol spray, and tape. Suddenly, an epidemic. First, my neighbor, sweet old Mina, 84, had a dizzy spell and fell and split her forehead open on the corner of a table; she was tended to by Dr. Meme at her own house, but you should have seen how fast the news spread and everyone came running to see how they could help. I did not have the Neobol, but I had some “cicartrizante” cream that was near expiration, which Meme was happy to apply. Eight stitches.

Next was Rene, 17, who I saw limping along about 3:00 in the afternoon a couple days later. “I cut myself clearing weeds.” Up in the mountains, in the early morning, with his machete. He had it all bound up with--get this--some leaves and a necktie. His mother is in San Pedro, awaiting an operation for cervical cancer. So I hustled him into my house, and, thinking we’d just sort of clean it up and put some band-aids on, I had him sit in the bathroom with Chemo, gently washing the wound just below his right knee. By the time they were finished, the bathroom floor was awash with blood. I swallowed hard and put the band-aids away. I called Doctor Rebeca, who said she’d be glad to help, but she was in La Ceiba! So I sent some other kids to find Dr. Meme, who sent word back to meet him in his private office at his mother’s house, just a block away. Rene said, “Miguel, is this gonna hurt?” In my calmest voice, I lied, “Not at all.” As I watched him grit his teeth and twist his arm around his head in pain, I felt pretty bad for deceiving him, but when he was all finished, he thanked me. Six stitches.

The very next day, Nahum brings me a little piece of paper with a prescription on it--for Neobol. “What’s this?” It was for his nine-year-old nephew Jonatan. He’d already been stitched up by Meme at the clinic, so I missed that drama, but I went over to the house, because it sounded pretty horrible. The poor kid was running to meet the bus that he thought his mother was coming on (she works in San Pedro and he only sees her once a month), and he ran right into some barbed-wire. It ripped a jag across his brow, somehow just missing his eyes. Thirteen stitches. His mother wasn’t even on that bus. She came later, and she had to treasure her child’s devotion.

Just as was toting up the score, here comes Alec, 13, very reluctantly, who has cut his foot on a piece of broken glass down at the swimming hole. Once he unwrapped his “bandages,” including the ever-present leaves, I could see, amidst all the crusted blood, that it was a straight cut, on the very sole of his left foot. I didn’t even think you could sew that up; kids that almost never wear shoes have soles as tough as any leather. But by the next day, I changed my mind. Alec, who’d obviously learned from Rene’s experience that it WOULD hurt, kept saying, “Miguel, don’t spend your money.” But I called Rebeca, who was back in town. “Bring him over, Don Miguel. We’ll take a look.” He went without too much resistance, hobbling on one foot. At first, Rebeca thought Meme should handle this. Why? “It’s been over twelve hours.” Uh-oh. Whose fault was that! But when I said I’d sprayed it with Neobol (a sort of medicinal super-glue, which I had by then re-stocked), she felt more confident, and started assembling her gear. Poor Alec lay face down across the chairs on the porch, and I did my best to calm him and hold him steady as Rebeca injected his foot over and over again with anesthetic. It was waterboarding without the water. Small and wiry, Alec likes to sort of peacock around like a tough guy, but now he was reduced to sobbing and sniffling like a baby. I think that hurt him more than the syringe. Three stitches. Just three, but it was slow going. No thank-you’s from Alec, but by the afternoon, he was his old self, sassing and shorting all comers.

I just got a batch of Christmas cards! Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow! Wonderful to hear from you! Some folks frown on “Christmas letters,” you know, with all the family doings from the past year. I read them like Scripture, I’m so eager for news. I had just checked a week before with Mercedes, the very nice woman who handles the mail in Victoria, whether I had any “correspondencia.” Nothing right now, she told me. Then, this sudden drop. She actually came to Las Vegas to deliver the cards personally. So I guess somewhere in the system they had held up the mail for the holidays. That’s fine, I love getting Christmas cards in the “summer”! They can double as Valentines.

It was the Grinch who just visited my neighbor Juana’s house next door. Juana, along with sons Donaldo, 18, Carlitos, 13, and daughter Isabel, 10, and Juana’s dad were all visiting family up in the mountains for a few days. Some kid broke into the house (it’s not hard here, most “locks” yield to a kick), and carted off all of the boys’ clothes, her dad’s shoes, a pair of shoes of dear old Julia who died last May that Juana had been saving as a memento, some nice curtains they were hopefully storing for a new house, a couple bottles of “lotion,” or cologne that serves as deodorant down here. The jerk even took the home phone! How he got all of this stuff out without being noticed--he must have had at least two big bags--no one knows. It was the middle of the day! Actually, I saw him myself. A teen from Guachipilin, 16, some say 18. The kids around here had warned me before that he was a thief; of course, they told me that after I’d already let him in the house a couple times to watch TV with them. The day of the robbery, he was sitting outside my house. I assumed he was waiting for me, but I was on my way out to someplace, so I think I maybe slipped him 20 Lempiras. I guess I just whet his appetite! He is distinguished by a scar on his upper lip. I always thought it was probably from a cleft palate; now I’m thinking it’s more likely from a fight!

Juana was brave enough--or desperate enough, she just looked so hurt and stressed out, on the verge of tears--to go to Victoria to the police. Well, I’ve already told you about our police in Honduras (see http://www.stltoday.com/news/national/police-switch-sides-as-crime-booms/article_bdfdb1e7-3a2a-574c-a248-8b51f13f1afa.html), so you know what help they were. Right now, he’s still at large, and has no doubt disposed of his haul. And he’s family! the son of Juana’s sister-in-law. Chemo gave Carlitos a pair of shorts and he gave his Cardinals shirt to Donaldo. That’s the shirt my sister Barb got for Chemo when I was in St. Louis. Chemo asked my “permission,” and, if you know my sister, you know she wouldn’t object; she’s the most compassionate person on the planet; she’ll “clothe the naked” all day long! I sort of waited for that “Wonderful Life” moment, you know, when the whole town rallies to reverse George Bailey’s misfortune; failing that, I made my own contribution to the family, at least enough for a couple “mudadas” (change-of-clothes).

Meanwhile, also pulling at the heartstrings and the pursestrings was Chemo’s sister Aureliana, actually half-sister, same father, but by his first wife, who died when Aureliana was only 4 (she’s 38 now). Plagued by stomach problems, she came to stay a few days with Natalia, hoping for some relief. So again we enlisted Dr. Rebeca, who loaded her up with Mylanta, among other things, and performed a bunch of tests, first of all for pregnancy! That was negative, “Thank God!” said Aureliana. Even her two-year-old Armando (who the kids call “Gringo” because he’s practically albino) says “NO!” to another brother or sister. Chemo just loves these little tykes like Armando and Rosa’s Tonito in Tocoa. They drive most people crazy, they’re like perpetual-motion machines, but for Chemo they are his own “Lost Boys.”

Next month, school starts and I’ll also report on my trip to Mexico for the wedding of former Parkway North student, Christy Tharenos. Can’t wait!

Thank you for remembering us down here; I might echo the great Etta James, who just passed. “At last, my love has come along.” First, last, and always, that’s you.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2012

The Beacon just published my “Christmas Letter”:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/114939-letter-from-honduras-nice-news-for-the-holiday

“FURTHER”

By my calculations, this is the 100th edition of ESTA ES SU CASA, dating back to June of 2003. If you have been along for the long strange trip, like Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters’ bus “Further,” I just have one question: who’s driving?

As December began, I felt like the opening line of Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”: “The Grandmother did not want to go to Florida.” Every step we took could have been our last, or at least I began to hope so. Would we go to Tocoa at the eastern extreme of Honduras, to visit Chemo’s sister Rosa, 24, and brother Marcos, 15? Or would we go to Tras-Cerros at the western extreme to visit Chemo’s mother Rufina? Or, God forbid, both? If it were a big circle, it would at least feel like progress, but it’s a slingshot--a very long and slow slingshot--no where there.

I was pushing for a compromise, with Marcos meeting us at the halfway point, in El Progreso, to go to Rufina, because Marcos would be spending Christmas with us in Las Vegas, so he was the key, as far as I was concerned. But Chemo was making Tonito, Rosa’s little four-year-old terror, the top priority. Chemo loves that kid! So I saw the writing on the wall, and it was all dollar signs.

Now, I ask you, if a mother wants to see her children, wouldn’t she live a little closer to them? But there’s enough poverty in this family, including all its broken history, that I feel it my duty to keep connecting Chemo--and Marcos--with their mother, at whatever cost. Chemo was ambivalent. “I just saw her in July,” when we went for her birthday. Maybe it is harder for him to see her than not, if he has to start from scratch, emotionally speaking, every time. So maybe we’d cut off that whole leg of the trip. “It’s too much money for you to spend,” he said. Was I turning him into a cheapskate like myself, pricing his own mother out of his circle of concern? Or, more likely, was he gauging how he’d spend whatever we saved on more soccer shoes, clothes, CDs, and other stuff? Either way, I was determined not to surrender to cynicism.

