ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

ESTA ES SU CASA--JANUARY 2010

A thrill of hope

On December 2, following a day-long solemn and sober debate, televised on every channel, the National Congress voted 111 to 14 not to restore Mel Zelaya to the presidency. Thus was fulfilled the major element of the accord signed in November by Mel and “interim president” Roberto Micheletti, that Mel’s fate would rest in the hands of the diputados. Still lacking is a “government of reconciliation” and a Truth Commission.

Some people say Mel Zelaya was “the best president Honduras ever had.” That would make him the world’s tallest midget. In fact, poverty went up under Mel, with over 5 million (of a population of 7.5 million) in poverty, 3.5 million of those in “extreme” poverty, and at the bottom 1.5 million living on a dollar a day or less. Mel’s horse was living on a thousand dollars a day! With the wealthy world euthanizing the poor with ethanol--filling SUV gas tanks with food--it’s bound to get worse.

Now all eyes turn to Pepe Lobo, who had won the November 29 election by a landslide to become the next president, with inauguration scheduled for January 27. Hope and change? More likely another round of corruption, but it will be “our” corruption, you know, just the way we like it. Humorist Dave Barry’s “Year in Review” is probably more accurate than he knows: “In a setback for U.S. interests in Central America, voters in Honduras elect, as their new president, Rod Blagojevich.” Meanwhile, Mel Zelaya is still a thorn in the side. He says he’s leaving the country, he says he’s staying, he says he’s going--who cares? Follow him on Twitter.

So things have sort of settled down, and when I step back a little, I notice with some chagrin that I have enjoyed playing the role of political pundit these past few months way too much. Like I was auditioning for a spot on Fox News or something. These reports are supposed to be inspired a little more by the Sermon on the Mount than by talk radio!

So let’s get back to basics.

Cristian, 19, was shot in the stomach by his own drunken father at the cantina. He’s recovering, very unsurely and painfully. To be precise, he was hit in one of the few spots where death was not certain, it seems--about four inches to the left of his belly-button. Cristian, one of the “cantina boys,” as I call them, has appeared in these reports numerous times. You may remember his dear affection for his little nephew Eduar, who died a year ago at the age of 2. (We just visited his baby grave for the anniversary, Cristian was too weal to attend.) Berta and Chimino are Cristian’s parents, but when I say his own father shot him, I mean Carlos Montoya, his biological father, a little fling Berta had, I guess. A couple months ago, Cristian confided in me that Chimino wasn’t his real father. Actually, it’s more or less common knowledge, I find out. But it was Chimino who accompanied Cristian first to Victoria and then to the Yoro hospital and stayed at his bedside till he was out of danger, while Carlos was carted off to jail by the police. So who is Cristian’s real father, the drunk who shot him or the man who sat by his bed two days and nights without eating or drinking? (On the other hand, Chimino and Berta raised Cristian in a cantina! I mean, if my son were shot by a guy drunk on liquor I sold him, I’d think twice about selling any more booze--to anybody.)

Cristian is such a troubled youth. Ever since he turned 18 a year ago, I’ve been begging him to get out of Las Vegas and make a life for himself, a life without drunks cursing and vomiting and fighting in your living room. Now this. Supposedly an accident--Carlos was showing off his gun--but drunks don’t have “accidents.” The only good thing to come out of it was Berta closing the cantina for a couple days while Cristian’s life hung in the balance. When Cristian called me from the hospital after the shooting and, in a voice as thin as tissue paper, asked me, “Are you coming?” I immediately melted and said yes. I knew it was also a matter of money. Chimino had taken nothing with him, Berta had said she wanted to go but had no busfare, and Marvin, Cristian’s cousin who saw the whole thing, said he wanted to go. In fact, according to Marvin, Cristian probably saved his life. You see, Carlos fired his gun five times in the air, but then started pointing it at Marvin, just playing. Cristian screamed, “You still got a bullet in there!” and he jumped in front of Marvin just in time, as Carlos drooled, “Naw, it’s empty--see?” And bang!

When we got to the hospital, Cristian was already cleared to leave. But he barely seemed capable of movement. Berta and Marvin helped dress him with clothes Berta had brought from home (Cristian’s clothes, including his shoes and a favorite cap, had disappeared in the confusion) while Chimino and I got his prescriptions filled at the hospital pharmacy. I talked with the kindly nurses, who advised a nutritious diet and daily exercise. “Don’t just leave him in bed!”

“We need a wheel chair,” said Marvin. I thought, Oh boy, how long is that gonna take? But as I stepped into the hall, a wheel chair was sitting right there. “This is a sign,” I said to myself. “He’s going to be all right.” But his wound! The bullet wound itself is nothing, a pinprick, but the scar from the operation looks like they went in there with a backhoe. It’s as long as Chemo’s but much uglier. It looks more like soldering than surgery. I just hope it’s as secure as it looks. I really thought Cristian was going to faint just getting from the bed into the wheel chair. But we got him outside and found a cab, another torture, to squeeze his legs in. I told the taxi driver we had to stop for shoes--and a pillow! The cabbie took us into town and we got our goods right off the street. Then to the bus station, where the bus was just about to leave. The steps up looked like Everest! But we hoisted Cristian up and we were off--we thought. Turned out this bus was just a shuttle to the gas station where the regularly scheduled bus was being gassed up and maintenanced. So we had to get Cristian down and off and up and on, every inch a miserable mile. I thought, I’m gonna need another sign!

It’s at least a two-hour trip back to Victoria and we hadn’t even gone a third of the way when Cristian was saying, “I can’t make it, I can’t make it.” But he did make it, held and hugged tightly by Marvin all the way, and in Victoria we got him down and off that bus and up and on the bus to Las Vegas. Which just sat there, for an hour, waiting for another bus from San Pedro Sula. Holiday traffic, you see! Once in Las Vegas, okay, how to get him home, way to the other side of town?

Then came the other sign. Javier, a young man with a big car, spotted us hobbling and offered a ride. Cristian by this time had mastered the routine and practically jumped into the large plush back seat. Now Cristian is getting around with his brother Juny’s crutch. Juny, whose story graced these pages, died so painfully a couple years ago, nursed by--you guessed it--Cristian, who wore Juny’s clothes then for a while afterwards, to smooth the loss.

Cristian and I have had our go-arounds. One day he’d bring me a couple fish he caught, the next day he’d be a stone wall for some real or imagined offense. And sometimes he’d show up at my house half-drunk himself. Then I’d usher him into the spare room. “I’m not staying.” “That’s all right, Cristian, just a nap.” And he’d be there till morning. Anything’s better than the cantina.

Our last row was a week or so before he got shot. It was the night Chepito got drunk. It was the same night Dona Argentina died. In fact, about half the town it seemed used her wake as an excuse to get plastered. I headed over to her house about 9 p.m., along with Chemo and his brother Marcos, visiting for the holidays. Elvis had already warned me that he’d seen Chepito under the influence, but I didn’t expect to find him right out in the street spinning like a dreidel, accompanied by Nahum and Cristian, both tipsy too. The only “job” I’ve given Nahum, who sleeps at the Bandidos’ house, and Cristian, is to keep tabs on Pablito and Chepito. He gave Chepito the guaro!

So I blew a gasket. I smacked Nahum with a classic “Life of Christ” I’m reading. I swear, I could hardly have found a better use for the heavy volume! Nahum responded by whipping me with his belt buckle. I’ve still got the welt, but I didn’t feel a thing. I fronted him like Joan of Arc, and he backed off. I didn’t care if he killed me! I make no apology for defending Chepito’s right to a sober life. Then I turned on Cristian, who cussed me out very colorfully and gestured pretty violently, though without actually landing any blows. I “complimented” him on his vocabulary and then I yelled at the bystanders, a gallery of what Mark Twain called half-men, including Chepito’s teacher, who made no move to help him or me. I pulled Chepito home, where his mother Irene, all too late, “disciplined” her son with his own belt.

Needless to say, I never made it to Argentina’s. I rushed Chemo and Marcos back to our house and shut up the doors.

The next day, Leon came home, Chepito and Pablito’s father, after a year and a half in jail for drunkenly attacking Nazario with a machete. I didn’t actually see him myself till I headed back to Argentina’s again and saw him drunk face-down in the street like a heap of dirty laundry. So he picked up just where he left off. You know, a guy’s in jail all that time, gets out, you can hardly begrudge him a little lifting of a cup or two, but alcoholism is a death sentence and Leon’s disease is pulling his sons down to his hell, too. The saddest thing was Pablito’s seeming indifference, his only defense against the killing shame he must feel. “Pablito, are you going take your daddy home?” “No, that’s okay.”

So Leon just lay there for all the world to see. He sobered up some the next day, got drunk again, got a few odd jobs, got paid, got drunk--you’ve probably observed this pattern yourself somewhere. Finally, I saw him, all smiles and handshakes. Not a word about the new house we built, not a word about how he’d take care of Pablito and Chepito now, see them through school, raise them to honorable manhood, nothing about how he’d rejoin AA and be as faithful to the group as the chastened Scrooge to Tiny Tim, nothing. I have mostly steered clear, just opening my house to Pablito’s daily visits for a little breakfast, a little lunch if there are leftovers, a chore or two for a few bucks. Chepito, Leon’s image and likeness, sports a big ring on his finger and a huge belt buckle, both set with skulls. I’m trying to help him get him his national ID card, now that he’s 17. But it seems he’s already chosen his identity.

With Argentina’s burial began the nine days of mourning and prayer at her house. I think I finally loved her--she was not a pleasant person a lot of the time--when her fragile stick of a husband Domitilo collapsed in tears in my arms every single day. She’s got 13 children, all grown, the most infamous of which is Renan, a drunk’s drunk. He’s got some competition from 3 or four of his brothers, but Renan parades it! Disheveled and slobbering, he dances! barges into any event, a wedding, a party, a funeral, in this case, his own mother’s, who’d always shut her door whenever he came near, crying, “You’re a disgrace!”

