ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2011

THE NICE SECTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--NOVEMBER 2011

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

ALL THINGS HAVE THEIR TIME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for your time.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2011

THE MISSION CONTINUES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another teacher at South High put it this way:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bless your heart, Miguel

OPEN HOUSE + ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

OPEN HOUSE + ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

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

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

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

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

--Now, our feature presentation.

ESTA ES SU CASA--SEPTEMBER 2011

STRAW POLL

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you soon! Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--AUGUST 2011

UNDER THE SPELL

Always follow The Beacon: http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/inthenews/111722-letter-from-honduras-trees-and-danger

Sometimes you can also catch two birds with one stone, especially when it's the Philosopher's Stone. Yes, I HAD to see the latest (and last) Harry Potter movie, but a special trip to El Progreso, five hours away, seemed mere self-indulgence, till Teresa Jorgen reminded me to visit Fr. Ray Pease, who I had neglected for at least a year. Known these past 50 years here as Padre Ramon, he had just returned from another treatment in St. Louis for a mortal liver/blood disease, his version of Harry's battle with the evil wizard Voldemort. He confronted death also in the passing of his brother George in Denver, where Ramon led the family's mourning and believing.

So, with my priorities in order, I took off, a quick one-day trip. I arranged with Ramon to take him to lunch, but first he wanted to show me pictures of his brother and the funeral on his computer in the parish office. Ramon´s style in inimitable--funny and frank, ironic, holy, blunt, above all, intimate, his heart on his sleeve. He´d go on a while, then say, "But you're hungry, right?" But I would just ask another question or something, to keep him talking. Hungry, yes, for more conversation. I knew this was better than any movie. When we did go to eat, he wanted something "quick," so we ended up at Burger King. There we saw some girls from the high school Ramon started when he first arrived in Honduras. "You know, I was the first principal in the whole country to let the girls wear pants." He chatted with them, though, you know how teens are, they could not really appreciate who this "old man" was. Ramon knows practically everyone in El Progreso. He taught half the population over the years, and their kids, and their grandkids. And he's buried hundreds of them, too, victims of the unrelenting violence that plagues us like a Curse.

He felt tired, then, and wanted to rest some before evening Mass, which I promised to return for. Meanwhile, I headed for the fancy, nearly empty mall at the edge of town to catch the movie. The first showing had started an hour ago, so I asked the ticket seller for two tickets, for the end of this showing and the start of the next. "Don't worry about it; just buy one, and stay." And, indeed, no one did bother me, least of all the audience, which was about 4 people in the whole theater. I saw the last hour first, up to the death (SPOILER ALERT!) of Snape, and the first hour last. No problem, really. When Voldemort orders Narcissa to be sure Harry is dead, she gently bends over him in a sort of Pieta, feels his heart beating, and whispers, "Is my son alive?" At great risk to his own life, Harry had just saved her son Draco from a fiery death, despite their enmity all their years at Hogwarts. So grateful for Harry's unselfish love, Narcissa lies to Voldemort, "He's dead," and Voldemort, who cannot even imagine such bonds, starts his party, only to meet his end shortly afterwards when his wand backfires against Harry's invincible capacity of love. Sorry to go on like this, but there's the gospel of J. K. Rowling, not so different from the one Ramon would preach at Mass.

Now, if you think Ramon's illness has slowed him down, you can't tell it from the way he says Mass. His masses have always been "slow," such reverence, such care, such prayerfulness, as though the words he has read a thousand times were fresh as flowers, and all his own, and a sermon spoken from the depth of his heart. "God fills us with love, just fills and fills us. Death cannot stop it." It's almost a mystical experience, or, as I told him afterward, "Your Mass is like a mini-retreat." I was like Harry thanking Dumbledore for all the life-lessons.

But Harry Potter's adventures are nothing compared to my trip with Chemo to Trascerros, the town at the end of the universe where Chemo's mother Rufina now lives. Actually, it's at the western end of Honduras, at the Guatemalan border, but, still, it did seem impossible, despite the assurances of Fidel, Rufina's companion, that it was "easy." We would go for her 51st birthday, July 30. Chemo at one point confided that he was afraid to go, but those were no doubt vibes that he was picking up from me. His latest report card wasn't helping, either. His math grade has dropped to 43%, with drops of 10 or more points in several other subjects. I told him, if this keeps up (I mean, down!), they'll make him repeat third AND fourth grade! But his teacher Juana Maria gave us permission to miss one day.