But I did drag my feet some, hoping for more clarity. First, we needed to wait for Mariana Teresa’s second birthday December 2, which I described in the November CASA. And then, when Santos--Chemo’s half-brother--and Alba’s daughter Cecilia (“Chila”) would be turning 15 on December 6, we couldn’t miss that, because the “Quinceanera” marks the traditional turn from a girl to a young lady. Ordinarily we would miss it, because the family would have already long since headed for the mountains of El Transito to pick coffee for three or four months. But, what with the new baby, whose name they modified to Alba Suyapa, instead of the homage to Alba’s mother Natalia that I was pushing for, they postponed their departure. In fact, I was sure that the new-born was really too little to be carting her off to the cold and lonely hills. But here babies don’t get babied.

Chila really is already a young lady. During the difficult days of Alba’s pregnancy, she managed the house, including making our supper every night, all the while working her way successfully through third grade at school. But they made a lovely little birthday party for Chila. For the cake, Profe Flor made a masterpiece, a blend of strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla, decorated like a French palace, complete with a little figurine “15” on top.

But then, we had to get going. We could not even wait for the big exodus to El Transito, because who knew how long our pilgrimage was all going to take, with possible stops in El Progreso and Morazan as well. And I thought we might be having visitors for Christmas, so we better be home when they arrived!

We were pretty lucky the first day. Leaving at 5:00 a.m., five hours to El Progreso, where we jumped on a bus to Tocoa just waiting for us, it seemed. At first I thought, oh no, we can’t take this bus, it’s old and crowded. We’d always taken these big, sort of Megabuses before to Tocoa. But I quickly came to my senses, as Chemo was pulling me along. “Let’s get on! Let’s get on!” He was right, of course, because it’s not the bus, it’s the road. And this road was paved. But it was crowded, enough that when we stopped for a quick lunch break at a big cafeteria, Chemo started sharing his food with a woebegone little boy whose mother couldn’t afford the touristy prices; I followed his lead and gave the child the rest of my soda.

Five more hours to Tocoa, the village of Juan Antonio, to be exact, where Marcos met us at the highway and we started the hike up the road. He and Chemo picked up right where they left off a year ago, teasing and poking, and Chemo grabbing Marcos’ cell phone, which Marcos had bought with money he earned milking cows.

But the river, would the river be a problem? I’m such a baby, I treat it like the Red Sea, when it’s no more than a creek, but I just imagine slipping off the stepping stones and wetting myself (you should excuse the expression) with no chance of drying off in the rainy, cloudy climate. “There’s a bridge now!” Marcos assures us. Well, then, I’m saved. We round a bend in the road and I see, or strain to see, the “bridge.” “That’s not a bridge, that’s a branch!” A tree trunk stripped of its bark, with a kink in it like the old Chain of Rocks Bridge that gave me nightmares my entire childhood, thrown across the gorge. With one deaf ear, I have little sense of balance, so I was ready to give up. A little closer, I could see a cable stretched above it, for a handrail, of sorts. OK, maybe.

I gave Marcos my backpack, and he scurried across like a squirrel, while I placed one foot in front of another in a very poor imitation of Philippe Petit crossing between the Twin Towers. Good night nurse, it’s only like forty seconds from one end to the other and I’m praying (cursing?) like a madman. But, I made it, the cable imprinted in my desperate hand. Chemo didn’t even attempt it; he skipped across the stepping stones we crossed last year, but even he misstepped, plunged one leg up to his knee in the water, as Marcos’ cell phone popped out of his pocket right into the river.

We regrouped at the house a few minutes later, where Rosa, Tonio, and of course Tonito welcomed us. Chemo had retrieved the cell phone, and I grabbed it from him. “Where’s the rice?” I had just seen a piece on Yahoo News, What to Do If You Drop Your Cell Phone in a River, or something like that. Remove the battery, and bury the phone in (uncooked!) rice overnight, to dry it out. This is Honduras, so there’s no shortage of rice in a kitchen; Rosa had a big plastic jar full of it right on the counter. Of course, she had to dig around the phone when it came time to fix supper, but by golly, next morning it worked! One tiny grain lodged inside.

You know what? Rosa is actually...a little plump. That’s a good thing, since she was literally on the verge of death a couple years ago when we took her to the same brigada of heart surgeons that had saved Chemo’s life in 2008. They opted for medication rather than surgery, and she’s been backing off the brink ever since. Tonio, too, has been easier on her, since she walked out on him and holed up with Tonito at our place in Las Vegas a couple months last year. Taming Tonito is like a box of spiders, but he’s talking a little better, so at least you know what you’re saying “No” to. First thing he says to me, “Miguel, I’m not saying ‘puta’ anymore.” The equivalent of the F-word. He’s not saying it any less, either! We quickly lost count. It’s not an easy habit to break when your mom and dad still punctuate with it, too. Kindergarten’s gonna be a blast.

My big plan was a Day at the Mall, or a couple hours anyway. So on Saturday, everyone dressed up and we rode the bus into town. (After I swung like a drunken trapezer hanging onto that cable across the log-bridge.) Now, you have to sort of suspend disbelief here. I mean, this is a mall whose “anchor” store is a Wendy’s. Everyone wanted fried chicken, except me (a “Cheddar Lover’s” burger). Afterwards, Marcos, Chemo, and Tonito played for at least an hour in the Playground. Then a shopping spree at the super market, where Rosa loaded up the cart. And I threw in some chocolate, a Hershey bar or two. There was a big soccer game on a big screen in the “atrium,” with rows and rows of chairs set up, but I was looking for Santa Claus, for Tonito, you know. Only later did I express my frustration: “We never saw Santa!” Chemo says, “Oh, he was there, he was watching the game!”

Chemo’s used to the big city experience, Tonio’s a bull, and I’m a gringo--but that night everyone else got sick. Whether it was all that food, or just the chocolate, or the combination of the two, I felt bad that I’d made an affliction out of an invitation. Still, I’d rather die eating chocolate than live a thousand years on humus.

“Let’s go!” Chemo wanted to get going--but where? Marcos, who had not seen Rufina in a year, wanted to see their mother. Chemo still toyed with skipping that part. Marcos, it must be said, is hardly demonstrative. You have to be very patient to “read” his feelings; he might agree with you just to accommodate you. But even Chemo seemed to get the message. When he told me to call Rufina and tell her we weren’t coming, I handed him the phone when she answered. “You tell her,” I said. He did not hesitate. “Mommy, we’re coming, we’re coming tomorrow.” Sweet!

That night before we left was the national championship game between Chemo’s favorite team Olimpia and Real España. It’s the first time in a while that I sat and watched a whole soccer game, but we were at Rosa’s neighbor Consuelo’s house, the only place around with a TV, so I thought I better be polite. It was actually fun! Virtually the entire game was played at Real España’s end of the field (or “pitch,” for you purists), but even firing shot after shot, Olimpia could not score, till the last 4 minutes of the game, a weird ball that snuck in right between the Real España goalie’s crouching legs. Chemo went crazy! The recap was funny; the commentator says, “Well, it’s difficult to evaluate Olimpia’s goalie performance, since Real España NEVER GOT OFF A SHOT!”

Early Monday morning, we crossed the stick-bridge before dawn; the log was wet and slippery, and I moved slower than ever. Meanwhile, a couple of pick-ups drove right through the river, carrying workers to their daily tasks. “I should have waited for a ride,” I kept repeating like a mantra till I finally landed on the other side, an emotional wreck, scared to death of a river 30 feet across and a foot deep....

We hiked to the main road, and just as we got there, a bus to Tocoa rumbles past; I waved and yelled, but it did not stop. “Why didn’t it stop?” I kept repeating, as if I could reverse reality. But a couple minutes later, I got my answer. A great big blue bus approached and...stopped! An express to San Pedro Sula! We quickly squeezed Rosa and Tonito goodbye and clambered aboard and snuggled into the big comfortable seats. Thank God we “missed” the other bus! We’d be there in no time, that is, about 6 hours.

We had two delays. First, a horrible accident with the vehicles still steaming and folks climbing and falling out of a bus as big as ours and a pickup and another car, a mass of twisted metal and debris. A couple minutes earlier, it could have been us. The only dead thing I saw was a dog on the side of the road, maybe the cause of the whole thing, if someone swerved to avoid it.

Then, near Progreso, teachers had blocked the road at a bridge, demanding pay for their comrades who had worked a whole year without it. We were so far back in the stalled traffic that I did not see how they were finally dispersed, but as we got closer, at least I did not detect any tear gas.