When it came my turn to preach, I remembered we’d just had the elections, when there was a two-day ‘ley seca,’ or dry law, banning liquor sales nationwide. “Today we start a ‘ley seca’ in this house in honor of Argentina! No more booze! Never again! She gave her life for you all! [Indeed, she was only 58 and she looked like a 158 from the toll her graceless family had taken on her]. We’re going to swear off alcohol, but let’s all swear off selfishness too, and laziness, and irresponsibility.” Of the 13 kids, Lupe, the shining exception to the rule, the only one with a recognizably filial devotion, and who has a lovely family of her own with her husband Lenchito in El Zapote, attended the novena every day. On the eighth day, Renan, almost unrecognizable with his hair cut, a new shirt and slacks, and a benign demeanor, offered prayer right along with the rest of us. I hugged him like the Prodigal Son. But it was a one-day wonder. He’s back in the dirt long since.

Marta, the youngest daughter, and one of the most slovenly, redeemed herself and maybe all of us with her narration of Argentina’s final minutes. They had gotten her to the very door of the San Pedro Sula hospital when she collapsed, and in one grand gesture of self-donation, she spread her arms wide and up and lifted her head toward heaven, mouthing without speaking some prayer, then sank dead into Marta’s lap, a blessed smile on her face. It sounded for all the world like Jesus’ departure on the cross: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”

Before Cristian was shot, I had already been going to the cantina every day to change the bandage on his little nephew Joelito. He climbed a tree to pick (steal!) lemons and fell onto a broken branch that pierced his calf at its fleshiest spot, opening a wound deep and jagged enough to expose the fat and muscle. Long tutored to remain calm in emergencies from my days working at a swimming pool, I thought, when I saw the wound, OK, first I’m going to faint, and THEN I’ll remain calm. But I held it together and we--me and Cristian, who had brought him to me--hurried him over to Dr. Meme, who is sometimes hard to find, after hours. But Meme was in and stitched Joel up, inside and outside the wound. A week later, when Meme took the stitches out, the wound re-opened, so he said, “Just keep changing the bandage till it heals.” Bottom line, that day when Cristian was shot, I could have easily been at the cantina myself, changing Joelito’s bandage. And something tells me I wouldn’t have been any Joan of Arc facing a gun instead of a belt! But I was hiking to La Catorce for a Mass at the time. Oqueli’s blue pickup whizzed by me in a cloud of dust with Cristian and Marvin and Chimino in the back and I didn’t even know what had happened till Marvin called me on his cell phone.

What about Christmas? Well, any light in the darkness qualifies, which these stories show, I believe, but OK, how about an actual nativity? On December 2, Maricela gave birth to Mariana Teresa, named for my sister Mary Anne, who died last April, and for Teresa Jorgen. Weighing in at 10 pounds, she is worthy of two such grand names. In fact, the doctor induced Maricela a couple weeks early, at the Hospital Escuela in Tegucigalpa, because the baby just wouldn’t stop growing! This is an honor all around, and my sisters Barb and Nancy, who accompanied Mary Anne in her last days, were scrambling for Christmas presents for the newest member, as it were, of the Dulick family. And Teresa made sure her appreciation was felt, too. And this kid sure lucked out, with such a loving family of her own. Juan Blas and Maricela and their 6, now 7, kids are poor as church mice, and I do my best to keep them afloat, but some things money cannot buy. I keep trying to figure out how they could adopt Pablito and Chepito...or me, for that matter.

Actually, Chemo and Marcos’ grandmother Natalia has adopted me. Just after the elections, Chemo’s brother Santos and his wife Alba, daughter of Natalia, and their four kids went off to the mountains of Quebrada Amarilla to pick coffee. There went our gravy train! We’d been going over to their house down by the river every night for supper, once I had stopped my own spaghetti suppers for all comers after Chemo got away and got drunk one night and I resolved to be a better dad, and spend more time with him.

Those were such pleasant evenings, Alba’s suppers; and the walk home under the street lamps and the stars seemed like a dream. So, after some hesitation, when Chemo and Marcos were already over at ‘mamita’s’ all the time, I sort of insinuated myself with Natalia and Elio her husband and their three grown sons. As with Alba, I finance the fixings, and Natalia whips up the simple and delicious meals; so our sweet evenings have resumed, including the quiet walk home. That’s a Christmas story, too, on a nightly basis--always room at the inn.

As for Christmas itself, our “Midnight Mass” started at 6:00 p.m., with guest priest Fr. Tony Pedraz from El Progreso. He looks like Santa Claus, red face, tussled white hair, roly-poly, so when he tells the Christmas story, you believe him! But his message, his gospel, if you will, glowed a lot brighter than Rudoph: it was a fire! He was (is!) a full-fledged member of the ‘resistencia’ (the Resistance), denouncing from the beginning the coup that ousted Mel Zelaya, and in the streets at every opportunity, a chaplain to the marchers, you might say. His sermon lasted an hour, but the congregation was enthralled; time passed like a blink. He barely talked about Mel or Micheletti by name--he talked about Jesus! which made the same point. The repulsive thing that both Mel and Micheletti--and Pepe, too--are guilty of is, it’s all about them. Ever since Jesus’ birth first scared the pants off Herod the King, in his raging, the die was cast: make Jesus a target, make Jesus a joke, make him a cover-boy, make him your pal, make him your pet, make him your Che, make him your jewelry, make him your “Lord,” but watch your back! He’s a thief in the night.

Cristian, who never goes to church, preached the same sermon in his own way: he “pardoned” Carlos Montoya! He told the police to let him out of jail. Carlos was grateful enough to bring some provisions for the family over to the cantina--for a few days. “And now he’s forgotten you?” I asked Cristian. “Pretty much.” But Cristian’s charity should not be forgotten. I wish I could live it so well.

We ended the year with Ery’s birthday party. Carolina made the cake, this one for her own brother, and Angelita is here, too, with her baby. She loves to dance with her brother. Ery turned 22, and he had a good time. He even danced with me! It was a sign, I hope, of blessings to come in 2010.

In January we begin another odyssey in search of Rosa’s heart operation. A doctor in Tocoa told her, “You are a candidate for a heart transplant.” That’s how sick she is! A transplant here, of course, is unheard of. The first kidney transplants are just about to be attempted. It’s not for lack of fresh kills. Healthy teens are sacrificed every day in gang activity; live hearts abound. But the nearest Barnes Hospital is...Barnes Hospital. On the other hand, I just talked to Ron Roll, whose Helping Hands sponsors the brigadas, and he enthused, “We’re already talking about Rosa! We are putting her first on the list!” And Dr. Christian Gilbert just emailed me to say, after I told him Rosa is feeling better and stronger with the medicine he prescribed, “This is awesome news! She may not even need the surgery!” Now that’s the kind of “second opinion” I like to hear! But when I called Rosa with the good news, she goes, “Oh, crap, today my knees are killing me, my chest hurts like hell, my stomach’s in knots, and I got a horrible headache.” “Rosa,” I said, “whatever you do, don’t tell the doctor!” Anyway, please include Rosa in your New Year’s resolutions, to transplant a bit of your own heart in her hopes.

Love, Miguel

From Giuseppe Ricciotti, The Life of Christ (1941):

“The Sermon on the Mount is the most complete and radical paradox ever asserted. No discourse on earth was ever more subversive, or better, reversive than this. Until the Sermon on the Mount, the world was united in proclaiming that blessedness was good fortune, that satisfaction came with satiety, that pleasure was the satisfaction of desire, and honor the product of esteem. On the other hand, Jesus announces that blessedness resides in misfortune, satiety in famished hunger, pleasure in unfulfillment, and honor in disesteem. “

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2009

Habemus Pepe

Finally! Elections in Honduras!

And the winner is...Pepe Lobo, the National Party candidate, by a landslide, over the Liberal Party candidate Elvin Santos, the empty suit I called an Elvis impersonator in my dispatches last year when he won the nomination. Pepe Lobo is no empty suit--I won’t say what he is full of, but I call him Pepe Lodo, which means ‘mud,’ or a similar substance. It was to be expected, since Mel Zelaya, the president ousted in a coup last June 28, was a Liberal. Elvin saw it coming, he had to have, as he tried desperately to distance himself from Mel’s disgrace, even though he had started out as Mel’s vice-president till he quit to run for president himself. Oh, you’re gonna love Pepe, he makes Sarah Palin look like Ralph Nader. It’s Mel’s ultimate revenge--You guys didn’t want me to let me be president for life, well, four years of Pepe will seem like an eternity!

You know, they call Honduras a “banana republic.” More like a banana peel! And the latest to slip was Mel Zelaya himself. I ended the November CASA with the hopeful news of an agreement to end the crisis. Mel, the ousted president, signed on, Micheletti, the “de facto” president, signed on. The U.S. A. loved it. The whole world was thrilled. The “spirit” of the agreement suggested Mel’s return to power, certainly, but left the actual decision up to the national Congress, after consulting with the Supreme Court, the Electoral Tribunal, and the Armed Forces. And all parties agreed to recognize the winner of the November 29 elections. Somebody must have taken Mel aside and pointed out, You know what you’ve done? You just legitimized all the institutions you defied before: the Supreme Court that ordered your arrest, the Congress that replaced you with Micheletti, the Electoral Tribunal that ruled your Cuarta Urna unconstitutional, and the Army that FedExed you out of the country. While Micheletti dithered about scheduling any vote in Congress for restoration, the U.S. State Department “clarified” its support for the elections--that is, with or without Mel’s reinstatement. Mel cried foul and urged a boycott of the elections. “Obama stabbed me in the back! I wouldn’t accept reinstatement now, even if ya begged me!” Obama, in his unflappable style, just applied the diplomatic equivalent of Ritalin and looked the other way.