When Rufina and Fidel were beaten and robbed in their little house in Bonito Oriental some months ago, at the eastern edge of the country, they fled to Fidel's hometown of Trascerros. When they first called from there, I understood "Trasera," which means 'butt,' and I thought, that's a hell of a name for a town. When I finally located it on a map, I realized my mistake. "Tras-cerros," meaning, 'across the hills,' and, indeed, if it weren't for the mountains, you could see Guatemala from their house.

The final kicker to motivate us to get out of Las Vegas and hit the road was when the electricity went off for days, and no end in sight. "Chemo, we can do this anywhere." Seems the Chuncaya Pass, the twistiest, turningest, steepest--and loosest--part of the road near Morazan had had another collapse, the umpteenth, after the latest heavy rain; an avalanche of rock and mud pulled down a high-tension tower and at least 7 posts attached to it. Half the state of Yoro was without power.

In fact, the trip was pretty easy, if easy means only having to take two buses, one direct from Las Vegas to San Pedro Sula (5 hours) and another to Trascerros (3 hours), where Fidel met us at the bus for the walk to the house. First thing I did was ask about a birthday cake, and Fidel said there's a wonderful woman who bakes cakes on call. Then Chemo wanted a soda, so Fidel points us to a "Cantina"--I thought, now wait a minute, I'm not so sure I want to give my business to a bar. But as soon as we stepped inside, the proprietor introduces herself as Fidel's first wife! In fact, the whole weekend, family kept coming out of the woodwork, at least three daughters, all with their own children, two sons, including a Fidel, Jr., Chemo's age. We invited all of them to Rufina's birthday party. One big happy family--no rivalries or resentments anywhere. Well, Fidel is such a gentle soul, the very opposite of "macho," there's no offense given or taken. I did have a lot of questions, but, heck, it's none of my business. Meanwhile, we're organizing a soccer tournament when we come back in December with Chemo's brother Marcos. Fidel's boys vs. Rufina's boys.

One other thing. When we got to Fidel and Rufina's house, there was old Don Cruz! He's 92, and he's got all the family anyone could want back in Bonito Oriental, but they're just too "fancy" for him. So his "family" is Fidel and Rufina, and he did not want to get left behind. So, you see, they're doing something right.

I was so excited to see they had electricity in the house (they never did in Bonito), but it may have been my undoing. Maybe spikes and drops in the current affected my computer, because it's on the fritz. I am typing this at a cyber-cafe in Tegucigalpa, having just dropped off my laptop at Jet Stereo, where they have authorized Apple repair. Wish me luck. But that's why there are no pictures this time. And I apologize for any odd configuration this CASA takes when it appears on your screen.

When Harry Potter has his last conversation with Dumbledore, in some kind of Limbo, where he must decide whether to rest from his labors or return for the final confrontation with Voldemort, he asks, "Is this real or is it all in my head?" To which Dumbledore replies, "Of course it's all in your head, Harry, but why would you think that means it isn't real?"

You are all in my head, and you are very real. May we all be brave.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--JULY 2011

IF A BOUGH BREAKS...

Always check out The BEACON, please:
http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/110693-letter-from-honduras-fear (= June 2011 CASA)

Little Belkis is OK, let’s make sure we start with that, because you are not going to want to even imagine what happened to her. And I don’t, either, and I didn’t see it, thank God, so I’ll just say it. She fell out of a tree in Nueva Palmira and on impact the top bone in her left arm shot right through her elbow and out the skin. Now, you might ask, what’s a child that age doing up in a tree? But let’s deal with this question, what was she doing on the ground, and that was dying of a compound fracture, and loss of blood.

When Teresa Cruz came to my house with Belkis’ mother Paulina, who was in such shock she could not speak, they asked for help to get the child to Tegucigalpa. They had already been to Doctor Meme here in Las Vegas, and he had done what he could, but this was way beyond any resources around here. They thought they would have to wait till the next morning for the bus, but besides me, they pooled some resources (well, they got a “loan”) and managed to get a car to take them. It’s a seven-hour trip by bus, and maybe half that in a car, so thank God, because Belkis was still oozing blood, they said. And how scared was she?

At the Hospital Escuela, they put two pins in the arm, and, a couple of “clean-ups” later, they put on a cast. Panchito, her daddy, called on a borrowed cell phone that they were charging for the pins! I suggested he talk to the Social Security department for a reduced rate; he’d already done that, and was denied. So, he’s not poor enough? Good Lord, everybody in Honduras is poor enough! That, plus the extra days’ stay, meant they would need more money. Well, I couldn’t be chintzy, could I? But how to get it there? They’d already figured that out; Teresa’s daughter Miriam would take it. So I gave Miriam extra for her bus fare. Panchito, not to mention Paulina, was very grateful. But even I could come nowhere near the huge bill they were slapping them with, twenty thousand Lempiras! That’s over a thousand dollars. These folks don’t see that much money in five years! If they don’t pay, what? they take the pins out? In any case, Belkis is back home, a wonder of survival in a world full of menacing trees.