In San Pedro Sula, we had time to get lunch at the huge bus terminal before catching the next bus to the Guatemalan border. We ate everything in sight! And washed it down with a gallon of cold Fresca. We got it to go, so we wouldn’t miss the bus, and sat on the ramp, spreading ourselves out like a picnic. People stared, sympathetically, like we were refugees or something.

It’s a “quick” trip to Tras-Cerros, just over two hours. As we stepped off the bus, Fidel, Rufina’s beloved companion, was waiting. He’s as delicate as a dancer, but strong as a bull. Rosa had packed up three enormous bags of stuff (plates and dishes, pots and pans, and clothes and shoes) that Rufina had left behind when she and Fidel and Don Cruz fled Tocoa after being assaulted almost a year ago. Tras-Cerros is Fidel’s home town, and Don Cruz’, too. Fidel carried everything, stopping only once to shift weight.

At the house, the boys immediately fell into into mommy mode, and Rufina answered in kind. I pulled up a chair to talk with Don Cruz, now 92. “Estoy terminando, Miguel.” “I’m done.” He said it so finally, so matter-of-factly, I thought he meant he was literally about to die. But he clarified, “I can’t work anymore, legs won’t take me.” So Old School, so noble, salt of the earth. If you can’t work, you’re done. “Retirement” is surrender. Becoming a burden for someone else, a humiliation. Of course, Rufina and Fidel never mention such things; he is and always will be their “patron,” the man in charge. And I wouldn’t let it pass, either; I started with questions only he could answer, history, customs, politics, frontiers, and the Bible, which he still reads daily, and without glasses! I’ve had “cheaters” since I was 12, and ol’ Don Cruz can still read the Fine Print in his 90s. No, he ain’t done yet!

I question my own capacity among such poor folks, such poor food, such poor accommodations, all offered with such readiness. I could really do with a little humiliation myself. Three meager beds: I slept with Chemo, Marcos slept with his mom, Fidel slept with Don Cruz. Bedtime: 6:30 p.m. I was so tired from our travels that I thought I would make it through the night with no problem, till I woke at midnight, ready to rise. I listened to podcasts till dawn, dozing fitfully.

Chemo wanted to leave after one day, I was thinking three. Marcos, as usual, was noncommittal. We settled on two. And what would be the next step? To Progreso and Morazan, or straight back to Las Vegas? We owed another visit to Santa and the family in Progreso, and to Fermin and Maria in Morazan, but it seemed like a slog up Everest to stay on tour. I had not changed my clothes or bathed in a week. So a night at a hotel in Progreso was enticing, where we could clean up and eat at Pizza Hut, and the Internet would finally work. Chemo saw it as a chance for a shopping spree at the mall. This is so lame, don’t you think? The poor do not live in intervals, where a few jump-cuts of joy sustain them for the long haul. But I know my limits, or I say I do, to excuse myself.

The boys thought they would go to pick coffee with Fidel, but bouts of rain kept us cooped up all morning. A break in the weather let us walk into town for groceries, as well as some hardware to install another couple of lights in the house. The neighborly electrician patched things together in no time.

Rufina, in her very quiet way, clearly longed for more time, even as we rose early on Wednesday to make the bus to San Pedro Sula. “Don’t go today, look, it’s raining.” I gave her some cash that could get her to Tocoa, to visit Rosa, Tonio, and Tonito--and Marcos once he gets back home. Was I paying her off? I don’t know.

We slogged through the mud to get to the bus, but once aboard, the most amazing thing happened. The driver turns on a flat TV screen mounted in the front, and up comes the original “Home Alone”! It kept the boys--and me--entertained all the way to San Pedro. And I was crying! I mean, the kid wished his family away, but he missed them so much, he got them back. Meanwhile, I quizzed Chemo and Marcos both: Progreso? Morazan? Home alone? Chemo was inclining now to a return to Las Vegas, but he sure would love that mall-stop.

Even in San Pedro, we were undecided. I headed us toward a cab to take us to a bus to Progreso--I’d already called Dora in Las Vegas, telling her not to expect us till, maybe, Friday or even Saturday--when Chemo said, “I’m hungry now; let’s eat here.” So we repeated virtually the same lunch we ate three days before. A do-over. Then the cab, and you know, sometimes you have to think outside the box, and sometimes you have to think outside the Big Box. As we passed a mall just a couple blocks from the terminal, I suddenly thought, “What are we doing! If we’re going to Progreso to go to a mall, here’s a mall right here!” I stopped the cab in mid-career, and set the picture for the boys. “If we get our stuff here--fast--we can still catch the bus to Las Vegas. All in favor...”

There are actually two malls, side by side, in San Pedro, one fancy, one fancier. I was just confused enough that we ended up at the fancier one. I’ve never spent so much on so little in my life! It’s a week before Christmas, right? Sales galore. The sports store said Up to 70% Off. Except anything we wanted. Soccer shoes, socks, shorts, jerseys, and a ball, 300 dollars. Merry Christmas! I had to tell myself, it’s worth it; this is professional-grade equipment; it won’t fall into rags so quickly. And look at all the money we were saving by not going to Progreso, etc., easily 300 bucks. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Anyway, we scampered back to the terminal, where Porfirio’s bus soon appeared, and we settled in for the long ride home. Like old Don Cruz, we were “done.”

The Posadas were set to begin the next night, a wandering chain of visits in imitation of Mary and Joseph seeking shelter in Bethlehem, with Christmas carols, bible readings, and a dash of preaching. Last year about 12 or 15 folks would show up; this year participation exploded, 60 and 70 each night. The kids would cart my chairs house to house in the afternoon, but I’ve only got about 40, so plenty of folks still had to stand. No one complained.

The string of visits was interrupted Dec. 23 by a Mass and wedding. Nahum and Erika were the lovely couple, and it was so simple, rustic, you might say, but so nice. Chemo says, “How are they getting married? They’ve already got two kids!” Yes, well, this is special. And it was special; they held their reception at their house, a sprawling ranch, a legacy over a hundred years old, passed down generation to generation in Nahum’s family. And what with holiday cantinas springing up on every street, Nahum and Erika welcomed their guests to an alcohol-free celebration. The true Spirit of the Season.

Speaking of relationships, the U.S. government just announced the end of the Peace Corps in Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador, citing the lethal level of violence in those countries. Everybody leaves in January. I’ve met Peace Corps volunteers ever since I started coming to Honduras, and no one has been a victim of violence, thank God, and I’m sure the volunteers willingly accept the risks. I just hope “Big Sis” Napolitano doesn’t try to chase me out, too.

But who needs “foreigners” anyway? The original Youth Group begun back in the 1980s by Cristina (“Titina”) Castro took advantage of the Season to stage a party in her honor. They’re old enough now to have teens themselves in the current Youth Group, but that first group was special. It was my own introduction to Las Vegas, and, as led by Cristina, they marveled that no one has abandoned their Christian faith. In fact, the only reason Cristina agreed to the fete, I’m sure, is that she saw another chance to share the message she has shared her whole life. You know, sometimes the topic of “women priests” is controversial; for Cristina, ordination would be a step down. She’s in a category by herself, a prophet! Over the years, battling Parkinson’s and other debilities, her voice has softened some, but her Spirit is just as strong as ever. She preached and then, “I’m going to sing now.” Everyone joined in, we were kids again.

I wish Chemo had a Titina. I watch closely for every sign of grace. While he’s on break from school, I have him read the Gospel every day. I try to get Marcos interested, too, but his reading level is so low, we have to go letter by letter. He’s a candidate for Special Education, clearly, but where’s the Special Educator? They do fill my heart when they get up early to go with Dionis, Natalia’s 14-year-old, to climb into the rough hills to collect firewood, and return hours later loaded down and exhausted. The firewood, of course, is for cooking our supper, which, in Alba’s absence, Natalia, Alba’s mother, so kindly prepares. The food is great, her smile even better.

Angelita prepared a birthday party for her brother Ery, who turned 24 on December 30. Think of it. Down Syndrome has tried to claim his life any number of times over the years, but real regard for him has been even more elusive; he’s sort of a toy in the community. Angelita is unembarrassed by the affection she showers on him.

The Merry Pranksters never reached their destination. They never went further enough.
Even they “did not want to go to Florida.” Flannery O’Connor’s story is comic, tragic, above all revelatory.

On December 22, Alice, Teresa Jorgen’s eldest sister, succumbed to Alzheimer’s at age 64. When I visited her with Teresa, she was fading, but serene and pure. There was such peace and love at her passing that you could almost hear the little bells tinkling when Alice got her wings. A grandmother herself, she really went all the way, all the way to “Florida,” that destiny that binds us all together.

Even Christopher Hitchens got on the bus. He was my favorite atheist; he wouldn’t bow to any god, including the idol of self-importance. He was so witty, so contentious, and so drunk a lot of the time that his “greatest hits” are making the rounds of the Internet. But I think, ultimately, he will be remembered for the column he wrote about the death of Lt. Mark Daily, whose service in Iraq Hitchens’ writings had inspired. Hitchens’ struggle with his responsibility is a lesson in morality just as strict as the Sermon on the Mount.
http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2007/11/hitchens200711

God-denier though he was, Hitchens here seems bathed in the faith of those the great theologian Karl Rahner called “anonymous Christians.”