So we hobbled along till this past Sunday, November 29, the nicest day we’ve had in a month--sunny, pretty clouds dotting a blue sky, comfortable breezes blowing, a lovely day. I went up to the school early to see if any people really were voting. Many people, thoroughly disillusioned, had simply sworn off the whole process this time. But, by golly, folks were voting! Mostly old folks and women at first, and eventually younger voters and even some of the “resistencia.” Throughout the country turnout exceeded all expectations--over 60%--and most welcome of all, there was no violence.

Micheletti, who’s been in politics longer than Obama’s been alive, may have outsmarted him. Lookit, we had the elections and Mel’s not coming back, despite the “official” U.S. position that Micheletti is an illegitimate “golpista,” a coup plotter. (And don’t get me wrong, Micheletti is intolerable, the usurper with the Santa smile.) But even Micheletti, the Liberal lion, wasn’t counting on Pepe’s victory. See, Mel’s whole idea was to wreck the elections, and Micheletti’s whole idea was to “save” them. But, save them for Pepe? On the other hand, even the kids around here like Chemo love Pepe! They’ve seen too many “Die Hard” movies; they think Pepe is Bruce Willis, he’s gonna clean out the gangs and the bad guys. Indeed, as a cartoon hero, Pepe is perfect.

Lots of countries are still refusing to recognize the elections, because Mel remains outside. On the other hand, even President Oscar Arias of Costa Rica, the original negotiator solicited by Hillary Clinton for the “dialog” between Mel and Micheletti, finally said, What the heck--if the elections come off clean, why not recognize the winner? You know, it’s strange. As Obama has said, democracy is “not just elections.” So when will the world community say to a country--Honduras would be a prime example--we won’t recognize your government till your children are no longer victims of Ignorance and Want (the urchins ‘neath the robe of the Ghost of Christmas Present. Check them out in the new Jim Carrey version.) By that standard, very few nations have any claim to make.

Speaking of Charles Dickens, “Bleak House”--a 900-page novel without a plot--was the perfect accompaniment to our endless odyssey with Chemo’s sister Rosa in hopes of heart surgery. In both cases, I kept waiting for something to happen. You can’t say Dickens does not warn you; the book opens in a fog that never lifts. I sort of felt the same way. Jarndyce and Jarndyce, the ‘case’ stalled in Chancery for decades, serves only to enrich the lawyers. In our case, our three-week trek to Tocoa, to Tegucigalpa, and back to Tocoa served mainly to profit every bus, restaurant, hotel, and taxi driver along our route.

Let me repeat some information, because not everyone got my little updates on Rosa.

I had prayed to conform my mind to the will of God, whether for Rosa’s life--or death. I was not prepared for “Wait.” But you can’t say Dr. Christian Gilbert, like Dickens, didn’t warn us. He was alarmed, in that doctorly, sober kind of way, at Rosa’ s gravity. She’s got a mitral valve like the Lincoln Tunnel. He had brought a replacement valve with him from Memphis, but finally he doubted Rosa’s strength and his own skill for success. Cautioned no doubt by the very sad deaths of two children during the brigada, little hearts that could not be fixed, he postponed Rosa till January, when the brigada returns.

I finished ‘Bleak House,’ with room to spare. There is a story, even it there’s barely a plot, and it’s the story of the poor and what they suffer, even from their supposed ‘benefactors.’ Dragging Rosa and her husband Tonio all over creation for nothing in particular, I sort of felt maybe it was my story. And some of you made such sacrifices to ease our expenses, I was embarrassed at my empty hands. But, thinking always of your kindnesses, I kept a happy face and never suggested I was headed for debtor’s prison! Chemo was our guide, he never tired of the arcade at the mall, even though a couple grenades had been discovered in the restrooms. We visited the hilltop zoo and the big statue of Jesus that overlooks the city. We went to a museum (OK, that was a mistake), and we ate four times a day. Rosa, the skinniest one among us, never got full!

Surely Dr. Gilbert made the right decision, and may not be ready to risk the operation even in January. You know, if you saw the Hospital Escuela, where Rosa’s surgery was scheduled, you’d bar the door, too. (Chemo was operated on at the Seguro Hospital, a more modern semi-private facility.) The place looks like a set from ‘Children of Men,’ or the Titanic, after the sinking. It’s a greasy, rusty, sordid mess. Talk about embarrassing! It’s the shame of Honduras, where I have yet to hear a politician propose the construction of a new hospital, and most of them--including Mel, Micheletti, or Pepe or Elvin Santos, who OWNS the biggest mall in Tegucigalpa--could finance a dozen hospitals out of their personal fortunes. The real heroes are the doctors and nurses who work in impossible conditions to save some lives. As we were checking Rosa into the hospital, a process which for some strange reason, runs through the emergency room, the young, unperturbable doctor Karen Herrera, filling the forms, had to jump up at least three times, to help revive a man who coded, to tend a gunshot victim escorted by the police who shot him, and a man with some ghastly wound on his foot. I thought, dear God! Rosa’s gonna need surgery just to get out of this room! I swear the cop’s gun actually brushed my arm as he was holding his prey in place. This’d be great, I thought, if the victim’s buddies come in here to rescue him, guns blazing....

Once she was in, it was not that easy to visit Rosa the next day. The woman at the gate was not going to let us in, that is, all three of us--Tonio, Chemo, and me--till she mentioned Tonio’s ‘sombrero,’ and I said, “Like Mel!” And she corked up and pumped her fist in the air, “Suba Mel! Suba Mel!” Up with Mel! Up with Mel! I had another phrase in mind for Mel, also involving the word ‘up,’ but I took the hint and echoed her enthusiasm. When she said, How about the folks in Tocoa, they’re with Mel, right? “They love him!” I lied. Mel, as the massive vote for Pepe just showed, is anything but popular up there. But it got us in.

That’s what I mean by the good folks forced to work in a snakepit. She was a sweetie, under the crust. Just like the good woman with rings on each finger and red make-up who let us in with our little band of blood donors. Ron Roll, the founder, with his wife Alba, of Helping Hands that sponsors the heart surgery brigada, had said, in his inimitable malapropism, “Miguel, I don’t know if they need 5 or 6 gallons,” when I asked how many pints we had to get. We started with Tonio, arriving about 6 a.m. to get in line and we spent all morning waiting in more lines. Tonio told them, “Take two pints!” and I wish they could have. The next day I got there at 5:00 a.m. with 3 more donors, but only one qualified, and it still took all morning. The one who qualified, Karla, from Las Vegas now living in Tegucigalpa, recruited 4 of her neighbors for the next day, and this time I got there at 4:00 and was almost first in line. I held the spot till the others showed up at 5:30, as we arranged, and that’s when we needed help. Delmys had just turned 18, the minimum age for donation, and she didn’t have her I.D. yet, just the receipt. Somehow I talked the woman at the window outside into accepting that, and then the nurse at the blood bank itself inside. They COULD have cut us off without a chance, but you could just see they really did want to help us. And they found a way. It is the will of God, I think, touching our heart. And in the hospital, a pastor and his wife came and offered to pray over Rosa. And they did touch her heart.

And Chemo was on TV! The most popular newshow, “Abriendo Brecha” (loosely translated, ‘Showing the Way’) invited Ron Roll and the president of the Rotary Club, also a sponsor of the brigada, and three kids, a 2-year-old and and an 8 year-old and their daddies, and Chemo. I don’t think they understood that I was Chemo’s daddy, but that was OK because I could snap photos of the big-screen TV in the lobby of the studio. Chemo did not speak, but I loved the way Ron Roll placed his hand on Chemo’s shoulder.

Once we got Rosa back home to Tocoa, with quick visits to two doctors and Rufina (Rosa, Chemo, and Marcos’ mother), Chemo and I returned to Las Vegas, bringing along Chemo’s brother Marcos, just as we did last year. Then word came that my computer was ready for pickup--in Tegucigalpa. I mentioned last month it had been damaged by some window-shopper who tried to pull it out of my house. Miraculously, Apple honored the warranty, still in effect, for repairs that would have cost at least $500.00, replacing the screen and the keyboard. And it works, well, better than new! But it meant another trip to Tegucigalpa. I decided to kill two birds with one stone, and fulfill my promise to Pablito and Chepito if they passed fourth grade to take them to the big city. So, with Chemo and Marcos, we were 5. One cab driver had to say, Listen, if you see any police, one of you duck down--four in the rear seat is illegal! As soon as we got there, I got my MacBook, then to the mall for shoes and pants and shirts for everyone. Pablito had completely walked off the soles of his Keds and Chepito’s were mere strips. We checked into the hotel, one room, two big beds--I was not about to let them have a room to themselves! and headed back to the mall, for Pizza Hut and the arcade. The next day we saw “2012” at the movies--which, you’d have to say, in Honduras, the effect of the end of the world would be negligible, but its endless scenes of destruction bored even these kids. Elio and Mema graciously accepted our invitation to lunch the next day, and patiently advised the boys to stay with school, work hard, respect Miguel. We went to the zoo (where my digital camera stopped working and it is NOT under warranty) and the big Jesus. And the arcade, and we ate four times a day. So I guess I spent that $500.00 after all....

But if you want excess, try Facebook. On second thought, don’t! Somebody hacked into my account and started launching spam--like I don’t gas enough myself!--I was so mad I logged on at the first opportunity and canceled my account, period. I never really “got” Facebook. So somebody made a sandwich, that’s wonderful. And I never did find my “wall.” But I was happy to find long-lost friends, so if you’re still hooked up and someone wonders what happened to Dulick, give them my email address, please, or direct them to my blog, michaeldulick.blogspot.com.