Nicho, 65, did not survive his tree-fall. In a freaky little storm that whipped up tornado-like winds in just minutes, one tree out of all the trees at the edge of the river where he was fishing, twirled out of its roots and fell right on him, killing him instantly. At least, one hopes it was quick. There was only one witness (and this, too, I beg you to forgive me for the picture it paints), Nicho’s grandson, little--tiny!--Oscar, just a year-and-a-half old. The storm came about 3:00 in the afternoon, and of course, it took a while before anyone missed them. And then the search, deep into the dark, lit only by the full moon, finally coming upon them way down the bank, the old man with his head smashed, Oscar just sitting in silent, paralyzed vigil. Oscar will never be able to tell us, I’m sure, but as I thought about it, I wondered if a scenario were possible where, as the storm broke, Nicho swept Oscar up in his arms, and then, just when the tree snapped, he threw Oscar to safety, lest they both be crushed....

If someone saved Oscar’s life, maybe it was his grandma Petrona, who “went to heaven” last February. Remember her, from the March CASA? She died in all splendor of family and friends and neighbors over the course of a month or two, the equivalent of Hospice care. Nicho was Petrona’s husband. My only photo of him is at her funeral, with a raft of red flowers in his hand. And Telma, their daughter, who managed Petrona’s care more than anyone, is Oscar’s mom. The suddenness of Nicho’s death broke everyone’s heart all over again, but we knew the routine. Another nine days of prayer and mourning, and with my new super-boots I fairly flew over the rocks and ruts back and forth every day to Paraíso, as opposed to the blisters I got during Petrona’s novenario.

You know, at first, I did not know who Oscar was. When they told me that Nicho’s “grandson” was with him, I naturally pictured a kid about ten years old. At the wake, I was looking around for a likely candidate, ignoring the baby that was crawling all over Telma. When I finally asked, she says, “This is Oscar.” I hope she did not see the look of horror--pity and horror--locked on my face. At one of the later sessions, I ventured my theory of Nicho saving Oscar’s life at the expense of his own, for whatever comfort it might bring.

Perhaps hardest hit by Nicho’s death was his youngest son Jacobo, 20, whose little--very little--wife was still in Yoro, recovering from a near-fatal Caesarian operation (where the hospital charged dearly for two pints of blood) that delivered their first child, a boy. Jacobo was sort of just wandering around dazed, torn by conflicting emotions, anxious for his wife, excited for his son, throwing himself on his father’s casket in sobs and tears. The baby grows up without grandparents. In fact, I rather hesitantly referred to Jacobo and his siblings as “orphans” now, maybe a little too literal a term, but I just wanted to touch the depth of their loss, our loss.

But there’s good news, too. Helen is 12! Handicapped daughter of Maricela and Juan Blas, and big sister to the bubbly Mariana Teresa, she does love cake. I have been so strapped lately that birthday celebrations have been put on hold, but I always promised Helen we would do it up right for her. We got the biggest cake you’ve ever seen, this time from Profe Flor, the principal at the school, who’s got this cake-baking gig on the side. Now, different from Carolina, whose cakes are dense and deep, Flor’s are fluffy and light--real dirigibles! Helen ate enough to get sick on--good for her! Being wheelchair-bound does little to inhibit her enjoyment at a party.

Speaking of party girls, do you like to be proved wrong? I actually think a lot of us do, you know, when we’ve misjudged someone, dismissing them, discounting them, even mocking them, only to find they are golden. I have come to expect and even enjoy the experience, as a chance to laugh at my own small-mindedness, and I get a lot of opportunities here in Honduras. Gladys, built like a jukebox but with the attitude of a supermodel (including plucking her eyebrows), makes an odd partner for the dirtiest man in town, literally, Marvin, the local mechanic. He’s usually sweating under a car or truck or even bus, black with grease and grime from head to foot, and she’s on the porch with a mint julep or something, in tight jeans and a bosomy top, entertaining bystanders with a voice like a brass band and a routine rippling with swear words and raunchy one-liners. Maybe she’s our version of Snookie, though I’ve never seen “Jersey Shore.”