The poor are mostly anonymous all the time. As I start another hundred of these newsletters--and I promise they won’t all be this long!--all I want to do, God willing, is tell their stories, just a nudge, if you will, to go a little further.

We burned the “Old Man,” 2011, on New Year’s Eve, glad to be rid of his death-grip on our dreams. Stuffed with firecrackers, he met a fitting end. Now for 2012, our last chance, if the Mayans are to be believed....

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2011

THE NICE SECTION

Chemo passed fourth grade! I think I mentioned this before, but now we have documentation. On November 30, the students got their “certificado.” Chemo’s teacher Juana Maria had him and a few other kids spend an extra week after classes ended November 4, to sort of compensate for his near miss by helping clean up the classroom and doing some extra exercises.

So, while the teachers prepared their final grades, Chemo and I celebrated, first, with a trip to Tegucigalpa. Chemo had not been there since last June for his heart checkup, so he had a lot of eating to catch up on. We started right away, with a meal right at the Nankin Hotel as soon as we checked in. In Las Vegas, we eat chicken at least 12 times a week at lunch and dinner, but the fried chicken dinner at Nankin--outstanding! You just can’t help it, you gotta have it. Especially after a long bus trip.

We took Mema and Elio out to lunch the next day, to their favorite restaurant Mirawa. Mema was feeling pretty bad, so we did our best to cheer her up. “Can I order something special?” she said. She had in mind some fish. The server asked, “Small, medium, or large?” We drew a consensus for medium, but when it arrived, after all the other dishes had already been served, it was as big as Flipper, I swear, but fried. “This is medium?” So we all helped, you know, just to be nice....

Chemo got new clothes. I knew that was coming, but we did have to negotiate the soccer shoes a bit. The upscale shop at the mall had a 50 percent off sale, but most of them were still way out of reach. And the clever clerk wasn’t helping. “The blue ones? They look great on you!” I favored the black ones, at half the half price of the blue. When Chemo went over to check out some others, at full price, along the wall, I whispered to the guy, “You gotta help me. Please!” He got the message, and talked Chemo into the black ones. “They fit better, don’t they?” But Chemo gets some credit, for his own yielding to reality. And we compensated with Puma socks.

The victory lap picked up again the next week, with our patented combo trip to El Progreso and Morazan. In Progreso we celebrated a couple more birthdays, of Argentina (“Tina”), the long-suffering matriarch of the family, and Yulissa, 16, one of her granddaughters, whose mother Santa fancies herself my “girlfriend”; she wanted to know where the engagement ring was that I supposedly promised I would bring from the States. I distracted her by betting a number in the rather elaborate daily games she runs. I really don’t know if it’s a legal pursuit, but it keeps her and Catalina, her sister-in-law, pretty busy. I bet 65, Tina’s birthday age. That was at lunch. Then Chemo and I went off to the new mall and spent some more and ate some more.

In the evening, we got pizzas and chicken wings at Pizza Hut for the official birthday party, as we waited for the numbers. At 9:00 they announce the Lotto winners on TV; these are Santa’s “winners,” too. When 65 actually came up in a row of four balls, I almost fell off my chair! “That’s not OUR number,” Santa quickly clarified. Of course not. “Our” number was the single ball that popped up in the next round, 49, but I kept insisting I had won, even when they walked us back to the hotel after we had enjoyed the birthday cake.

Then, the next morning, to Morazan. Fermin had already warned us that he would be tied up with schoolwork in the morning, so we took our time, to arrive around noon. But Maria was home, so I gave her a wad of cash as soon as I could, for some food, an un-birthday celebration, you might say. And she came through, with help from daughter Esly, about to graduate from ninth grade. Lunch was great, supper even better, featuring Maria’s own fantastic fried chicken, and everyone could relax. But I’ll tell you what, the thing I most enjoy is just watching Chemo play with the other kids, soccer, naturally, whether it’s Santa’s kids in Progreso or Fermin’s in Morazan. And we went “downtown” to get more soccer shoes; Chemo was being coy, but I figured out he’d promised to give a pair to his cousin Dionis back in Las Vegas. I couldn’t get upset, really, since Dionis gets no “extras” from his own very poor family.

Besides Chemo, there were other finishers, including Dionis, who “graduated” sixth grade, and hopes for a smooth transition to “high school” next year. It’s a big gap to leap across successfully. As Profe Flor, the principal, said at the closing ceremony November 30, at least half the seventh graders have to “recuperate” some courses in January or flunked outright. Among them is Hector, the artist, whose work you have admired. I knew he was slipping away; he hasn’t done a drawing in months.

Elvis, Jr., “Tito,” who had nearly fallen in the chasm himself when he had to “make up” four courses after seventh grade, graduated ninth grade free and clear, and looks forward now to a career in computers. It fits him perfectly, a sort of introvert, and left-handed, so you know he’s intuitive. He can start with the stupid little MP-3 player I just gave Chemo, which we can’t makes heads or tails of.

Mariela, daughter of Juan Blas and Maricela, graduated one step higher still, a “post-graduate” degree, three years past ninth grade, Honduras’ version of a “Bachelor’s.” She is the eldest, and would love to continue to the university, dreaming even of becoming a doctor, but money in this case is not just a gap, it’s the Grand Canyon. Really, only by my paying (with your help!) the family’s weekly grocery bill all these years could she get even this far. And her sister Milena is right behind her, finishing a “bachillerato” in Progreso, with some help from her young uncle Manuel, himself struggling to make ends meet, with a job in the morning and Psychology classes in the afternoon.

The ceremony was lovely but so staid and formal that it seemed like a parody of a graduation. UNTIL Angel Ramirez took the floor. The graduates themselves invited him, because of his wonderful help with their “practica” in La Ceiba, where Angel now lives. The principal Maribel Barahona did not even want to issue the invitation because Angel does not have a “degree.” He’s not credentialed, don’t you know. Angel was my first best friend in Honduras when his mother Olimpia cooked my lunch and supper in Las Vegas 30 years ago. So when I saw him at the head table, I was just begging the protocol gods to let him speak! He turned the place upside down. He had a tiny piece of paper with about six lines on it, and he gave a stem-winder on each point, more impassioned at every turn. His theme: you don’t need a degree to succeed as a person! Guess who he cited? That’s right, Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, etc. As he insisted, he wasn’t putting down “education,” just the big head that may accompany it. His own “graduation” was from alcoholism, thanks to A.A., and I have to say this is the first time I’ve heard him tell his story without tears, but I think he wanted to show Mariela and her companions how far he had come. I wanted to leap to my feet in cheers when he finished, but I settled for the photo op as the principal smiled politely when the class presented Angel with a plaque.

Mariela inspired her father to go back to school, to finish his own high-school diploma in a program sponsored by the parish called “Maestro en Casa,” a home-study routine with week-end meetings for tests and exams. Graduations here are as big as weddings, and unfairly costly. A few years ago, when Padre Chicho heard Maestro en Casa was planning a big affair in Victoria, he put his foot down. “This is education for the poor! You’re not gonna charge them for bottles of champagne on every table!” Things have been very simple ever since. It really is the best educational bargain around.

But folks do like to celebrate, even when they don’t have to. So we delegados (lay ministers) were pretty much overwhelmed with all the “secret” preparations that the Legion of Mary, the catechists, and the youth group coordinated to honor us on the “Day of the Delegado” last Sunday. There were skits, and games, and a big lunch, and not just for those of us in Las Vegas; they had invited all the delegados from the surrounding villages, too, and their spouses, of course, and kids. It wasn’t champagne, it was even fizzier!

Speaking of fizz, when the first moto-taxi appeared in Las Vegas, I thought it was mere fluff. “It’s a village!” I said. Everything is within “walking distance”! But Noelvis, the driver, is the nicest guy, and, I suppose just like cell phones, what began as a curiosity has become a necessity. And now there are two! Oh, the competition. I finally broke down and used it myself when Chemo completed the first step to his “majority,” applying at the local office of the National Registry of Persons in Victoria--which is way past “walking distance,” at least for this Old Gringo--for his official state I.D., issued when you turn 18, but you can apply at age 17. I knew we would miss the bus back to Las Vegas, so I called Noelvis to come get us. We laughed the whole way! It’s the funniest little contraption, running like a rabbit over holes and hills and creeks, threatening to flip over at any moment.