From “Bleak House”: “The poor only may and can, or shall and will be reclaimed according to somebody’s theory but nobody’s practice.” But then there’s Mrs. Bagnet: “She receives Good to her arms without a hint that it might be Better and catches light from any little spot of darkness near her.” And there is even a Rosa in the book, with her “pretty village face,” just like Chemo’s sister.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA—NOVEMBER 2009

Touched by an angel

Honduras is going to the World Cup! With seconds left in a game with Costa Rica, Jonathan Bornstein scored a goal for the United States. That goal, combined with Honduras’ victory over El Salvador the same night, clinched a berth for Honduras in the World Cup, the global soccer tournament that makes the World Series look like hopscotch. (Of course, if the Cardinals had gotten a little farther…) Both games were played at the same time, the whole country was flipping channels all night. Honduras’ game ended, and we held our breath for the longest minute of our lives. If you felt a sudden lift beneath your feet, it was 7 million Hondurans—and at least one gringo—all leaping into the air at the same time. With one kick—actually, it was a header—Jonathan Bornstein did more for peace between our countries than anyone has in 5 months. Hondurans waved American flags, gingos donned Honduran soccer jerseys. Let’s just say it was a miracle.

The celebration was overdue. The last time Honduras was in the World Cup was 1982. In those days, I didn’t even know what the World Cup was. But I soon learned. In those days, Padre Patricio and I rode mules from village to village, and we would get updates from folks glued to radios spitting static. Ever since, I’ve agonized with Honduras every 4 years, hoping maybe this time…

In Las Vegas, a spontaneous erupted as the whole town poured into the streets. All 6 cars in town formed an impromptu parade, bristling with cheering fans, a conga line wound around the soccer field, the Las Vegas Band, who just recorded a CD, set up their keyboards and loudspeakers, folks shook my hand to thank me as for the U.S. assist to Honduras’ hopes, finally fulfilled. So we’re going to South Africa, the host of the 2010 World Cup. We should feel right at home, since I understand their crime rate is about the same as ours.

Speaking of crimes, that night of celebration ended horribly for me, when I lost track of Chemo in all the hubbub and finally found him dead drunk in a mud puddle in a dark street, barely breathing. Chepito, of all people, helped me with him, carry him home, pull off his wet clothes, and cold shower him for about 40 minutes, then get him into bed. Chemo was unconscious, and I wished I were. Because I did blame myself, you know. I thought I’d killed my son. I checked him every 10 minutes to be sure he was still alive. When I touched him about 2 in the morning, he was soaking wet, and so was the bed. The inevitable had happened—the liquor had recycled through his bladder. I got him into a dry bed and started over.

The next day was a national holiday to celebrate the World Cup, so I assumed there’d be no school. But when I saw kids heading for class, I told Doricell to tell Profe Nancy that Chemo was ‘sick.’ About 8 a.m. Chemo stirred. ‘I’m hungry.’ He wanted soup, so I fixed the biggest Cup o’ Soup I could and he slurped it up in a couple minutes. At recess time, Profe Nancy sent a couple little classmates for Chemo, lest he miss the last day of regular class (the next day was a party). Chemo bounced up, threw on his uniform, and ran off to school, just like nothing had happened. I went along behind, to tell Profe Nancy what had happened.

Maybe I have finally become a father. I thought, I have to take care of Chemo FIRST. I can’t be feeding half the neighborhood when I don’t even know sometimes where Chemo is. I can’t be running off to all these meetings and groups and celebraciones and not spend time with my own kid. Actually, I had already decided to cut the nightly spaghetti suppers down to Sundays only, once ‘summer vacation’ began. Now I decided to implement the new regime at once.

It’s been a delight! I told Chemo I’m not trying to punish him or hog-tie him, I’m just trying to put him first. So I don’t do ‘my’ thing until I know where Chemo is. He’s usually with Santos his brother and Alba and the kids at their house. They just got electricity—I paid for 350 feet of wire to connect them to the nearest post—so it’s better than ever for evening visits. Now I can leave my house, hang around at the soccer field as Chemo and I wait for Santos to leave the AA meeting, and I’ve even gone to their house for supper, to enjoy Alba’s version of spaghetti, with a little bone of chicken on the side. Delicious!

One Sunday, instead of Mass—and it was going to be big, with First Communions and all—I skipped out to accept the invitation of our AA group to go to Las Cañas for their chapter’s anniversary. It’s just about 20 minutes outside Victoria by car, and it was great. I took Chemo, Santos took his son Santitos, Don Jose took his kids Uladislao and Rigo. There was just as much grace and faith in the men’s testimony—plus a few cusswords for spice!—as you’d find in any church.

This CASA may look a little different this month—if indeed I can send it at all—because I’m patching things together after my laptop got mangled when someone tried to pull it out of my office through a slashed screen, a broken window, and an iron grate. That was on my birthday, October 12. Some present, huh? But that was after the party, with delicious food prepared by Dora and Brenda, whose husband Wilfredo celebrates the same day, so the whole day wasn’t spoiled. My MacBook is at the biggest electronics store in Honduras, where they sell Apple products. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that they will honor the guarantee still in effect. Only ‘Normal Use’ is covered, of course. But hey, in Honduras, defenestration of all types is normal!

In fact, ousted president Mel Zelaya may be coming back inside, thanks to an 'agreement' that was suddenly announced between Mel and de facto president Roberto Micheletti when some heavy-hitters from the U.S. State Department came down here and twisted some arms. It would create a 'government of reconciliation': Mel-chiletti? Obi-wan-Kenobi said, 'Use The Force,' looks like Obama-wan-Kenobi used The Prize, the Nobel Peace Prize, that is. Dear God! if we do get peace, it will be another miracle.

After the class party, Profe Nancy took Chemo aside and quietly counseled him for about 10 minutes. I wasn’t close enough to hear, but I could tell she loved him, her wings enfolding him. She’ll be his teacher again in third grade, and I couldn’t ask for anyone better.

Meanwhile, Lily graduated first in her class at the National School of Music, and she’s not even 18 yet. Elvis and Dora went to Tegucigalpa for the ceremony. I was invited as a special guest, but suddenly, Doctora Karla fired a flare to come to Tegucigalpa--with Rosa! I stammered and stuttered. If she had told me to take a flight to the Moon and get back by Wednesday, I would have thought it more likely. I grabbed the fattest little book I had, Charles Dickens' 'Bleak House,' and off we went, Chemo and I. We got from Las Vegas to Tocoa in one day--9 hours, 6 buses--and back to Tegucigalpa the next--9 hours, 1 bus--with Rosa and her husband Tonio. The key here was another angel, when Tonio's buddy gave us a ride to the bus station at 5:00 in the morning. He saw us standing in the dark at the edge of their village hoping for a local bus that never came.

Next day, Rosa had her appointment, and Ron Roll just wrapped his big arms around her and told her, 'Everybody knows about Rosa!' And he's all over Chemo, 'Get over here, big guy!' A doctor and nurse who had arrived early in advance of the Brigada checked her out and consulted directly with her soon-to-be surgeon Dr. Christian Gilbert, live from his office in Memphis via Skype. 'I'll bring the valve,' he said. The man's a genius, an angel you could say.

But he can't make blood. The hospital needs 6 pints, a sort of downpayment before the surgery. Tonio gave the first pint. It took all morning waiting in 4 different lines, and I couldn't imagine getting any more. Scavenging for donors, qualified donors, you see, because not everyone willing to donate CAN donate, like me, with my hepatitis still cobwebbed in my bloodstream.

From 'Bleak House': 'What the poor are to the poor is little known, except to themselves and God.' Sometimes the door opens a crack, and you can see inside.... Pray for us, be good to us, and I will update you shortly, I hope, on Rosa's surgery.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2009

Peace Sells...But Who’s Buying?

On September 21 President Mel Zelaya, ousted in a coup on June 28, crept back into Honduras on little cat feet, hitching about 15 clandestine rides from El Salvador, and popping up like a Jack-in-the-box at the Brazilian embassy in the very heart of Tegucigalpa, igniting a frenzy among his delirious fans. For a couple days riots ensued, as the “Resistance” and the police beating them away re-staged the 1969 Rolling Stones Altamont concert hosted by the Hell’s Angels, for your viewing pleasure. After weeks of neglect, Honduras shot into the headlines again. The “interim” President, Roberto Micheletti, said, “Good for you, Mel--you’re under arrest,” and he told Brazil to hand him over. He toyed with the idea of going in after Mel, then said, “He can just stay there for 5 or 10 years,” then he invited Mel to “dialog.” All this within the first 24 hours.

And then a little miracle happened. With practically no warning and less planning, the four presidential candidates (‘los presidenciables’), who, despite representing four different political parties, have been campaigning more or less in tandem like the Four Musketeers to present a united front for the elections scheduled November 29, jumped on the invitation to dialog. They met with Micheletti at the presidential palace, and then just rode over to the Brazilian embassy and dropped in on Mel. I tell you, I could hardly believe the pictures--back-slapping, hand shakes, smiles and hugs all around. It looked like the Cardinals clubhouse after clinching another championship. Some of these guys have threatened to kill each other in the past!

Things had looked very grim, with Mel getting sort of kooky, claiming “they” were poisoning him with radon gas or something and hiding Israeli assassins in the bushes. But this scene was a delight. Now, if it can just get our country back on track. Everyone agrees the elections are the only solution to the crisis, but lately there has been zero interest in voting, it seemed so pointless.

Then, suddenly, another turn, for the worse. Previously so proud of the freedoms he “preserved” by deposing Mel, Micheletti went a little crazy in the head á la Dr. Strangelove and decreed martial law--no assembling, no dissenting, no talking, no warrants, no warning. Not a lot different, really, from the police-state tactics in the streets of Pittsburgh during the recent G-20 Summit. But even Micheletti’s loyalists think he’s lost his mind. He’s certainly lost his trump card, his vaunted legality (see next paragraph). Panicked, the ‘presidenciables’ abruptly changed their tune from “We Are the World” to Megadeth. They fell all over themselves to condemn this latest threat to “democracy,” that is, to their own slim hope of legitimacy. Micheletti, for his part, said the crackdown was necessary to counter Mel’s continuing calls for “revolution.” Indeed, when Mel sounded the alarm for “the final push,” even his host President Lula of Brazil cautioned Mel to simmer down. And the U.S. State Department advised that Mel’s dramatics were “foolish.” Then, another little miracle: Micheletti quickly repented and promised to reverse the restrictions, begged forgiveness of “the people,” and he sent Lula a “big hug.” Jim Carrey plays more stable characters!