So when the “authorities” threatened to send Wilfredo, the most popular teacher in the high school, off to some remote village in the hill country to make room for somebody’s cousin, Profe Flor asked for volunteers to make a protest visit to the superintendent’s office in Yoro. Marcelo offered his “busito” for transportation. When I saw Gladys squeeze her bulk into the van, I thought, Oh, Jesus, Wil’s case is lost.

But wait a minute! She was the key to the whole thing. They kept us waiting three hours, and when we finally got in, Señor Antonio Gundemero Hernandez was very properly reserved and formal. Then Gladys starts, and the place just lights up and lightens up. You see, Señor Hernandez is her uncle! He never loosened his tie, but pretty soon he was eating out of her hand. The rest of us were superfluous. Bottom line, Wilfredo’s staying.

We all had lunch at a crowded restaurant afterwards to celebrate, and Gladys sat at the head of the table and just played herself, dropping the Spanish equivalent of F-bombs all over the place, and she didn’t give a damn who heard her. I just wanted to hug her! She hadn’t changed, at all; it was me who changed, and I can never look at her the same way again. From floozy to phenomenon, that story. And it’s a story I’m telling everyone I talk to.

Some folks you always knew were gold, but you’re still stunned at how you had underestimated their shine, maybe took them for granted. Marisol was as big as Gladys and, yes, as loud, but she was a religious Sister, a missionary from Spain for 20 years in Honduras, till illness forced her departure, and then recently claimed her life. I knew her through Elio and Mema, whose daughter Felixa is a member of the same Order. I have a great picture of Marisol at Mema’s birthday party a few years ago. Chemo and I went to Tegucigalpa for his “annual” checkup (we missed last year, because of all the violence and turmoil in the capital), and Elio and Mema invited us to the final day of Marisol’s novenario, which would be in the same church where the poet Roberto Sosa’s funeral had been a month ago. At Sosa’s mass, there was a sort of indifferent feeling since no one seemed too comfortable in a church, but for Marisol, it was a real feast of faith and affection--and fun, including a slide show with music. Everybody had a funny story, which of course they cried all the way through. When I asked Mema why she didn’t speak, that’s what she said, her eyes glistening, “I couldn’t, too many tears.” Now, this service, you understand, was a parallel of sympathy to the “real” novenario over in Spain, but we sure did feel connected.

By the way, Chemo’s checkup was perfect. I knew it would be, but I did want his original doctor, Karla Andino, to see how he’s grown. And she’s crazy about him anyway. While we waited for the echo-cardiagram machine, we saw this tiny baby about the size of a Twinkie, getting his ultrasound. He already had wires and tubes all over him. The poor thing didn’t look like he could survive the exam, much less an operation.

Chemo’s heart is strong, but his math grades are on life support. He flunked the same quiz three times, 0 out of 20, and for the same reason. It was multiplication, three-digit numbers by three-digit numbers. Is that even fair? I get all itchy when I have to help him with his homework. Math was never my friend, and after high school, I never took another course. Chemo knows his times tables, but he was lining up all those subtotals crooked, and if the answer was something like 8326, he’d get 20,748. I finally got him a notebook “cuadriculo” (grid), to put a single numeral in each box. When I ask his classmate Dorisell, Elvis and Dora’s brilliant 8-year-old, if there’s going to be another quiz, she says, “Just for the ones who flunked.” The teacher Juana María is really doing her best to get Chemo through fourth grade. She tells me, “You know, practice with him a little more.” But she probably senses that I have no more aptitude for math than Chemo does.

As June 23 approached, Chemo’s grandma Natalia was nervous. It would be the first anniversary of her 19-year-old son Dago’s fatal accident when he grabbed a high-tension wire installing electricity in their house. “What will we do? There’s no money for coffee and rolls.” She wasn’t being coy, but I immediately assured her I’d take care of the expenses. In fact, I just shouted next door to Jacobina, the best baker in town, “Natalia will be in touch, OK?” And Jacobina, God bless her, did it all for “cost,” I just paid for the ingredients, which included 10 pounds of flour. When I suggested corn bread, too, Natalia just wanted to keep it simple, but then on the day she presented me with a pan of cornbread that she had Jacobina make just for me. (I took it home and ate half of it before I even told Chemo it existed!) That’s Natalia, staying gold.

The memorial itself was fine, including a cleansing, cooling rain right in the middle of the service. “That’s Dago blessing us,” I said. But you could sense there was a reticence in the little gathering. As gently as I could, I tried to suggest it was still OK to cry, and finally, at the end, the family clutched each other in a release of an ever-fresh grief.