Maybe it doesn’t qualify as “nice” news, but it’s funny enough to make the cut, and that’s how the Liberal Party has broken up into about 6 or 8 splinter “movements” to accommodate every zig or zag taken by Mel Zelaya, the president ousted in a coup three years ago. His egomania has not diminished, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’s nominated his own wife as the next presidential candidate for all the fledgling mini-parties. It’s such an obvious power grab that even Mel’s staunchest loyalists, priding themselves of course on their principle, are forcing Mel to agree to proper primary elections for SOME kind of competition for Mrs. Mel. But it’s not just dumb; it’s illegal. Any political movement that wants to be registered with the Election Tribunal to get a place on the ballot has to have its own, unique candidate for president. It’d be like the Republican Party, the Tea Party, the Libertarian Party, the Constitutional Party, the Propeller Hat Party (Chris Matthews’ term, referring to some Democrats), and a half-dozen more, all running Ron Paul for President, just to cover all the bases, add up all the votes and beat Obama.

Of course, “legal” is a pretty flexible word in Honduras. But, as I reported last month, it’s gaining some new prestige, as Julietta Castellanos, with the strongest spine in the country, has single-handedly created her own “movement” to clean up the police, whose corruption has more layers than an onion, with new revelations and resignations daily. Her son was kidnaped and murdered by police, brazen enough to use their own squad car for the job, and she has been unrelenting in pushing for reform, using her position as president of the state university to get the word out. Even the President, Pepe Lobo, clears his speeches on the subject with her now. It’s scary, no doubt, since she’s making herself an obvious target for the international drug criminals who don’t like anyone ruffling their feathers. But she’d also make a great candidate for President, compared to Mrs. Mel, who is a “no-brainer,” you might say.

I had to delay this CASA just long enough to include Mariana Teresa’s second birthday on December 2. She’s the youngest of Maricela and Juan Blas’ children. Named for my sister Mary Anne and Teresa Jorgen, she sort of sums it all up, what Honduras means to me, and to you, I hope. Last year, her birthday cake was bad news; it was way underdone and rubbery. So we had Profe Flor do the job this year; her cakes are as big as the Rose Bowl but light as a feather. Mariana Teresa (“Mari-Te”) is not exactly graduating, but when a community buries a baby at least once a month, every birthday is a Ph.D.

And at a Mass that evening, Maricela asked Padre Jaime for a special blessing for Mari-Te. He said, “We’ll all bless her!”

Happy Holidays to all, and God Bless Us, Every One.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2011

As always, The Beacon shines its light on my Honduras:
http://cts.vresp.com/c/?St.LouisBeacon/46fd837fc6/f2d24133e9/cacd14b97d

ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR TIME

The October edition of the CASA came out just a couple weeks ago, so I could “cover” my time in St. Louis. This November edition offers the events, exhilarating and extreme, before and since.

September 15 is Independence Day in Honduras (and every other Central American country, when in 1821 the whole thing, then known as “Guatemala,” broke away from Mexico, which previously had broken away from Spain). There’s supposed to be a parade and other festivities, but every year the teachers union tries to strangle any celebration, first, because all the expenses for uniforms and fancy clothes only serve to enrich the 1% (Jews and Arabs, for you conspiracy theorists), and, second, because celebrating the “independence” of a beautiful country, yes, but one ruined by a servile, corrupt ruling class is pure hypocrisy. All true, but neither of these rants impresses the students who can’t wait for one day of glory. The “Cuadro de Honor” is especially exciting for the parents of the top students in each grade. And the kindergartners, as cute as cupcakes, get to hang with the big kids, as they join the drum corps, the pom-pons, the drill team, and the dancers in the grand event winding its way through town.

Of course, this takes lots of preparation, eating up gobs of class time (another objection from the more conscientious as the mandated 200 days of class dwindle, not to mention strikes and other stoppages. All the kids participate, and, in an ideal world, all of them would march. But as the teachers put the kids through their paces, they start a sorting process, the more adept kids taking the lead, with further breakdowns, group by group by group, till the last kids just walk along. That’s where Chemo ended up. I swore never to diminish him with criticism, but as I saw Dorita, Dorisell, and even little Anderson in the Cuadro de Honor, and Elvis, Jr., leading the band, I longed for some celebrity for Chemo. His teacher Juana Maria has treated him with great care and kindness, but she never singled him out--till now. She picked him and another “walker” to carry the big sign featuring the Founders. So he went from the back of the parade up to the front! I could barely conceal my pride, and I snapped enough pictures to jam my camera. I thanked Juana Maria over and over again; I was just so grateful. Chemo, of course, barely grasped the significance....

Then came my month in St. Louis, hammer and tongs.

Upon my return to Las Vegas, Chemo had a fistful of quizzes and tests that he had passed. And he had been on his best behavior. The fact is, he got much better parenting while I was gone, living with Dora and Elvis and their kids. And we were all excited by the birth of Alba’s baby. That’s the note I ended the October CASA with: “Life will have its say.”

But death whipped out its sword and cut one of the littlest and one of the oldest from our midst. We were eating supper over at Alba’s when Dora called, frantic and barely able to speak. “Miguel, where are you!” Little Yaciel, just 16 months old, son of Elvis’ sister Maria, had died. It hardly made sense; we’d all seen him earlier in the day, toddling along with his mommy. Some sudden attack and they were rushing him to the hospital in Yoro when he died on the way. They blamed it on “dengue,” a tropical version of a killer flu, but in retrospect it was probably a congenital condition that finally erupted. Reynieria, a neighbor, said the child was “morado” (purple) when they took him away. I thought, heart condition, and thanked God again for Chemo’s operation.

Maria and husband Ivan had actually gone by bus to Yoro with Yaciel, so they continued to the hospital, and by the time all was done that could be done, the last bus had left. So Elvin, a huge, solid guy, (not to be confused with Elvis, skinny and tall) drove his “ambulance” up there to bring them back. Meanwhile, we waited at the house. It was a horrible vigil, and I begged my sister Barb to text me the progress of the Cardinals World Series game. Fittingly enough, there was no progress; it was the night they were shut out; but the distraction was welcome nevertheless.

Just as the game ended in a 4-0 loss, the ambulance arrived, and so did the despair and screams and cries and floods of tears. Maria was a wreck and Ivan not much better. Their other son, Ivancito, 4, had stayed with Dora, in her lap, in fact. He could barely comprehend what had happened. According to Dora, the only thing he said was, “I can’t play with him anymore, because they have to take him up to the cemetery where they took Grandma Julia.” How ironic was it that this tragedy coincided with the six-month anniversary of Doña Julia’s death, Yaciel’s great-grandmother, and we had already started another novena.

Maria stayed mostly in her room during the wake, but when she came out and bathed Yaciel in her tears, and no one seemed to be planning anything, I borrowed a Bible and gleaned every passage in Matthew’s gospel where Jesus holds and blesses and defends “the little children” from their adult worriers.

The next day, after the funeral, I sought out Elvin to thank him for his mournful task. His eyes welled up in tears, as “tough” as he is. “It was a long ride.”

Another day, another departure. Doña Binda, 96, was gone. Her classic, handsome face, crowned in a wool of pure white hair, finally succumbed to the inevitable, a life 94-and-a-half years longer than Yaciel’s. In fact, I had already collected photos I had of Binda over the years, a folder that had transferred intact from my old to my new computer.

But that’s when I discovered that my HP printer wasn’t good enough anymore, no, no, no, not for the MacBook Pro! Not even after a download from HP to update it. So I went to Yoro, thinking it had to be a wild goose chase, to find a current, compatible printer in a technological backwater. I found one, the only one in town, I’m sure, an HP no less, but way fancier than I wanted, a printer-scanner-copier in one, with a price to match. But I bought it, figuring this was a lot cheaper than a two- or three-day trip to Tegucigalpa. When I connected it, it needed an update too, to raise it just one point. But it took so long to download, with my clunky dial-up Internet, well, let’s just say, it took all of Game 6 (the big one, with all the Cardinals’ comebacks, winning with David Freese’s walk-off homer in the 11th inning ) plus four more hours. At 2:00 in the morning (after that game, I could hardly sleep anyway!), I tried my first print job--the Honduras national anthem that Chemo will be tested on--and it worked! And I have to admit, I love the scanner, perfect for “capturing” Chepito’s drawings, and the copier feature, very convenient. (I gave the old printer to Elvis, along with extra ink cartridges I had bought in St. Louis.)

Then, just a week after Jaciel’s death, word came from Morazan that Ivan’s 11-year-old daughter by a previous relationship had died, the same way, the same suddenness, the same “dengue.” So a man with three children now has one, Ivancito, who is still way too...remote, waiting for his playmate.

Someone who would have been much better than I at telling these stories also bowed out last month, Fr. Dean Brackley, who volunteered back in 1989 to step into the fire--or crossfire--at the Jesuit university in San Salvador when 6 priests and 2 women were murdered one bloody night by a government-sponsored death squad. That was back when the U.S. was giving El Salvador a million dollars a day to suppress “dissent.” Teresa Jorgen took courses from him during a sabbatical; I only met him once, at a talk he gave at St. Louis University, but it was clear enough to leave a life-long impression. If I had not already decided on Honduras, I would have that night. And now, I somehow feel doubly called to a deeper commitment to the poor. If only!