A legal study just published by the U.S. Library of Congress found Mel’s removal from the presidency constitutional, according to Honduran law, though not his removal from the country. You know, some readers have been confused by my reports--the result both of my glancing blows and even more because of the insane situation--but let me summarize. Unlike the U.S. constitution, some articles in the Honduran constitution cannot be amended, especially its strict one-term limit for the president. Furthermore, the constitution declares even the attempt to amend this provision an act of treason that automatically separates an official from their office. Mel forced the issue when he insisted on a sham balloting scheduled for June 28 to extend his term. The Supreme Court judged that Mel had crossed the line and they ordered his arrest, for treason. The army grabbed him and flew him out of the country. So the presidency was vacant, and Roberto Micheletti, president of Congress, next in constitutional succession (Honduras has no Vice-President) was sworn in. So there you are. Easy as pie. Very neat, on paper. Now, back to the real world, where, as the protesters at the G-20 in Pittsburgh would have noted, the poor should have had their say, too. In fact, conditions are so desperate here that maybe all the poor will say, “I’m going to America!” You already have a million Hondurans up there, what’s a few million more? Very inviting, especially with “Obamacare” in view...!

I’ll tell you who was right in the middle of the mess--a very pregnant Maricela, who went to Tegucigalpa for a check-up the day before Mel’s lightning-strike return and was trapped in the chaos. No buses, no cabs, nothing but a 24-hour curfew for days on end, and no appointments kept at the hospital. This is her seventh pregnancy, so she knows how that goes, but it’s the first one where she’s had to dodge tear-gas canisters. Here I am holed up with Chemo in our bunker in Las Vegas, and there’s Maricela out there risking her life! With diabetes and high blood pressure, she really needs some careful monitoring for the baby due in December, who she “knows” is a girl (seven kids gives you some authority, no doubt). She plans to name her Teresa--for Teresa Jorgen--and Mariana, for my sister Mary Anne, who died, you remember, last April. Sometimes you have to wonder, what if we could just keep politicians like Mel and Micheletti barefoot and pregnant and out of sight...? Or, to take it from the other angle, why isn’t Maricela president of Honduras? A mother, instead of a...”mother”...if ya know what I mean....

After months of frustration with my short-wave radio, I finally thought, Podcasts! I found some of my “favorites” on iTunes, including Alex Jones, the nuclear yellow-cake of talk radio, just in time to find him sling-shotting actor Charlie Sheen into the 9/11 conspiracy debate. Did you know that the planes that hit the Twin Towers were drones? This all sounded more consequential when it was the only broadcast I could get on the radio as I drifted off to sleep. On an iPod in the cold light of day, I want to scream, but I guess it keeps me young, the blood circulating, you know, when it isn’t curdling. Charlie Sheen wants Obama to re-open at least 2 and 1/2 investigations, because 9/11 was “an inside job.” I don’t know about 9/11, but Honduras is certainly looking like a “globalist” conspiracy. How else can you explain this “false flag” of self-inflicted wounds, pulverizing the country under cover of “restoring” us to “democracy”?

September 15 is Honduras Independence Day. Some independence, huh? But I guess we’re probably more independent than ever--the whole world hates us! Isolated and shamed like an abortion in the basement, like Jaycee Lee Dugard--before her rescue. Because of the “crisis,” the teachers and other unions declared the day a dead letter, but, you know what, they do that every year. Big celebrations are supposedly a boon to businesses--students dress up for parades, new band uniforms and outfits, candy and other goodies shared at school, big sales events at all the stores and malls, decorations and extravagance throughout--so to “punish” the oppressors, the unions try to shut the day down like the Grinch on Christmas. Such dryness is naturally doomed. Mindless or not, folks will celebrate, even in adversity.

At our school in Las Vegas, a compromise. No parades or marches, but a whole morning of dances, dramas, and diversions with a “cultural” theme celebrating our heritage. Elvis was helping with the sound and music, and at one point, when a cute couple of second-graders performed, he jumped on his cell phone to call me--I was in the back of the crowd. “Get some pictures of Dorisell!” I hurried closer to the edge of the grass and started snapping away, but I thought, That little girl is not Dorisell. Did I misunderstand, or Elvis doesn’t even know his own kid? I took at least 40 pictures of the little couple anyway, and they got a nice hand. It was not till after the whole morning was over and Flor the principal told all the students to report to their classrooms, where the teachers had little bags of candy for them, that I went to Profe Nancy’s second-grade, where Chemo is a classmate with Dorisell, and saw Dorisell, in little black boots and little gray pants, and a little boy’s shirt, and a big mustache in her hand, and it hit me. Dorisell was the boy! Dorisell was the BOY!! I felt like I’d just read the last page of the new Dan Brown novel. The rest of the day, I just kept telling people, Hey, did you see Dorisell in the presentations this morning? No? Yes, you did! She was the boy! Dorisell, even at 7, is such a pro. She just did her job, she wasn’t looking for any celebrity. I could not get her excited by her triumph, even when I “slideshowed” all 40 pictures on my laptop for her. Later, Dora explained that Profe Nancy had, of course, wanted one of the second-grade boys for the dance, but none of them could, or would, learn the steps--and we all looked at Chemo. “Who, me?” Now, Chemo does love to “move,” when he’s got his music going, and I would have loved to see him take this leap forward, but you have to congratulate Dorisell for her showMANship!

Dorisell’s big brother Elvis, Jr., danced, too, with the folk dancers, but I could recognize him all right. He is a boy and he danced a boy. Other kids performed various skits, including a take-off on “Laura,” a TV talk show like Jerry Springer. But, again, cross-dressing, with an eighth-grader, Jonathan, as Laura. Now, that is a brave 14-year-old!

But the most moving performance was one not intended for applause at all, and I did not get a photo of it, either. Tomas Cruz, a young teacher from the very poor village of Pueblo Nuevo, who has appeared in these chronicles before when he got his a job at age 18 teaching first-graders, sang the National Anthem in Tulupan, an indigenous language. It was moving not only because of its strange and exotic sounds but even more so because of its unspoken pleading for inclusion of a forgotten people, the Tulupan Indians, lost and ignored in the mountains ever since their land became our land, “la patria.”

So September 15 was big, but I was even more excited about 09-09-09, not because I play the lottery, but because it was Chemo’s birthday. He picked out new clothes at Juanita’s store, including new shoes. It’s not just a birthday present, it’s practically a necessity. Chemo has a hard time getting dressed sometimes because he gives his clothes away. He gave pants and a couple shirts to his brother Marquitos when we visited there in July. He’ll measure a kid with a pair of his shorts and say, “These’ll fit you.” He’ll hold up a pair of not-so-old soccer shoes and give me a questioning look and point to the kid beside him. I’ll nod Yes. What am I supposed to say? I think of Fr. Mychal Judge, the first official casualty of 9/11, who apparently never got all the way home with the clothes he left the house in, because he’d’ve given something away to the poor. I long to be that simple, and I guess I’m glad that Chemo already is.

For Chemo’s big day we had a huge Carolina cake and a party on the roof. It was sort of hot, so we crowded into what shade there was. But there were no complaints, especially when Chemo cranked up some new music I had just downloaded for him. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention we got up at 5:00 in the morning to play “Las Mananitas,” the traditional birthday serenade. I played it as loud as I dared at that hour, but Chemo would not wake up. He just rolled over, even after four repeats, and he didn’t remember a thing the rest of the day. Imagine! Sleeping like that! (Like father, like son, you’re probably thinking....)

Chemo turned 15. That’s remarkable. I can’t help thinking back to last year, when he celebrated his 14th birthday in Tegucigalpa just before his open-heart operation. We spent that September 9th scrambling for blood donors, the longest day of my life, till September 12, that is, the actual day of his operation. A century passed between 2:00 and 6:00 p.m. as I waited for him to live or die, under the knife. Well, he lived, didn’t he? And a year later his gaping scar is no more than a chalk line on his chest. Maybe the wound festering in Honduras can heal as surely. You prayed and carried Chemo into life, can you still remember us, till justice come? And by the way, I haven’t seen Chemo’s new birthday shirt since his birthday. Not on Chemo anyway.....

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2009

Masters of War

Honduras continues in its political Limbo, neither fish nor fowl, but still foul enough in the high noses of the “world community” that now says they won’t recognize our elections in November--our best hope for an end to the crisis--if ousted president Mel Zelaya is not first returned to power. Oh thank you, thank you, Masters, may I have another? Hey, if you accepted the 2000 election of George Bush, you can darn well accept ours!

This whole mess may be the fault of the U.S., after all. Not, as Hugh Chavez thinks, because the U.S. encouraged the coup, but because the U.S. failed to discourage Mel. Remember the first Gulf War, when Saddam Hussein barged into Kuwait after the U.S. ambassador raised no objections to his ambitions? Similarly here, the U.S. ambassador, Hugo Llorens, kept lauding Mel for his leadership and never raised objections to Mel’s “Cuarta Urna,” his ambition for unconstitutional re-election. Perhaps if Llorens had sat Mel down and told him point blank, “Lookit, Mel baby, get off this kick, ‘cause if there’s a coup, don’t come crying to us to put you back in!” Mel might have backed down and we’d just be coasting along in the normal greased grooves of common corruption as always till a new president takes the wheel next January. Indeed, the presidential campaign “officially” kicked off today, with the two major candidates, Elvin Santos for the Liberals and Pepe Lobo for the Nationals, all smiles and promises--education, employment, security--without so much as a glance at embargoes, isolation, ruin, and death. Just a normal campaign.

