ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2009

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2009

Sopa de mentiras

I thought the earthquake was bad. Now I’m living in a coup! I KNOW this made the news in the U.S. I confess I do not know how to behave or what to think, this being my first “Rangoon” experience. You can follow the updates as well as I can, latched onto the Internet from my “bunker” in Las Vegas, where I am huddled with Chemo, far from the madding crowd--I hope.

President Mel Zelaya was ousted Sunday, June 28, surprised in his pajamas by the army and de-planed in Costa Rica, the last act in a comedy of errors as Mel tried to impose a special election to force changes in the Constitution, in particular, his re-election. (Presidents are limited by law to a single, four-year term.) He gussied it up as “people power” and called it a “consultation”--”I’m just asking the people a question, can’t I ask a question?”--but the handwriting was on the wall, and, although there are ways to rewrite the Constitution, this “Cuarta Urna” (Fourth Ballot), as Mel called it, was declared unconstitutional, illegal, and fraudulent by the Supreme Court, the Supreme Electoral Tribunal, the Congress, even the Attorney General! As well as Mel’s supposed allies in his own party, including the Liberal candidate for president Elvin Santos. The last straw was when Mel fired the head of the armed forces for refusing to “guard and protect” the election. It’s a real dilemma for a soldier, is it not, whether to execute an illegal order from the Commander in Chief. The general resigned, along with the heads of the navy and air force, rather than obey, and was on his way home, “my head high,” when the news came that the Congress had refused his resignation and reinstated him. So something had to give. Turns out it was Mel’s big sombrero, and the head under it.

You could see this coming. About a month ago, Mel spontaneously called for prayer at some gathering promoting the Cuarta Urna, and he forgot the words to the “Lord’s Prayer,” including the fatal reversal, “Thy will be done...pause...in Heaven as it is on Earth.” A very revealing slip. He should have had a Teleprompter!

I’m making jokes, I guess, and that’ll probably be my last words when they drag me to the gallows: “I thought it was funny.” But, believe me, it’s nervous laughter. I was all set to go to Tegucigalpa this week--I’m, like, totally skinned, money-wise, till I can get my pension--but now I have no idea if the banks will be opening, the buses running, protesters shooting--or being shot. Hugo Chavez wants a war, and has pledged his Venezuelan troops for the effort.

Meanwhile, Roberto Micheletti, the president of the congress, was sworn in as President, to “unanimous” cheers from the members. That is the constitutional line of succession, so he’s urging the world not to see this as a “coup.” The President flouted the law, we accepted his “letter of resignation” (this is the weakest link in the plot, a pretty obvious fake), and the government continues intact. Micheletti swears he has no ambition except to fill out the final months of this presidential term and guarantee the election of the new president in November. No constitutional convention, thank you. Of course, this is the guy who twisted and turned the constitution like a pretzel so he could run for president in the primaries last year (he squeezed through a loophole provided by the Supreme Court to “interpret” a provision that forbade the president of the congress from running for any other office). He lost in the primaries to Elvin Santos. But now Micheletti is president--without a single vote cast! Like the guy told “Jake” (Jack Nicholson) at the end of that classic movie, “It’s Chinatown.” So say a prayer, send some good wishes, for this tiny “democracy.”

Now, where were we...?

Last month’s CASA was so horrible, I’d be surprised if anyone opens another one. But as hard as it was for you to read, it was ten times harder to write. I forced myself, just to make a tribute to these lost souls. It gave me nightmares.

And the beat, that is to say, the beatings, go on. goes on. June 2, ten guys attacked Orlando in his store in Victoria, an attempted kidnaping--on the theory you can get a lot more money for a release than a robbery. They pistol-whipped Orlando and threatened his wife Elena. Now, these are great people. Orlando is gregarious, funny, and big--and everybody loves him. He basically got our popular mayor elected with his vigorous campaigning. He’s ALWAYS on the phone. He sells just about anything in his big store, and carries on an even bigger trade in hardware and building supplies. Anything I didn’t get for my house at Reyes’ store, I got at Orlando’s. He told the gang, “Hey, do what you want with me, but let my customers go, they’re not doing anything.” And they did--big mistake! The customers immediately alerted the police, and the neighbors, and within moments the place was surrounded with an armed citizenry. Two of the gang were fell in a hail of bullets right in the store, and six others that took off at the first sign of trouble, were hunted down like dogs by vigilantes in surrounding villages within an hour or two and killed in cold blood. Two lucky ones were captured alive, by the police.