I knew Dean was sick, but I thought he was recuperating. I did not know he had relapsed. Or maybe I did not want to know that he could leave us. The pancreatic cancer just did not quit. Here’s a link sent to me by dear friend Larry Mooney in St. Louis:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/10/29/world/americas/rev-dean-brackley-65-dies-moved-to-el-salvador-after-massacre.html?emc=eta1

The highest profile murder in Honduras right now is the kidnaping and “execution” of the son of Julieta Castellanos, the president of the national University. She has governed fearlessly this notoriously contradictory institution, paralyzed until her rule by teacher strikes, student strikes, maintenance strikes, construction strikes, bus strikes, strike strikes just for the heck of it. So suspects abound, but the really wicked part is that the killers were dressed like police; in fact, they ARE police. Given her position, she could follow the case more closely than the average citizen, and is unraveling enough threads of corruption already to force the resignation of the head of the police and his staff, for covering up and even destroying evidence. Suddenly, President Pepe Lobo, who has been strolling through his term with a grin and a shoe shine, isn’t smiling. Clearly, the scandal is lapping at his feet. But this is more than bad grades; it’s bad dope. Maybe you spotted on the Drudge Report the article about Honduras, the drug tunnel for cocaine from Venezuela to the U.S.:
http://hosted.ap.org/dynamic/stories/L/LT_HONDURAS_COCAINE_HUB?SITE=AP&SECTION=HOME&TEMPLATE=DEFAULT&CTIME=2011-10-30-10-55-42

There’s enough poison to kill all our sons--and daughters.

To light a candle, I include the scan of Chepito’s version of one of Bill McNichols’ icons. Bill sent a blank line drawing, and Chepito colored it in, and provided the decorative details. Do you find it as stunning as I do?

Today, November 2, All Souls Day, we went in little groups throughout the day up to the cemetery to pay respects to our departed friends and family. The day concluded with a special Mass, Fr. Manuel gathering up the whole community in prayer. “This is a day for memories, to remember. Let me invite you to share.” And folks spoke from the heart. Some times that’s all you have; some times that’s all you need. These CASAs are my memories....

The song quoted above, based on Ecclesiastes, is by Fr. John Kavanaugh:

All things have their time,
And all things pass away;
But, for those who love,
Time is eternity.

Thank you for your time.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2011

THE MISSION CONTINUES

My annual visit to St. Louis threatened to fall to pieces under the hammer-blow of
young Stephen Willey’s sudden death the day before I arrived in a head-on collision on a country road just a mile from his family’s home in Greenville, IL. The restoration began even before the funeral when his mom and dad Mary Ann and Dave sought out the truck driver, a neighbor with a young family of his own, to calm his feelings of shock and guilt and assure him that they bore him no ill will, they did not blame him: it was an accident, nobody’s fault. Can you imagine that embrace!

At the funeral, I paid tribute to Stephen and his dreams of becoming a fashion designer:
“Stephen is an artist, and you must say ‘is’ because art does not die. It carries the soul of the artist, like angels, into immortality. The greatest artist is God, and look what God gave us in Stephen! As light bursts into rainbows when flowing through a prism, God’s grace filled up with colors as it poured through Stephen’s soul. And the message for us is that we can all be that beautiful. Stephen dressed his imaginary models, but he dressed us as well. His light is flowing through us now.”

The wound of Stephen’s death cut just as deep for Teresa Jorgen, who grew up with Mary Ann in Kirkwood ever since kindergarten. Teresa was very busy with teaching at Parkway Central High School, so we opened up our schedule as wide as possible, for every healing possibility. And I must apologize to you dear friends who I could not visit who accepted so graciously that circumstance, and God grant you very many blessings for your merciful and sustaining offers of sympathy and love.

Honduras was never far from my mind, especially when I thought (and often dreamed) of my own teenager, Chemo (pronounced “Shay-mo”), living in the newly designated “murder capital” of the world (http://au.news.yahoo.com/world/a/-/world/10474486/six-gunned-down-outside-honduras-airport-police/). I called often, but one day Dora, who was taking care of Chemo while I was away, called me: “Good news! Chemo passed his Social Sciences test,” 26 out of 30 points. Music to my ears, since the school year ends in about three weeks. When I got back, Chemo showed me five other tests that he passed, including math! And Chemo’s aunt Alba, so “very pregnant” in my last newsletter, had her due-date revised to late October. I really did want to be back in Las Vegas for the birth, just in case....

And I talked about Honduras. John Shannon, a former colleague from Parkway North now teaching at Vianney High School, where his sons attend, arranged with their wonderful Spanish teacher Barb Fullenkamp to “teach” her classes for the day. She had prepared them well, and they had excellent questions, and the students listened so kindly with open minds and open hearts.

At Parkway South High School they even had tickets printed up for my talk! And the Diversity Club presented me with two enormous banners: HONDURAS IS BEAUTIFUL and WE LOVE YOU, MIGUEL. Well, that last one is a little embarrassing, but I hung them both up on the balcony of my house in Las Vegas with kids from the neighborhood, and I sent the photo back to South. After my talk, one of the teachers had said that a couple of her “tough” kids came back to class with tears in their eyes. I don’t know that I can take any credit for that, either. The pictures do most of the talking. And the photo with the most impact seemed to be the ‘pieta’ of Petrona in the lap of her cousin Mariana.

It is the theme of our life together. In the last stages of diabetes, Petrona was in such pain, probably from her kidneys shutting down, as a friend in St. Louis with medical experience suggested, that she could only sleep cradled in someone’s arms. I told the students that’s what they were doing with Honduras, because they have a heart for the poor. I titled my latest photobook DETALLES, with Petrona and Mariana on the cover. I defined the word on the first page: “Detalles are simple gifts, lovely gestures, kind words, special remembrances, sweet thoughts, signs of loving-kindness. In Honduras, these ‘details’ abound among the poor.”

Another teacher at South High put it this way:

“I believe wholeheartedly that this is what we are called to do-- walk together, listen and share, shelter one another in the storms of life, offer one another hope-- build a relationship. What does it take to face adversity and still be able to smile?  What does it cost to have so little and to still be able to offer a hand?  The violence and the suffering are sad, but it is not sad to think that life goes on, love lives in Honduras, and that we all have the capacity to be mindful and caring in the ways we reach out to and impact one another. And we all leave a mark-- even when we think we have tread gently or were unnoticed.”

The Cardinals’ run in the playoffs gave me another perfect entry for my talks, since the red souvenir shirts the kids were wearing are made in Honduras, including the Rally Squirrel! A shirt sold at the stadium for $30 covers a week’s wage for the Honduran who made it, and they make thousands of shirts a week. The exorbitant profit goes to...Albert Pujols, I guess. “Cheap labor.” But human beings are not cheap. If you let the poor clothe you, let them inspire your spirit as well. Poverty, though it deprives us of so many material possessions, does not diminish us as persons when it reveals our common humanity.

I actually got to a Cardinals playoff game. Teresa and I had gone over to Greenville to visit with Stephen’s family again. Mary Ann said, “Come for lunch,” stuffed peppers as big as pumpkins from their garden. “This is the first time I’ve cooked since the accident,” said Mary Ann, which made it all extra nourishing. On the way back to St. Louis, I told Teresa, “I can’t be this close and not get closer.” So she dropped me at the stadium, where I had no hopes of getting a ticket, I thought, but one of the scalpers took pity on me, I guess (I looked like a refugee, without a stitch of red on me, in my Mr. Rogers sweater). “You just need a single?” “Yeah, I guess so.” He calls across the street, “Hey, Meat! Guy needs a single. Do something for him!” I got a face-value $72 ticket for $25, seven rows from the field near the Cardinals dugout. It helped a lot that the game had already started. “Man, I just gotta get rid of these tickets!” So, if you need a deal, Meat’s your man. The text of the night came from my sister Barb, glumly watching the game at home: “Wave your rally towel so I can see where you are.”

The “out-reach” in St. Louis was very generous. For example, when we re-scheduled the Open House for October 9, little Sarah Jane Baker, who had been turned down at a couple venues where she just wanted to sell her favorite books to raise money for Honduras, sold them at Teresa’s house. And, by sheer coincidence, little Selma next door was having her third birthday party; pretty soon the parties intermingled. They were buying Sarah Jane’s books, and we were eating Selma’s cake.

And John Newsham rallied the troops with a big laminated sign made from my photos by his wonder-working secretary, urging donations. It’s so tacky to have my hand out, but I guess I can swallow my pride when so many make a sacrifice even in hard times. Even “Santa” got into the act. Paul Hanson, who dressed the part for years at the College Church Christmas Mass for the children, copied Chepito’s drawings for a “project” he has in mind. “It’s just something I want to do,” he said, his eyes glistening with tears. But I depend on every hug, every smile, every prayer, every chocolate-chip cookie, to soldier on in Honduras, once more into the breach.