So Obama is still dealing with this hornets nest. Fortunately, he has not gone so far as to declare our elections null and void even before they happen. But the State Department is doing something just as cheap, behaving like a “death panel” and suspending entry visas for ANYONE from Honduras. So Hondurans themselves are null and void. That’s not diplomacy, that’s bullying. That’s the kind of small thinking that got us into this mess; that’s the kind of thinking that defines Obama down, from hope and change to mope and spare change. He’s bigger than that. Maybe as a tribute to Senator Kennedy, we might declare an amnesty on such arrogance. Chemo just asked me when we’re going to America. Never, my son....

Honduras is so little. We can’t trade oil for “compassion” like the Lockerbie bomber from Libya. We can’t win Miss Universe. We probably can’t get into the World Cup. We have nothing to offer, to entice the world to soften its hard line. Oh, we make your clothes (I just noticed “Made in Honduras” in my Dickies tee-shirt!), and you eat our bananas and maybe our melons, and there are a million Hondurans in the U.S., poaching your eggs, flipping your burgers, nannying your babies, planting your daffodils, building your houses, but it’s just a sliver of the current madness for “globalization,” sometimes pronounced “Goldman-Sachs.”

The way things are going, I have half a mind to jump into a march for Mel myself, just to get this over with, but I’m scared I might lose the other half of my mind if I get my head beaten in. A Human Rights group (CIDH) came to look into alleged abuses by the police of protesters demanding Mel’s return. And they found plenty. But not surprisingly. These are the same police beating the same protesters sicced on them by Mel in the past four years and by every president before him. There is one new little twist; Micheletti, the de facto president, has brought Billy Joya out of mothballs, a real gem from the 1980s who specialized in “disappearing” activists for then-president Roberto Suazo Cordova, to coordinate the counter-insurgency. Violence! Violence! The protesters are blamed for burning down a Popeye’s and setting a bus on fire, cooking up Molotov cocktails in the chem labs of the university. And for attacking Red Cross ambulances! The “Melistas” deny any role in the violence, but did assert that the police were using the ambulances to supply the police with more tear-gas bombs and other anti-riot gear. Someone lobbed 5 Molotov cocktails at the El Heraldo newspaper offices, viewed as “golpista,” that is, serving the interests of the coup government, but strangely almost no damage was done, so that looks like an inside job, yes? On the other hand, hooligans have killed more fans at our soccer games in the past two months than any police have killed on the streets. Mel himself is urging disruption of the voting in November--another crime against the state! says the “interim” government of Roberto Micheletti. It’s crazy, like the man who killed his parents throwing himself on the mercy of the court--as an orphan.

At a meeting at the school in Las Vegas to bring parents up to date on teachers’ plans for the rest of the school year, a rather hyperbolic organizer from Victoria screamed at us for 40 minutes, blaming all the evils of the world on Micheletti, the de facto president, and his minions. I had to appreciate more what Paulino, a man with a longer memory, said. Paulino never got beyond the third grade; he’ll never be a “Hot Search” on Yahoo, but he’s been protesting all his life; he’s been beaten and jailed by every president Honduras has had since it began electing them “constitutionally” in 1982, just for siding with the poor. He is the most humble man, the very model of non-violence, soft-spoken, a voice choked a little with tears. He really couldn’t bring himself to second the rhetoric of self-righteousness. He just said, “We have to keep with the struggle, for the poor, till justice come.” The restoration of Mel and the “restoration” of justice are two very different things. How can you “restore” something that Honduras has never known?

So how can I thank YOU for listening? I just drop these missives into a deep well, and I wait for the splash. And then the bucket suddenly comes up and it’s Amy Gavel, a Parkway North grad, who wrote to say she’s organizing her own students (9th - 12th graders) at Mt. Zion Temple in St. Paul, MN, to send help, specifically for Rosa, Chemo’s sister, who needs open-heart surgery, too. Amy’s students are already covering “Rosa bat Rufina” with misherebach blessings and prayers.

Talk about a long memory! Christians can never catch up on Judaism’s eons of out-reach. I just heard Bill Maher try to set the record straight. “Americans are so dumb! A recent Gallup Poll found that about half of us do not know that Judaism is older than Christianity. So there are some people with a book in their house that says, ‘The Old Testament’ and ‘The New Testament,’ and they can’t figure out which came first.”

But Amy is not the only fresh water we’re getting. So many are helping. Indeed, any of you who regard us with good wishes and interest have our heart in your hands. Look at the way Jeanette Sipp-White, a Spanish teacher at Parkway South High, phrased it: “Know that we are all thinking of you and keeping you and our Honduran brothers and sisters in our prayers.” Our brothers, our sisters. Maybe we’re not so little after all.

Few prayers can improve on the simple “steps” of Alcoholics Anonymous. Last time I went to the Wednesday meeting that the men invite me to each week, Raul says, “Did you bring the literature?” I give a little reflection on a Scripture reading, but that didn’t seem to be what he meant. Turns out he was inviting me to open the meeting! This means reciting the Twelve Steps and the Twelve Traditions of AA. I do have copies, but I used their well-worn versions, reading them like a Book of Psalms, and I closed the meeting, too. I felt so privileged for this special confidence. Some day even Bill Maher, an ardent atheist who cannot conceive of any “higher power,” may find a testament there.

Speaking of oracles, I was pretty scared at the prospect of Chemo’s latest report card. When we do homework, subtraction, for example, there might 6 problems out of 15 that involve 10 - 6 or something equally basic; he has to count his fingers every time. But his teacher Nancy is a pearl, and she gave him high 80s and 90s. There is at least one more “quarter” to go in his quest to pass second grade. I guess the bubble will burst some day. There are a lot of folks around here who dropped out after second grade. For some kids, third grade is like Advanced Placement.

Meanwhile, Chepito and Pablito, incredibly, are still passing fourth grade. Their grades would make lovely sleeping weather, 60s and low 70s, but leave their ultimate fate very much in doubt. Actually, their teacher Abener recently asked to “borrow” 500 Lempiras from me. I loaned him the money happily, you know, sort of an insurance policy for the Bandidos. So I kinda think he’s returning the favor....

I went to Tegucigalpa August 28 for Elio Flores’ birthday party. It was a wonderful celebration! It was the first time I had seen the whole family together since Mema’s birthday party back in January, just after she and Elio had started receiving death threats if they didn’t pay “protection” money. That was an oppressive evening. But this was sheer joy, everyone dancing, eating, laughing, and singing. I shamelessly took advantage of the situation to hit up folks for blood donors for Chemo’s sister Rosa--we have to deposit at least 5 pints of blood before her operation. And of course they responded as I knew they would. “Where do I sign up?”

Another good sign is the restoration of the old church on the hill. It finally got a “polish” and it once again is like a lighthouse to the whole community. I had the kids haul the bags of cement, the bags of cal, the sand, the water, up the steep hill, where Dora’s brother Oscar did the “plastering.” I tried to make it worth their while, with fried chicken lunches at the merendero. A little tornado or something had torn the roof off and big chunks of the walls over two years ago, leaving only the hundred-year-old facade. So we rebuilt the walls with concrete blocks, and that somehow took forever, while a new roof blew off again and was replaced with a yet stronger one. I “contracted” Oscar for the final touches, but he had to plant his corn--and his beans and help with his friends’ corn and beans--so the delays kept piling up. Now some folks are starting to harvest their corn! But it’s done. Well, we think we will put a little sidewalk around it to finish it off, and Dora thinks the Legion of Mary should raise the funds to paint it. I like its “antique” whiteness, but it might end up a lovely Marian blue....

Chemo’s soccer team is now official, a “Liga de Menores,” or kids’ league. And when I say official, I mean it. They’ve got more staff than the Cardinals. Threre’s a president, a vice-president, a treasurer, a bunch of assistants I don’t even know what they do--and a Discipline Committee, the parents’ favorite feature. The team’s name is Mario Landa, for a retired teacher and major sponsor. I’m not sure how the cheers are supposed to go.... Gimme an M! They invited a professional coach from Tegucigalpa to come and evaluate the kids and give his advice. At a meeting with parents, I asked what he considered the major criteria for participation. He underscored the support of the parents. Good enough, but I was fishing for where he came down on the choices, win-at-all-costs or play-every-kid-every-game, which is Chemo’s best hope.

You know, I’m “pro-life,” but I draw the line at roaches, even unborn roaches. The other night, I almost fainted when I saw three fat roaches crawling around on the glass door of my microwave, like they were on TV or something. I grabbed the Raid and, my heart pounding, I flipped open the door. Nothing. Where were they? I closed the door--O my God! They were INSIDE the door , between the two glass panels that form the door, an arrangement I’d never noticed before. Roach under glass. But that’s not all. A snow-white roach was wriggling out of its black husk, like some scene cut from the latest Narnia movie. Was this the end? Should I hide in the basement and wait for the fire and brimstone? My hands trembling, I examined the door as best I could, and found some openings at the hinges where presumably some roach looking for a tanning bed could crawl in. I thought, I’ll toast them! So I set a cup of water inside (caution, caution) and cranked up the machine. No effect. Where’s Billy Joya when you need him? But that’s the whole point of the door, of course--it doesn’t heat up. So I sprayed, and sprayed, aiming right into the little holes, tossing caution to the wind in case I might start a fire. (I guess I could have unplugged it....) And then at last they started to scramble and I smashed them into wet spots as they found their way out, including the white one, the Queen? But the husk remains stuck between the glass, a museum piece to sort of turn your stomach every time you see it. I’d call it a metaphor for Honduras, but I’m not sure if it’s not the other way around.