For the first time ever, the Las Vegas celebrated “Youth Day,” with a gathering of at least 600 teens from 10 other towns. For the occasion, I put on a tee-shirt I had saved, a homage to Archbishop Romero, murdered by a Salvadoran death squad in 1980 for his outspoken advocacy of justice for the poor. On the back of the shirt is a quotation I had not even noticed before: “It is a caricature of love to think donations to the poor are a substitute for what you owe them in justice.” I looked at that and thought, Back to the drawing board! That’s all I do, is donate.

Dennis, the fragile, autistic boy in Paraiso, really has the same message as Romero, and he does not say a word. I would greet him every day on the way to Nicho’s novenario (and Petrona’s before that). At first, he would just come to the window. Then he came to the door, eventually outside, to touch my outstretched hand. And I would say, “Dennis, you come visit me,” but I never imagined him leaving the safety of his yard. Well, he just showed up! Again, not a word, he just drank a big bottle of Tang I offered him, and posed for pictures with his little brother Danny and sister Heydi, who had accompanied him. He even smiled. But, really, I was the one who was thrilled. As they left, Danny said, “He’ll want to come again, I know.” How about that? I wish I could be that brave.

I guess I should be on the barricades, but meanwhile just please let’s cradle each other in our arms, lest another one fall.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--JUNE 2011

WHO’S YOUR BABY?

For my “voice” in The Beacon, see: http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/110256-dulick-april-2011 = APRIL CASA

Doenis, a 20-something on a drunk, snuck into the house and threatened Chemo with a hammer (MY hammer!) to steal the VCR/DVD player, but ran out when Chemo screamed. Eating supper over at Alba’s, I was blithely ignorant of the episode, wondering at Chemo’s lateness, till he called from Dora and Elvis’ phone, his voice trembling. “I’m scared!” I rushed home at once, berating myself for losing at the most basic duty of a parent, to keep your child safe. Chemo’s had enough scares in his life without another one.

Sure enough, the VCR was gone, the naked wire ripped out. “Big deal,” I thought. But then Dora, who had come over with Elvis, says, “Miguel, look, here it is, in the kitchen.” I guess Doenis got a little scared himself. Elvis rewired it that same night. But who could re-connect me with my son? He slept in my room for the first time in a long time, as we promised to take better care of each other. Santos, Alba’s husband, tracked Doenis down and told him, “You mess with Chemo, you mess with me. Got it?” No one’s seen Doenis since.

Nevertheless, Chemo got another blow when his sister Rosa called from Tocoa to say that their mother Rufina and her companion Fidel had been beaten up in a robbery at their house. Robbery? They don’t have ANYTHING, much less a VCR. The beating was probably frustration, and apparently another drunk or druggie. Rufina moved in with Rosa, and Fidel, at the urging of family in Santa Barbara, also went “home,” to recover. I thought I’d take Chemo right up there, to his mommy, but even that seemed scary to him, so I dropped the suggestion. I did wire some cash, to replace a cell phone and pay for medicines. Fidel wants Rufina to join him in Santa Barbara, which is way at the the west end of Honduras, while Tocoa is way to the east, and Las Vegas is in the middle. These would be endless loops if we were going to visit all of Chemo’s family. Of course, you might think I’m already in Santa Barbara, since the “Las Vegas” that shows up on Google Maps is a city by that name out there.

Meanwhile, May started with the annual patronal feast of the Holy Cross, a week-long religious observance, tinged with unsavory elements like the four all-night “dances” that attract folks like Doenis. But this year was a garden compared to last year, when there were three murders. The highlight of the week is the procession through town, with children carrying crosses decorated with flowers. In fact, the whole month of May features “Las Flores” (the flowers), a toy-like liturgy when children bring fresh flowers to the Virgin Mary. The kids walk on their knees across the chapel floor to the little statue. I know that sounds medieval, but the kids love it; it’s our version of Six Flags! We say the rosary, too, and some of the little ones are still learning the words; one tiny boy said, instead of “Hail, Mary, el Señor es contigo” (the Lord is with you), “el Señor es abrigo” (the Lord is an overcoat!). Now, really, is that so wrong?

Speaking of miraculous births, Manuel and Marta had their baby. Last month, I told how I had stumbled upon Manuel who I knew years ago as a child (“Lito”), now back in Honduras after years in the U.S. Marta was soooo pregnant, I couldn’t imagine a normal birth, and, indeed, when they went to the hospital in Yoro for the delivery, they ended up spending a whole week there, as the doctors debated Caesarian or not. I wasn’t even having the baby and I was scared to death; a Caesarian in that little, ill-equipped hospital could be a death sentence. And in our phone calls, you could tell Lito was beside himself with worry too, helpless as he watched his wife’s agony.