For sheer firepower, the biggest leg up for Las Vegas may come from Eric Greiten’s “The Mission Continues” (missioncontinues.org) If you have not heard of Eric, I wonder why! A Parkway North grad, he’s everywhere now, especially since publishing his New York Times best-selling autobiography, “The Heart and the Fist” (theheartandthefist.com), which narrates how Eric transformed his competitive, even combative, spirit as a Navy SEAL into a nonviolent conquest of world poverty and injustice. He has gathered around him a group of veterans, many of whom found themselves drifting and even drowning after their service, to continue the “mission,” this time without guns and weapons, an overflowing heart their only ammo.

Eric hooked me up with Mike Pereira, some of whose experiences in Iraq no one would want to repeat. Now Mike wants to “invade” Las Vegas! Plans are for him to come around Christmas time. And get this, he wants to bring another buddy from the war, who was a little busy at the moment. “He’s at another meeting...at the White House...in the West Wing...with Obama.” OK! So I picture us down by the river in December and we get on the satellite phone or something: “Mr. President, they need a new bridge down here in Las Vegas.” How’s that for “stimulus”?

There is no substitute for the personal touch. That’s why even before I went up to the States, I had accepted Seth Felman’s invitation to the B’nai-Mitzvah of his twins Chase and Hannah--in Chicago. I took the MegaBus up there, something I had never even heard of. (Have you seen this thing? It’s amazing!) I had not seen Seth probably since his own Bar-Mitzvah, 35 years ago (the actual dates are lost to history), when I was subbing at Wydown Junior High. His family sort of adopted me, and a week of “baby-sitting” Seth and his sister Amy sealed the deal. Yet we lost contact for many years till Seth tracked me down a few months ago.

A lot of time had passed, including hard times, so we fell into each other’s arms and...the mission continues. His sister Amy, once she learned of my Honduras connection, had some neat ideas of her own. She loved Chepito’s drawings (and so did her daughter Samantha). She suggested hosting a “Luncheon with Chepito” next year in St. Louis with her friends and associates. Chepito won’t be there, but his drawings will! Perfect, especially since artist Fr. Bill McNichols, who has sort of adopted Chepito as a long-distance apprentice, sent me another shipment of materials while I was in St. Louis, to further develop Chepito’s talent. (See www.fatherbill.org for a catalog of Bill’s extraordinary icons from his Taos, New Mexico, studio.)

Steve Jobs grabbed me from the grave, like the ending of “Carrie,” when I could no longer make photobooks on my “old” (2007!) MacBook and I had to buy a new one in St. Louis. Genius though he was, I practically threw a fit for what the “upgrade” cost me. But death got even closer when I tried to give the used computer to Neysi, Elvis and Dora’s daughter now studying at the national university in Tegucigalpa. I thought I would surprise her. “Ah, Miguel, we have a...problem here. I don’t know how to tell you.” But I was already in the taxi. The “problem” was her 65-year-old neighbor Digna Esperanza shot dead, her bloody body lying in the gutter right in front of the house, a swarm of police standing around. Neysi hurried me inside, and closed the door. The danger only starts with the shooting; anyone who talks to the police is the next target. Lily quickly helped with the computer, finding a happy picture of their family to put on the screen-saver.

But life will have its say. Alba just had her baby! She DID wait for my return.... A little girl that they are calling Natalia for her grandmother. Now, Natalia has at least a dozen grandchildren, half of them girls, and no “Natalia” till now. I asked her about it. “Ay, caramba, I’d hate to think why!” Alba can’t explain the delay, either--little Natalia is her fourth girl!

Please let me know if you encounter any special problems with this edition of the newsletter--text, photos, whatever, till I get used to this new-fangled machine.

Again, I thank you for my life in Honduras, only possible because of your love. As far as I am concerned, you are all Natalias!

Bless your heart, Miguel

OPEN HOUSE + ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

OPEN HOUSE + ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

--First of all, I repeat the information and invitation for my trip to St. Louis:

I will be in St. Louis September 21 to October 19, 2011, at Teresa Jorgen's house. 
Once I arrive, I should be able to use my cell phone--314-210-5303.
To kick things off, Teresa invites you to an Open House.
2:00 to 6:00 p.m.
Sunday, September 25, 2011.
If you wish, bring a dish, a snack, a dip (yes!), or a beverage to share.
Teresa Jorgen
731 Simmons Ave.
Kirkwood, MO 63122
Phone: 314-966-5782
e-mail: teesee5782@att.net
DIRECTIONS: Simmons Ave. actually runs into Manchester Rd. about a half-mile WEST of Lindbergh. (One very short block EAST of N. Geyer.)
A map can be found at this link:
http://maps.yahoo.com/?ard=1&mvt%3Dm%26lat%3D38.591989%26lon%3D-90.413302%26zoom%3D16%26q1%3D731%2520Simmons%2520Ave.%252063122

--Next, let your light shine! See my latest in The Beacon:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/112050-letter-from-honduras-under-the-spell

--Now, our feature presentation.

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

STRAW POLL

I don’t know if you’d call us a version of the “Tea Party,” some might call us the “Spoil the Party,” but, led by our pastor Padre Jaime Parra, we massed a “town hall” meeting to demand something altogether serious, an end to alcohol sales at the annual parish celebration of our “patron saint,” the Black (or “burned”) Christ of Esquipulas. It’s actually a feast borrowed from Guatemala, where the original wooden crucifix, blackened by centuries of candle smoke, hangs in the cathedral. Years ago, the very enterprising Padre Fernando Bandeira obtained a copy for the church in Victoria when it became the new seat of the Victoria-Sulaco dual parish.

Every year in January, for at least two weeks, the main street of Victoria swarms with vendors and hawkers of wares and wearings and foods, and about 30 “beer booths,” the ricketiest excuses for a drunken binge you can imagine, a few boards slapped together, just big enough to hold an ancient refrigerator or “freezer,” extension cords and wires running through the urine-soaked mud gutters, with a couple of tipsy tables and various pieces of chairs in front. Meanwhile, the church struggles to keep the mind of the faithful on the “reason for the season,” the infinite mercy of God. Until now, no one has dared challenge the contradiction of low commerce and high hopes of religious renewal. But Padre Jaime and his even younger assistant Padre Manuel Cubias decided to take on The Establishment. They got the mayor, Sandro, to set a date for the big meeting and then rounded us up to show support.

You could easily predict features of the confrontation, I’m sure, but let me note a few highlights. First of all, what I did NOT expect, Padre Jaime seemed to be in charge. Once it was his turn to speak, he never really yielded the floor again, and the mayor did not seem to mind. But the mayor, basically a businessman (he owns the cable TV franchise, which he runs like Scrooge McDuck) tried to cut a few holes in our argument. For example, he said, “What are all you people doing here? This is just a matter for Victoria, I mean, there are people from Las Vegas, El Zapote, Guachipilin,” etc., etc. Padre Jaime put the kibosh on that real quick: “The feast of Esquipulas is a PARISH feast, and the parish includes Victoria and Sulaco and the two hundred villages they contain, so we all have a stake in this; please respect the Church!” A bold claim, considering that Sulaco has its own mayor, not to mention its own patronal feast. the Immaculate Conception, in December. The mayor comes back with, “OK, but look at Las Vegas. You’ve got a cantina a half-block from the Kindergarten. So don’t you get on your high horse.” Well, he’s right about that, though I always thought that the “authorities” in Victoria had to approve such zoning.

There was really no hostility between Sandro and Jaime; in between jibes and jousts, they were smiling and joking together in the background. The most prominent doctor in town asked to speak, “Let me tell you something about the damage that alcohol can do to an individual and a family.” I’m pretty sure everyone there had had some personal experience with that. That’s why we were there! Which, in fact, was another point the mayor wanted to make. “It’s the responsibility of the parents, of the wife, of the family to keep their men sober; you can’t put all the blame on the sellers, you have to put some of it on the sinners!”

Good point. When Chemo and his brother Marcos were testing the waters (the fire water, I should say) a couple of Christmases ago, and when I’d hear that Chepito had found his way inside a bottle again, I couldn’t help noticing that I was the only father, or godfather, out looking for my kid to bring him home. But still, you’d have to say a community shouldn’t fatten itself on the vices of its citizens. I heard each beer booth pays 5000 Lempiras for its temporary license, Indeed, a couple entrepreneurs got up to speak, alarmed that the proposal was to shut down ALL liquor sales, period, close every cantina, every pool hall, cancel every “dance.” Padre Jaime took pains to clarify that the ban pertained only to the feast-days, and only to the beer-booths, though he admitted that Prohibition, if you want to call it that, was “a fight for another day.”