With these long stretches in Las Vegas--avoiding travel to avoid the crowds--I’ve been fixing spaghetti every night, and the kids never tire of it. And I do love to see everyone eating. For me, the key is serving it piping hot. Delicious! I would try other menus, but spaghetti is the easiest, quickest, cheapest dish to feed the hordes, as many as 15 kids a night, as well as Don Jose, who comes with his three boys. My own appetite, however, may be reaching its limits.

But I WILL change the menu if peace comes to Honduras. I’ll throw such a party! Meanwhile, wish us well, keep in touch, and enjoy the sweet corn, as we are here, the reason butter and salt were invented. And that’s what I call poetry!

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2009

My City in Ruins

What a mess! If I smiled at the coup in Honduras, world reaction was hysterical. Suddenly, Honduran “democracy” had been violated, the “legitimately elected” president must be immediately “reinstated” to his “rightful position.” It’s like Honduras was Athens and Mel Zelaya our Pericles. News to me. This is the first time I remember human rights activists so respectful of Honduran institutions rather than demanding their immediate and radical reform.

Nobody’s smiling now.

I’ve been trying for years to get some attention for Honduras. Finally everybody notices us, and world opinion is unanimous: Honduras is a joke. We’re a throwback, an anomaly, a banana republic in the 21st century, a toxic backwater. We’re Sarah Palin.

Coup, shmoo, they lanced a boil! Now they’re telling us we have to put the pus back in its sac. But I guess even when your president is behaving like Captain Queeg--”Cuarta Urna, Cuarta Urna, that’s the ticket”--Micheletti’s little mutiny is an affront; you can’t just bundle the President up and cart him off to Costa Rica in his Spiderman pajamas and not expect to pay a price. And oh man, we are paying a price! The country is split like a watermelon dropped off the roof. And lookit, the coup was to stop Mel from electing himself president-for-life, but Micheletti has been in Congress 30 years, a diputado-for-life.

I am physically sick with fear at my country in ruins, though, like the father in “Life Is Beautiful,” I assure my son Chemo that it’s all a game, so he does not see how scared I really am. Most offended are countries that already have a “president-for-life,” like Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez, who was orchestrating Mel’s deconstruction of whatever bits of democracy Honduras did have. He is playing for keeps, but he is frustrated, too, even falling back to his default position: the CIA is behind the coup.

Oh, I hate this! I swear I cannot talk politics in these updates! I didn’t come here to be CNN. I’m just here because some first-century rabbi said sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor and then come follow me. Now I’m so confused. Just because every year since then has been numbered from his birth, that doesn’t necessarily mean he was right, does it? But where is his love? Where is his love of neighbor? Where is his love of enemies? Where is his shrinking from self-interest? I need you more than ever. My little robbery, the murder of Dr. Nelson--these local events have jumped up to a national scale. That is, if you can find them in the news anymore. When Michael Jackson died, Honduras was buried. Judging by the news coverage, Jesus is so over; the millennia will now be numbered BeforeMJ and AfterMJ....

Anyone who writes me, I try to agree with, and that’s because I’d rather have a friend than a fight. Let’s not even talk about the news media here--newspapers, TV, radio. Sold! A fog of disinformation thicker than soup. I thought I was misinformed till I saw the coverage you’re getting, including one account that referred to “ousted President Manuel Zelda.” Oy vay! I created my own fantasy world bigger than Battlestar Galactica, imagining that my friend in the State Department, Robert Schwartz, was forwarding my frantic pleas for help directly to Hillary Clinton. But, you know what, she did more for us than anyone else when she got Mel Zelaya and Roberto Micheletti, the “interim” president, to agree to talks moderated by Nobel Peace Prize winner Oscar Arias, president of Costa Rica. Of course, they didn’t even sit down together--damn that macho culture!--handing over the negotiations to “commissions” they formed, but it gave us a little hope, enough to sleep some nights, looking at our children, like Chemo, wondering if they’d ever forgive us for our “principles.”

Speaking of principals, that was the gut-wrencher for us parents: no classes. This burned my blisters. Holding kids hostage. The teachers unions--a Hydra with six heads--declared a national strike till Mel be restored. This is so ironic. We lost fifty days last year with strikes when the unions HATED Mel because thousands of teachers were unpaid. He threatened to fire them all two or three times They wanted him OUT then; now they want him back. The media are reporting helatious pay-offs to “persuade” the unions to see Mel’s point of view. I believe everything and nothing at this point. Whatever, the unions demand full compliance. In Las Vegas, where the teachers, God bless ‘em, have often quietly ignored national strikes, they’re scared to resist this “perfect storm.” Nevertheless, classes did resume here after two weeks, and they are trying to keep going, despite intense pressure to shut down. Everybody’s got a union--except kids. If we lose this school year with 4 months still to go, well, in Chemo’s case, it’ll just be about the 10th year of school he’s lost in his lifetime, since he never went to school till I adopted him.

When Mel attempted a re-entry a week after the coup with a plane and pilot borrowed from Hugo Chavez, the crowd at the airport was a powder-keg, pro and con, and Mel urged his partisans, “Please practice what I have always preached: non-violence.” (Gag me!) When he couldn’t land--the airstrip was dotted with army vehicles--he eventually buzzed off to Nicaragua, though not before at least one young protester was shot dead., Now he’s trying to Che his way back in, inciting violence and revolution, reminding us of our “constitutional right” to insurrection against an “usurper” government. That’ll work, teachers with yardsticks (and rocks) vs. the Army. Meanwhile, the “new” government is daily finding more evidence of Mel’s corruption, including unsealing indictments from a Florida court of a shake-down scheme for cellular phone rights involving millions of dollars in bribes; all the names were cronies of Mel. Mel’s chief of staff practically emptied the vaults at the national bank the day after the coup--40 million Lempiras--to spread the wealth around among any likely defectors. They caught that on tape! Then they noticed that no drug planes had been crashing since Mel left; these little prop planes, mostly from Venezuela--Hugo Chavez again!--were crashing at the rate of about one a week, overloaded with drugs or cash, leading to calculations that for every one that crashed--and I saw one myself, still smoldering, right by the side of the road when I last went to San Pedro Sula before the present crisis--at least a dozen were getting through, sailing the trade winds from south to north and right into your neighborhood. Now, such corruption could no doubt be found with any Honduran president--including the present one! (After all, SOMEBODY is paying for the tens of thousands of white tee-shirts that the marchers for “Peace and Democracy” are wearing. And I just found out that Micheletti owns all the Burger Kings in Honduras.) It’s just that this time the “authorities” have the leisure of unimpeded investigation.

On Friday, June 24, Mel thought he was Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon, as he stepped into Honduras across the Nicaragua border. More like Sid Caesar in a pratfall--or Frank Burns in that “MASH” episode, taunting Hawkeye: “See, I can step in, I can step out, nyaah, nyaah.” The poor guy, he just wants to see his family, who have been under watch ever since his ouster. He supposed the Army would run to embrace him as their Fearless Leader, but the troops just stayed put. In fact, they even stepped back some 50 yards, under orders to avoid any confrontation. Some rumors say their loyalty is also being purchased at a pretty price. It is a special disgrace to test the conscience of a soldier. Even John the Baptist was gentle: “Just don’t scare people, and be content with your pay.” Both “presidents” have much to answer for.

Oscar Arias presented a beautiful Peace Plan of 12 points (sort of a 12-step recovery program for those drunk on power), and the world is praying for its acceptance. It would return Mel to the presidency but with his...wings clipped. The same Head of State, but in a smaller hat. As of this writing, Mel’s border pantomime continues; now he’s talking about forming “militias” and hiding in the hills to plan raids like Tom Sawyer’s Gang. He’s managed to insult Hillary Clinton, who wants to see him in Washington: “If she wants to talk to me, she can send someone here.” Used to be when someone offends a lady, you’d punch them in the nose. Let’s see if Obama in his “mom jeans” steps up to the plate. Meanwhile, the State Department is upping the pressure on Micheletti, cutting millions in aid, shutting down the U.S. military base here, and revoking diplomatic visas. Micheletti says, “That’s fine, we’re not going to Disney World anyway.” (I’m paraphrasing.) As my friend Elvis says, “Like talking to a rock.” Yet, Obama’s celebrated “cool” may save the day--nothing extreme, just playing out the line till the big fish bites. I hope it’s soon.

When Norman Mailer searched for a metaphor to describe the Vietnam war, he turned to the strongest language he could find: “We are burning the body of Christ in Vietnam.” Today, may I say, Honduras is crucified between two thieves. Pray for our rising.

There are signs of hope. As poet Anne Sexton once wrote, “I eat it like bread.”

Our neighbor Marito returned after nine months in San Felipe Hospital in Tegucigalpa, recovering from some weird stroke that turned his muscles to jelly. His homecoming--along with his mother Ana, who stayed with him the entire time--was treated like a re-brith. He still does physical therapy, but it is a miracle to see him walking and talking like a kid again.

We celebrated the “regular” birthdays I guess you could call them of little Miguel Angel and his big brother Juan Jose, sons of Maricela and Juan Blas. Their birthdays fall in the same week, so one year we celebrate one, the next year the other. So far, they have not gone on strike protesting a “birthday-cake gap.”

Everyday on my way to Jacinto’s store to get the day’s “menu” for our spaghetti dinners, I pass the house of one of the poorest ladies in town, Ines, who’s taking care of two tiny grandkids, Jefferson and Helen. I thought they were twins for the longest time. They’re not even siblings! Anyway, I get them a little treat at Jacinto’s every day--a juice, some rolls, a bag of chips, cookies--and drop it off as I walk back. Very soon we are going to give them a birthday party, another twofer, OK? but one of Carolina’s enormous cakes is bigger than both of them.