When Lito finally called at 1:00 a.m. with the good news, he knew I would still be up because I was actually at a wake. You see, folks were waiting at Purito’s house for his sister Rosa, who had died that afternoon very painfully of stomach cancer in San Pedro Sula; her sons were returning with her body. They didn’t arrive till almost midnight, so I was hoping to match this mourning with a new, little life. “It’s a boy!” Lito cried. “We’re naming him Manuel.” Another Lito. Normal birth? “Yes! We’re coming home tomorrow!” Normal! That enormous belly, that little woman, that big baby--THAT is “normal”! Women are incredible. No wonder even God wanted a mother.

I’m not a woman, but I am a big baby. I proved that with my latest tooth-hurtee. The biggest molar in my mouth, back and to the (lower) left, had been giving me fits for months, sometimes literally doubling me over in pain from my jaw to my feet. But then the pain would dull and disappear, and I thought I was in the clear.
Chocolate and other sweets seemed to set it off again, certainly a divine judgment, don’t you think? I guess this deterioration was inevitable, ever since the thing got a gold crown back in the early 80s. After one particularly screaming night, I begged Doctora Gabriela, the local dentist, to yank it out. Sensibly, she cautioned prudence, based on my history of heart disease. “Miguel, if an emergency develops, we’ve got nothing here for you.” So, after another cowardly delay of a couple weeks, I finally slipped off to Tegucigalpa. I kissed Chemo good-bye, certain I would never see his face again.

At Dr. Juan Handal’s clinic, he put me in the capable hands of Doctora Yvonne. I told her I’ve got a godchild Yvonne back in Las Vegas, “So I know this is gonna be OK.” But I did make a Perfect Act of Contrition. Dr. Handal kept popping in. “We can save that tooth, don’t extract it!” But, in the most confessional tones, I reminded him how we’d worked for four years to save one of my upper molars, only to end up pulling it, so.... “I see your point. All right, pull it!” With a heart patient, you have to be especially careful with the anesthesia, but when I kept yelping with every tug that felt like she was pulling my jaw off, Dr. Yvonne just kept needling more Novocain till my face was as solid as a radial tire.

Then she finally made a move I never even saw, and says, “That’s it.” That’s what? She held the pliers in front of my eyes with a tooth the size of a Volkswagen, the gold cap still glistening. I thanked her like I’d been Raptured. I could scarcely believe I was still alive, I wasn’t gushing blood, I wasn’t having a heart attack. I’m sure Yvonne thought, what a baby!

And Dr. Handal did not even charge me! I thanked him till I thoroughly embarrassed him, no doubt. I was out of there by 9:00 a.m., which meant I could attend the 10:00 a.m. funeral Mass of Honduras’ preeminent poet Roberto Sosa, who had died the day before at age 81. It was a coincidence that seemed a recompense for my erstwhile “courage.” The very first book I read in Honduras when I came here back in 1977 was Roberto Sosa’s “Los Pobres.” More recently, he took my young poet friend Carlos Ordóñez under his wing as his most promising heir. Carlos, in Brazil right now, obviously could not come back, so I wanted to “represent” him.

The funeral was rather lightly attended, so I sat right up front by the family. Let’s face it, Roberto Sosa was as suspicious of the Church as he was of any other “self-serving institution,” so the Mass was pretty much a formality. And, as if to prove its irrelevance, the priest did not even quote a single line from any poem. But I loved sharing that time in the presence of someone--and his family--that had formed my life here. There were more folks at the cemetery nearby, with tributes from colleagues, friends, and family. As the crowd thinned, I made bold enough to take his gracious widow’s hand and say, “Your husband inspired me to work with the poor.” At least, I hope that’s what I said. My lips were still numb.

Roberto Sosa’s best known line is so simple you barely notice its genius:
“Los pobres son muchos y por eso es imposible olvidarlos.”
(You can’t forget the poor, because there are so many.)

The poor are indeed many, yet always a surprise. Little Anjely’s parents from Guachipilin up in the mountains brought her to me, for help getting to Tegucigalpa, where she already had an appointment for open-heart surgery at the public hospital in Tegucigalpa. “How old is she?” Seven months, the size of a newborn, her lips already blue. I was afraid to look any closer, lest it break my heart right there and then, because I knew she would not survive, not a Honduran heart operation, and, with an empty hope, I knew she could not wait for the next Brigada from the States, due later in June. So I gave them what I could, just to ease the transition. About a week later, the mother called. “We just brought her back.” I did not even have to ask. To bury her.