Well, Victoria was on the news, “the sleepy little town that rose as one in defense of a favorite son,” heroes of the heartland, as it were. Newspapers, TV, for a week. We were like the Alamo or something. In Las Vegas, Padre Jaime and Padre Chicho, both of whom had Masses for us that week, put things in, shall we say, the Christian perspective. This was not “justice,” “glory,” “heroism,” or “righteousness.” This was murder. OK, maybe the two guys killed in the store--self-defense--but revenge and blood even when the trapped gangsters were giving up, that’s murder. You could see the congregation, which had bought the news version of our claims, sort of squirming, but I sensed that we all eventually came around--to taking our faith seriously, even when it felt so good to strike back. Padre Jaime was especially effective, since his style is dialog, asking questions, reaching our own conclusions. By the time he was finished, we had been reborn.

But the rule of thumb is an eye for an eye, “just like Jesus said,” quoted someone. So the families and friends of the dead set out to even the score. Victoria responded by deputizing half the population and setting a 7:00 p.m. curfew. Rumors flew like North Korean missiles. “There’s 40 men on the bridge, shooting at anyone trying to cross into town!” “The two escaped, and they’re heading straight for Las Vegas!” We locked our doors at noon on that one--turns out it was two out-of-towners coming for their sister’s funeral in Sabana del Blanco. They almost got their heads “blowed off.” I was sure I was a goner. I called Fermin in Morazan to ask him to take Chemo in if I got killed, or, like Tom Sawyer’s Gang, “ransomed to death.”

Ever since Dr. Nelson’s murder, I’ve been closing up the house by 8:00 p.m., and leaving the porch light and roof lights on all night, and closing all the doors, which is bad enough, but Chemo keeps closing the windows, too, which is suffocating. (I open them as soon as he’s asleep.) I do hate to see him even more afraid than I am.

Perhaps you read or saw something about the OAS (Organization of American States) summit held in San Pedro Sula June 1st through 3rd. The newspapers trumpeted it as a time to “showcase” San Pedro. Well, the earthquake put a crimp in the proceedings, collapsing one of the major bridges into the city, but the real fault was a hidden agenda that let slip the announced theme of “No violencia,” strategies to curb the plague of violence, in favor of a kiss-up to Cuba, to re-join the OAS that had unanimously kicked it out decades ago when Castro came to power. Fidel had already announced, in predictable terms, his total disinterest in such an invitation, which would include an apology for the “mistake,” mind you, and reiterated his contempt for the OAS, “a puny puppet of the imperio,” the empire, that is, the United States. What the heck? Fidel has become Dickens’ Miss Havisham, still dressed for a wedding decades after being jilted, the cake all rotted and infested. I mean, Castro’s got Obama in the White House and he’s still holding out! But our president, Mel Zelaya, welcomed such comments and elaborated on them--and he was hosting the summit! (He also bragged about the Cuarta Urna he was planning, which had already been declared null and void by every authority that had a say about it.) Things were so unstable that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, who arrived amidst smiles and good wishes, was not even provided a forum for her major policy speech (well, they said, how about midnight?), and she left grim-faced--and then she broke her arm! Probably wrestling a staffer.

I just hope it wasn’t Robert Schwartz, a Parkway North grad now working for the State Department as Assistant Summit Coordinator. Actually, they did a great job preparing for the OAS summit, and based on their work, State could make the best of the situation and issue a satisfied report. Robert and I had our own summit at the Copantl Hotel in San Pedro, where he invited me for lunch. I felt pretty special, not because this was the closest I’d ever get to Hillary Clinton, but because Robert is such a good friend. Actually, if you know Robert, you have to love his deadpan sense of humor. In our recent correspondence, however, I noticed he never took the bait, but then at lunch he explained to me, as a State Department employee, he can’t joke about anything, especially in an e-mail. So, the rest of our conversation is strictly off the record. I can neither confirm nor deny....

“You know, if you don’t have kids, you’re not THAT busy.” I was just comparing my life B.C. and A.C., before Chemo and after Chemo. When I was in St. Louis in April, Brian Marston and his wife Amanda treated me to Zia’s on The Hill, and we took their brilliant one-year-old Milo along. We had a nice meal and all, and we went back to their house and just sort of collapsed. We just stared at each other, till I finally said that line, wondering if I’d ever dare put it in a CASA, lest I offend. They voted yes, definitely. Even one kid, and you’re zonked. And I’m a “single parent”! It’s not just the constant washing, and cleaning, and cooking, and picking up, and watching and worrying and coming and going and cajoling and correcting and helping with homework--it’s the responsibility, your life is on hold for this one (or more!) little animal to be formed into a human person, and a child of God, with no guidebook and no guarantee of any success. Romis, nicknamed Gordito, who lives down the street, just got his 16-year-old cousin Areni pregnant--and everybody knows about it! Romis is 17, with a dad in the States who gives him anything, including a motorcycle.