When Pablo Medina, 50, suddenly died--and he died during an operation in El Progreso, another sign of how fortunate Chemo was to get world-class doctors for his open-heart surgery--we of course were stunned and saddened. But his funeral gave our community an opportunity to gather as one, forgetting any divisions between “Melistas” and “Michelettistas.” Pablo was the sweetest guy, just as humble as milk; a delegado (lay minister), he dedicated his life to the education of the poorest of the poor, the remnants of Indian tribes scattered in the mountains. One of his friends called him the “Apostle to the Poor.” That’s a title even his namesake, the apostle St. Paul, would have coveted.

When I heard that Mel’s partisans were blocking access to hospitals in Tegucigalpa--that’s a winning tactic, huh? sacrificing the sick on the altar of your arrogance--I called Ron Roll of Helping Hands because I knew another Brigada of heart surgeons was supposed to be in town, and he had urged Chemo and me to come for a little show-and-tell. I guess even these protesters’ conscience was pricked, because, said Ron, “Oh, it’s nothing, we just walked right in.” So I said to Chemo, “We’re going to Tegus!” I figured if these wonderful doctors and nurses could brave the crisis, leaving behind their own families, their own children, in the United States, to come for the poor kids of Honduras, we could be brave, too. Lord knows, I would never endanger Chemo, but it seemed somehow reasonable. He’d miss school, but we had to go.

And we went, Monday, July 27, our first venture into the belly of the beast since the crisis began. It was an ugly arriving--burning tires, hateful graffiti, crowds of marchers, streets blocked. I thought, O my God, what have I done? We entrusted ourselves to our favorite taxi driver, Roberto, who always meets the bus from Victoria; it took him an hour and a half (for a trip that usually takes twenty minutes), but he got us to the Nanking Hotel, weaving his way through every back street and cut-off and alley to Angelica’s waiting arms by her candy stand in front of the Hotel. I gave Roberto more than twice what he asked for, acknowledging that no one else would have risked so much for us.

When I called Elio and Mema, another blessed surprise. They invited us to the Catholic Women’s League meeting that evening at the Maya Hotel, just a few blocks from the Nanking. These monthly meetings are open to the public, and they get the best speakers around, this time Jorge Prado from Guatemala. His theme, tempered for the times, was reconciliation and it had us all in tears--even Chemo, who, incredibly, paid attention to every word, and clapped along with the songs (and made short work of the snacks provided as well!). He had all these very proper ladies--and their husbands--holding hands, holding shoulders, and praying deep for peace, our eyes closed and hearts poured out.

You see? There was the love we were looking for. And it primed the pump for the next day, when we went to Seguros Hospital to meet the Brigada. You know what? There IS a union for kids, and his name is Ron Roll. In his unique and altogether lovable blend of English and Spanish, Ron bursts out as soon as he sees Chemo. “Chemo! [mis-pronounced like chemo-therapy] Estás great, honey!” His wife Alba was even more excited, she grabbed everyone around and told them, “This is Chemo [she’s native Honduran, so “Shay-mo”], he was one of our first.” And you know, it struck me--he WAS a pioneer, the very first Brigada back in September. And what’s more, I realized just how special was Ron and Alba’s love; you see, Ron had told us to come about 2 in the afternoon, after the surgeons were finished for the day. Well, back in September, Chemo’s operation did not start till 2, and he was the very last child operated on. I’m thinking he was a very special add-on, as it were, thanks to Ron’s persistence. I wanted to call Ron “Honey,” too! And Dr. Karla, Chemo’s original doctor, gave him his checkup, including a fresh echocardiogram. There’s the love! There’s the kind of love that will save this country yet. And to highlight its gift even more, at least 6 other brigadas (for plastic surgery, cleft palates, burn victims, ear problems, etc.) that come every year have canceled their annual visits, thanks to the dancing monkey in a mustache (Mel) and the “Gorilla” (Micheletti), whose only surgical skills are cutting themselves a bigger piece of the pie.

I mentioned to Alba that it looks like Chemo’s sister Goya (or Rosa), 22, has the same heart ailment as Chemo, but there are no brigadas for adults; she says, “Wait right here.” She comes back with Dr. Christian (!) Gilbert, from Memphis. He says they are returning in November, and “We’ll fit her in.” Can you believe it? Matching scars!

In fact, Rosa (let me just call her Rosa from now on) was our next stop, because we had been telling Chemo’s mother Rufina for months that we would come for her birthday July 30--and we would pick up Rosa and brother Marcos on the way, in Tocoa.

On the way? Omigod! It took us eleven hours on the “express” bus, just to get to Rosa’s, where we spent the night. It’s a big, comfortable bus, but even so, I’m surprised we didn’t meet the Space Shuttle coming the other way. It’s convenient because it’s one bus all the way, and all on paved highways, but that means it’s the long way, cutting a big half-circle from Tegucigalpa and around the country, passing through virtually every major city. And that was the fear--would there be marchers blocking the roads? There were blockages, but it was for construction, though the running joke was, at every sudden stop, “Oh, no, it’s a strike!” That got old real fast....

Rosa looks sick, that sort of “traviata” look, flushed and fatal. I think in her we can see what Chemo might have looked like if he had reached her age without his operation. She was scheduled for an echocardiogram a couple times already--at a clinic two hours away in La Ceiba--but the doctor, apparently the only cardiologist within a thousand square miles, could not get there from San Pedro Sula due to strikes and marches, and he only comes on Saturdays. Do you see, dear friends, how maybe having two competing presidents is not necessarily our biggest concern here, even though it’s got the rest of the world throwing hissy fits?

The next day, Thursday, July 30, we all went to Bonito Oriental for Rufina’s birthday, that is, Chemo, his sister Rosa and her 16-month old baby Tonio, and Chemo’s little brother Marcos. Now, Marcos is still taller than Chemo, but Chemo is catching up. Since his operation, Chemo has grown a lot. Once a head taller, Marcos, 12, is just an inch or so beyond Chemo, about to turn 15.

Fidel, Rufina’s husband, was waiting for us in town. First thing we did was buy a birthday cake, and Fidel even got us a ride to the house. Now, in previous visits, we had to climb a mountain for an hour and a half to reach our destination; but they’ve moved! They live on the flat earth now, just outside of town. It’s a lovely little house, of solid concrete block, right by the river, breezy, shady, and lots of water pressure. (I took a shower--outside, mind you--that I never wanted to end.) But it doesn’t have lights--yet. Fidel’s patron, Don Cruz, 91 years old, basically got his sons to build it for them, and it’s his home, too. Two of the sons dropped by, and they are very loyal to dad. I gave Fidel some cash to expedite the installation of the electricity. But it really wasn’t much of a problem, except for going to bed at 7:30....

Rufina enjoyed her party, though she had to cook her own birthday dinner, with Rosa’s help, and Marcos and Chemo played in the river. I chatted with Don Cruz; this guy has personally lived through about half of Honduras’s history, so I asked him about the present crisis. He starts, “When I was about 14, in 1932”--Good night nurse! the man’s a Wikipedia!--”all I remember is war...and now we’re there again.” Will this ancient Moses ever get to the Promised Land?

Let’s back up. Before Chemo and I started this country-crossing crusade, there was just enough time to keep another promise I had made, to Pablito and Chepito, to visit their dad Leon again, still serving time in the Yoro Penitentiary, a year and a half after hacking at Nazario with a machete in a drunken brawl. So we went, with Irene their mom, on a Saturday. Leon seems more “at home” now, as if maybe he is actually a little reformed. He did not harp on his innocence and the injustice of it all. (Though it surely is unjust--Madoff will be out before Leon, wanna bet?) He and Irene snuck off for a conjugal visit, at least I assume it was conjugal, since they came back so fast--a conversation would have lasted longer. And then appeared the boys’ true motive for the trip; Leon gave each of them a weighted fishing net that the prisoners make to sell. It’s sad to think he bribes his own kids, though I have to say the distance between dad and sons has been good for the boys. And of course, I gave him money, more than he even asked for. I had to do that, too. You know, think of Jesus Christ, the original Half-Blood Prince--a villain to some, a sacrifice for all--so who am I to call a man a prisoner, just because he’s in a jail?

I’ll tell you who SHOULD be in jail, Levi Selly, and I don’t even know him! But I was checking my banking online one day and I saw that ol’ Levi had transferred himself almost a thousand dollars of my money! Identity theft! Can you believe it? My sister Barb always warned me, if you’re on wireless, anyone (anyone with a heart of stone) can access all your stuff. After about five hours on the phone, most of it on hold, passed from one “associate” to another till I made it all the way into the Deathly Hallows, I actually got the money back. How about that! I got a bailout! I just hope Levi Selly gave his ill-gotten gains to the poor of Honduras, because that’s where my money--which is mostly YOUR money--is supposed to go. I apologize for almost losing your donations.

I’ve had to pause my reading of the Interlinear Greek New Testament. I lost the book! I left it at a bus stop in Tocoa. Now, who’s gonna read it? I was up to Ephesians. I had just 300 more pages to go. But don’t worry, I’ve already ordered another one from Amazon.com, and it’s “New!” Even more Greek! Even more Interlinear! I guess I’ll have to internalize it till then.

Well, Rosa just got her echo--she needs a pace-maker! There was that scary word again that marked Chemo’s first report, “severa.” severe. In her case, a severe dilation of the valvular ring “mitral,” which I’ll have to look up. She looked a little scared when I told her it meant surgery, but it’s a heck of a lot easier than Chemo’s full open-heart excavation, right? I will share the results with Dr. Christian Gilbert from the Brigada, and see what he says. I don’t think any of the kids got pace-makers...he’ll have to pick one up at Radio Shack, I guess!

Rosa headed back to Tocoa, along with her husband Tonio and Marcos, who had come along to La Ceiba, and Chemo and I are on a bus to Progreso. We’ll keep a-goin’ till we finally get back home to Las Vegas....

But wherever we are, I know where the love is now--wherever YOU are.

Love, Miguel