I see the burials have begun for the victims of the Joplin tornado. This is another thing I had to force myself to look at, so miserable are the views of the devastation of what amounted to a flying tsunami. Pardon me if I link to my favorite story:

http://www.thepostgame.com/features/201105/after-tornado-lone-competitor-left-joplin-high

New statistics show that Honduras would be better off with tornadoes than the man-made mortality we suffer. There’s a murder every 43 minutes, or about a thousand a month, mostly young persons, teens and twenty-somethings. We are doing our part around here to keep the average up. Up in a mountain village some guy killed a family of four, the parents and two babies, one a two-year old, the other seven months, to avenge his own brother’s death. No one’s saying a word. Well, why would you report what you know to “law enforcement”?

When Chemo finally got his grades, he was passing everything, with grades in the 70s and 80s, except math, with a 60, passing but just barely and probably a little gift from his nice teacher. But good enough! We leapt on the opportunity to make a quick weekend trip to El Progreso and Morazán.

As my “girlfriend” Santa kept reminding me, we had not visited them in Progreso since “last year” (December), so I got the biggest cake in the store, to cover all the birthdays we’d missed, plus Mother’s Day.

The next day, Sunday morning, we boarded the bus for Morazán. Chemo pitched his little backpack in the overhead and headed for the back seat to catch a snooze before the bus pulled out. I bent into my prayer book and lost track of the time. After about 40 minutes the bus was still parked in the station, gradually filling up. Chemo comes up. “Where’s my backpack?” Nowhere to be found. I sort of panicked, since inside, besides some negligible spare clothes, was the portable DVD player I got for Chemo at Target last time I was in St. Louis. I had just restored it to him on Friday for his good grades (having confiscated it a couple months before for some misbehavior). We had the whole bus looking for it, and of course, as far as I was concerned, everyone was a suspect, till someone finally explained that it’s become a pretty common scam in Progreso. Someone waits inside the bus, spots an inattentive target, nabs their stuff, and walks off. You know, I had wondered at the woman in front of me, who had packed herself into her seat with seemingly every worldly possession in three huge bags. That’s what we should have done. But I did sort of feel like Jane Fonda when she rips her last stocking in “They Shoot Horses, Don’t They?” We’re living so close to the edge, every “expense” is magnified out of all proportion.

On the other hand, I had sense enough to assure Chemo it was not his fault; I was not blaming him. It’s what I get for praying! But thank God it wasn’t my backpack, with my laptop inside. And in fact, what if I had seen the thief grab and go with the backpack, and I tried to stop him...? Let’s just say, my 43 minutes would have been up.

In Morazán, Fermin, Maria, and the kids quickly made our troubles disappear. Maria and daughter Esly were working on a big Sunday lunch spread; my contribution was to load ‘em up with a “six-pack” of 3-liter Pepsi’s from the supermarket. Then rumors start we’re going to the “beach,” the river outside of town where there are nice swimming “pools” that folks have made by stacking rocks around. It was wonderful. Of course, I, the wet blanket even when I’m dry, very prudently limited myself to just a 30-minute “dip” before I went to the shade on the shore and read my book, a commentary on the prophet Isaiah (“Comfort ye my people”).

Then, the TV broadcast of the grand finale of the national soccer championship, pitting arch-rivals Olimpia and Motagua, both of Tegucigalpa. Like Fermin and the family, Chemo’s all about Olimpia, while I back Motagua. We settle in for the game, with Maria again making wonders in the kitchen, just simple snacks with refried beans and fried tortillas and so on, and more cold Pepsi, of course. Well, Motagua won, 3-1, helped by an own-goal from an Olimpia player. But Chemo took it well. Unlike any sport in the U.S., these “finals” come every six months. So, “Wait’ll next...semester!”