It was nice to see an evangelical preacher--in fact, the president of the evangelical pastors association--take our side, since the scandal of the Catholic church celebrating its feasts steeped in booze is one of the sharpest arrows the fundamentalists prick us with among their own congregations, like stricter Protestants in the States mocking Catholic Bingo.

By the way, speaking of Bingo, a ban on games of chance was also part of the agreement, to clean up the mess. You think the beer booths are scuzzy, you should see the carnival barkers hustling rubes around the “wheel of chance,” including lots of kids. So that was on the plate as well.

Ultimately, it was Padre Jaime himself who called for the final vote, and at that point it was agreed that only residents of Victoria had privileges. “Everyone in favor of the ban, stand over here; those opposed, stand over there.” He kept repeating the instructions, because, once the voters came forward, no one moved. That is, no one went “over there.” It was unanimous. I think Michele Bachmann won the Iowa straw poll the same way, you know, loading the dice! But we all cheered, and noticed just a few sour faces, resigned to their “baptism” or just too intimidated to vote their “conscience.” The mayor said he and Padre Jaime would hammer out the actual document or decree, the legal language. I thought, That’s it? We did it? Just like that? Athenian democracy? I am eager to see how it actually plays out....

Now, if Padre Manuel had been robbed, assaulted, and kidnapped AFTER the historic vote, you’d surely have assumed it was the revenge of the liquor interests. But his ordeal happened a week before the big confab. In fact, his attackers, ten of them in masks and armed like a militia, did not even know who he was, till they asked one of the two other men with him, “What are you doing with this guy?” possibly because they knew them, whereas Padre Manuel has only been in the parish about a year. “Well, we’re just helping the priest.” The priest! “Oh, God, Father, we didn’t know you were a priest!” And they fell all over themselves apologizing. “You know, we don’t want to do this. We’ve got orders from higher up,” that is, from organized crime that has a ready network in place to steal and dispose of vehicles before you even have a chance to report the crime. I have to say that I didn’t understand Padre Manuel. Believe me, if they wanted to car-jack me, I’d play that Jesus card first thing! “You don’t want to rob a man of God, do you!”

What happened was this. Padre Manuel and two delegados were returning from a workshop in Tegucigalpa. Just outside Sulaco, a favorite site for assaults, they were stopped and surrounded by this gang, at three in the afternoon! They were roughed up a little, including having their wrists bound behind their back, blindfolded, and hustled up into the hills, while the car--which had been the previous pastor Chicho’s pickup for years, so it was no “luxury” vehicle--and all their possessions were whisked away. There they were guarded for a while, and then abandoned. In the morning they found their way to a house, and pleaded for help. The only thing the thieves had left Padre Manuel with was the “chip” to his cell phone. He plugged it into a borrowed phone and called Padre Jaime, who had been at his wit’s end with worry, ever since he called the host of the workshop in Tegucigalpa the previous day and was told, “Oh, Father, sure, they left here about one o’clock.” Padre Jaime at first assumed they’d broken down, or had an accident, but that news would have traveled, so he was panicking and calling the police all over the place. Didn’t sleep a wink all night. In fact, when Manuel’s call finally came in, the police suggested they accompany Jaime to recover Manuel. “Could be a trap, Father.” On the other hand, the police are corrupt enough around here that they might themselves be setting the trap, so Jaime agreed to their escort, “But I was keeping an eye on them.”

I have many nightmares about assaults, including one with Godzilla in it after Manuel’s trauma, so I can only imagine how I’ll handle the real thing when it happens to me. I felt so ashamed of our parish, indeed, of Honduras, that these two good men, Jaime from Panama, Manuel from El Salvador, who have only come here to serve the church and share the gospel, should be treated like this. (Jaime has been robbed a couple times, his car broken into but not stolen.) Their own attitude is...miraculous. “That’s life. These are things, no one got killed. And the car was insured.” Manuel did ask Jaime to fill in for him at the next scheduled Friday evening Mass here, because, at least for now, he was too nervous to drive at night. But soon enough Manuel was back, for a Sunday Mass, his patented, engaging delivery of the Word undiminished. “Did you notice what Jesus said there? How about that!”

Besides pulling at some of the threads of entrenched, misguided customs like the feria, Jaime and Manuel have started new traditions from scratch, where there’s no competition from vested interests. For example, the big Youth Day gathering in Las Vegas that I wrote about before. The latest Woodstock was just last Sunday, the third annual parish-wide gathering for EVERYBODY, which last year took place in Las Vegas, this time in San Antonio, near Sulaco. I’m sure the population at least tripled with the influx of pilgrims. Jaime loves a “caminata,” a hike by any other name, so we all gathered in a big soccer field outside town and paraded to the site, about 45 minutes away, deep at the other end of town, another soccer field. But it was splendid, San Antonio capitalizing on lessons learned from the two previous years’ events. The theme was “Be a sign of peace.” So at one point a dove was released. Jaime did a great job getting the big crowd into a celebratory spirit. And to top it all off, it was Padre Manuel’s birthday. At the end of the day, Jaime led us in singing the traditional birthday serenade “Mananitas.” One woman came up and gave Manuel a hug, then a man followed, pretty soon it was a flood and you could see that the gang that robbed him had been reversed. An assault of affection.

The very next day, another extravaganza, this time at the school, sponsored by Ayuda en Accion, the Spanish-based NGO that had almost died on the vine with the financial implosion in Europe. But it has bounced back, and they had the kids working for a couple weeks to transform the school into “Riesgolandia.” When I saw the theme was “una gestion de riesgo,” a risk-alert, I assumed it referred to the crisis in education, but no, it was the environment! I should have known--politically correct. But, actually, in Honduras it’s more than mere fashion. Honduras really is at risk, underscored most recently by a series of storms that have sent floods all over, unimpeded by the illegal clear-cutting in the hills.

The students hauled hundreds of rocks from down by the river and painted them white to make a network of lanes, filled in with a carpet of sawdust, to mark the sites of little pavilions for 6 other schools invited to participate, familiar ones like Guachipilin, El Zapote, Calichito, and others I had never heard of, Rincones, El Jaral, and the strangest of all, Chaguitillo (“Chicago,” as someone called it; which is OK, since Guachipilin is often pronounced “Washington.”) There was a timed painting competition, a selection of “maquetas,” that is, miniatures (of the various schools), but the highlight was the musical competition. There was a panel of judges, and you know you’d love for everyone to win, especially since some of the kids coming from tiny towns in the remote hills who probably never imagined performing before such a crowd and did a brave and beautiful thing.

But the little troupe led by Dorita, Elvis and Dora’s sixth-grader, was miles ahead of everyone else, enhanced by the delightful choreography their teacher Profe Abener. Just see if you can picture this: two little twins were costumed as what? worms! Another child was a sunflower, and two other kids were pine trees, with Dorita a Katy Perry lookalike and the same unending energy, leading the way. When I see these grand showings, I swell with pride for our little town, and for the other little communities who put their best foot forward. But, at the same time, I guess I’m like a soccer mom, torn because my boy Chemo did not make the “cut.” Why? Well, “I’m too big.” That’s what the teacher told him. I don’t raise any ruckus, because, first of all, this teacher has to pass him! And I don’t want any attention drawn to the fact that he’s practically past the legal age for grade school. He’s 16 in fourth grade now; in sixth grade, he’ll be the only student with a legal ID. So let’s not upset any apple carts. But I just want to cry when I see him enjoying all the performances and he’s shut out.

Alba, Chemo’s aunt where we eat supper every night, is pregnant, very pregnant, the baby due in October, when I’ll be in the States. She's sure it's a boy. Her own health is iffy; this is her fifth child. the next youngest, Reina, is 10. I really had hoped she and husband Santos would not have any more kids, once we made a couple trips with her to Tegucigalpa to visit my cardiologist, who was fairly alarmed at her condition. But it went basically nowhere, since she wouldn’t follow up. I’m already having nightmares, except they’re real, like when she recently collapsed, fainted dead away; the kids called her father Elio, who managed to haul her into bed. I came running over when the kids called me, alerting Dr. Meme on the way. He showed up surprisingly quickly, since he was still closing up at the clinic (it was about 5:00 p.m.), by which time Alba had more or less revived and even got up to change to something nice, “because the doctor’s coming over”! Is the baby OK?, was the big question. Dr. Meme assured us yes. Fortunately, when Alba fell, in the kitchen, she just sort of sat down, without hitting anything, sort of a miracle, considering how small the kitchen is. So we are hoping for a healthy baby, and a healthy mom. Prayers, please!

Word is, the liquor ban is not sitting well among the movers and shakers in Victoria. They may be looking for a recount. The mayor has yet to “publish” the minutes of the big meeting, leaving the legal status of the vote in limbo. Maybe I’ll pass around a petition when I’m in St. Louis....

See you soon! Love, Miguel