Thank God Chemo isn’t THAT spoiled. But Chemo’s almost 15. That’s where my time goes. That’s what keeps you busy. I’m still re-reading the New Testament, but I only manage two chapters a day, and I’m looking for loopholes.

And you go to your kid’s games, right? I went along to Mango one Sunday, on the other side of the mountain, all the way to the lake, two pickups full of kids, the “little ones”--Chemo’s team, and the “big ones,” the larger teens. I told people I had been to Mango before, thirty years ago, but I was wrong. In the first place, the road, I would have remembered this road, an hour-long bucket of rocks, looked as if no one had been there in thirty years. I do not know how we didn’t blow all eight tires on our two trucks. I assumed it would be cooler there--mountains and all, you know. Wrong again. It was hotter than Las Vegas! Someone said, “The lake.” Of course. I’m from St. Louis, the confluence of two rivers, I should have known. The soccer field was right by the lake, looked like a green steam bath. Anyway, they played, the little ones first, and they won 4-0. Chemo did not score, but he’s everyone’s favorite player, it seems. “Go, Chemo!” I hope it’s because he tries so hard, and not just because of his awkward, Barney Rubble run on his short legs. His buddy “Control” did score. Hector got that nickname because he is so cool and imperturbable, focused and unflappable. When I saw a local parent sporting an enormous pistol in his belt, I thought, maybe we better not win both games. And we didn’t: the big teens lost, 2-1. We were so wrung out by the time we got home, I couldn’t imagine anyone getting up for school the next day. The next time the kids were scheduled to play, home games in Las Vegas, the little ones from El Zapote didn’t show; they’d heard of the Mango massacre. So much for sportsmanship. I could have told them, it was a fluke....

Chemo and I made a quick trip to Tegucigalpa early in June, for another dentist appointment. He had only one little cavity this time, and they cleaned his teeth. The wonderful Dr. Juan Handal, who runs the private clinic, told them not to charge us. He says I’m a “missionary.” He’s a saint! So, since we saved some money there, I supposed I could afford glasses--for Chemo. A lovely technician at Optica Popular checked him out, and you know what, I was just thrilled Chemo knew the letters he could see! (He did mistake V for U, but who doesn’t?) Of course, like everyone who examines him, she kept asking him to open his eyes wide--something his Noonan’s Syndrome makes impossible. And a very patient young woman helped Chemo pick frames, finally settling on--by golly--the most practical, brown plastic ones with a fixed bridge. She just as patiently explained, “The machine’s broken,” so they couldn’t make the glasses before we left town.

We had to hurry back, you see, for Helen’s 10th birthday. She’s the handicapped daughter of Maricela and Juan Blas, and she’s been excited about her party for a month. Maricela got her a cute pink outfit, and, just by coincidence, I guess, Carolina decorated her cake in pink icing. Which reminds me....

“A child is made of clouds.” I heard that somewhere. Sometimes storm clouds. Every child is a “loaner,” especially in my case with Chemo, who made me a father at 13 (his age, not mine!). And whatever transformation occurs in the child, from womb to worry, it’s nothing compared to the changes wrought (wrung!) in the father and mother. Chemo is actually reading now; somehow he crossed a line from ignorance to insight--like Helen Keller’s “waa-ter”--and I crossed a line with him, from prayer to prayer.

In Tegucigalpa, Chemo and I did make time for a visit to Elio and Mema’s new house, a pretty, sort of cookie-cutter place in a new, walled, gated, secure subdivision. They can only barely enjoy it, since they are still on some extortionist’s “death list” that makes a public life impossible. Mema is still so sad. “Miguel, I don’t sleep at all.” Elio is beside himself with concern for her. Their daughter and son-in-law live right across the street, but it’s still hard. So when they invited us over, it gave them their first chance in five months to have guests in their own place. Mema made “sopa de mentiras,” soup of lies--lies, “because it has no meat!” she explained. The simplest, most delicious soup you ever had, I swear! Grated onions, a little avocado, grated cheese, little noodles, couple other ingredients. Mema says, “We just moved in, we don’t have a stove or anything,” just a hotplate. But we ate like kings. Elio made sure we had some tasty French bread (a specialty in their own store, when they still had it) for dipping.

Honduras is serving a sopa de mentiras these days. I just hope it turns out to be Mema’s recipe... For your friendship, I have hope for Chemo and all the little wandering clouds of Honduras.

Love, Miguel