Mel Zelaya made a triumphal return Saturday, May 28, greeted at the Toncontin airport in Tegucigalpa by his faithful “Resistencia” (resistance). Mel was ousted in a coup, you may recall, in June of 2009, with Roberto Micheletti holding place till elections later that year put in office Pepe Lobo, whose major concern ever since has been to reestablish Honduras’ credentials in the world community, in particular the Organization of American States. Pepe is of the conservative Nationalist Party, but he enthusiastically pursued amnesty for Mel’s record-breaking corruption and lawlessness, even running roughshod over court proceedings along the way. But he reasoned, we gotta do this, to get this all behind us. He never tired of promising Mel, “Don’t you worry, you’re coming back, I guarantee it.” It was politically astute, because it left Mel without a target. Mel, of course, was a Liberal, but with his ouster, the new, radical “Resistencia” was born, and Mel played them just like he plays his guitar, thus dividing the Liberal Party, whose mainline members recognized Mel’s toxic brew. And Pepe is jumping on the opportunity to extend his own party’s power. The latest is a bill he’s pushing through the Nationalist-controlled legislature to grant the Resistencia status as an official political party, which would divide the liberal vote and guarantee Nationalist domination in perpetuity. Just like Democrats in the U.S. salivating at the prospect of the Tea Party going third party.

And Mel isn’t helping. He’s lovin’ that Resistencia! A old Liberal Party hack was asked, “Will you be meeting with Mel when he comes back?” “Oh, he knows where our office is; if he calls for an appointment, we’ll be happy to talk with him.” What Mel really wants is another coup! Indeed, when some speaker at the airport rally on Saturday referred to Mel as “former president Mel Zelaya,” the crowd erupted, “President! President! President Mel!”

The vote to reincorporate Honduras in the OAS comes this week at a special meeting. Hillary Clinton, who would love to get this monkey off her back, is lavishing praise on Honduras’ for our “maturity” and “return to democratic forms,”
ignoring the fact that, besides Pepe’s toothy smile and buttery diplomacy, he’s been beating the hell out of the Resistencia, literally, with police, military, goon squads, you name it, for two years, every time they gather for a protest.

So a more significant return was Chemo’s brother Santos’ horse, lost for almost three weeks when Santos was up at his cornfield preparing for planting. Santos looked everywhere, getting himself sick in the process, following every lead, just hoping that it hadn’t been stolen. He didn’t know where Pavo was, but he knew why he ran off. “He’s looking for a filly.” Finally, word comes from a cousin he’s never even met, a middle-aged woman also, ironically enough, named Santos, that his horse is at her place way up in the mountains of La Peña, where she does in fact have a filly in residence. Santos and son Santitos rushed up there in record time, then rode Pavo back down. So we celebrated some special at supper that night. Cold Pepsi.

The rains are here. Folks are planting. That’s the hopeful part. Meanwhile, we still need each other. The tornado “season” is ending, the hurricane season is beginning. Hang on. If we are blessed, we can be poor.

Love, Miguel

ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2011

Find me in The Beacon:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/109470-miguel-dulick-on-teacher-strike-in-honduras = APRIL CASA

And while you’re there, check out their excellent coverage of the Good Friday tornado:

http://www.stlbeacon.org/region/109853-path-of-destruction


ESTA ES SU CASA--MAY 2011

A MONTH OF SUNDAYS

April was the cruelest month--certainly as far as weather is concerned. You had hundreds of tornadoes, while here our “summer” was perfectly still, hot as Hades, dry as a bone, dust inches thick, the air as heavy as an overcoat, the smoky mountains just a blur, a blood-red moon. You could hardly call it “Lent,” which really means spring.

Doña Julia, my 92-year-old neighbor, had the longest Lent. In fact, she began her dying even before Ash Wednesday, when I grabbed my camera to snap her last “glamour” shot as she enjoyed a fresh mango. She had risen briefly from her sickbed, but after this, she never got well. This is not to say that she was not still beautiful, even when she was just a shell of wrinkles, because she kept smiling, she kept talking, even joking, her mind sharp, her attitude patient and uncomplaining.

Every night you’d swear was going to be her last. Indeed, a variable group of anywhere from 10 to 20 folks would gather at the house, inside at her bedside or out in the corridor or street, in quiet vigil. Eventually, a kind of community formed, a society of Friends, a monastery at ease. Coffee and conversation, but mostly, as the Psalmist says, like watchmen waiting for the dawn.

You may remember I had said Padre Sebastian invited me to a group retreat that would meet weekly for several months. Well, his poor feet needed special attention, so he returned to Spain for treatment and returned to Honduras to another, shall we say, flatter, parish. So I thought I’d give the retreat a try by myself. I used a “contemporary reading” of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius by Father Dave Fleming, who just recently died after a long illness. He had been my Superior during my years with the Jesuits, so I could hear his wise and guiding voice on every page. The nightly sessions with Doña Julia seemed the perfect time for prayer. I’d go over to the house about 9:00 p.m. First, I would kneel at her little bed, grasp her hand, kiss her forehead, brush her hair, and chat a bit. Then I’d settle in a chair to “meditate,” if I didn’t just fall asleep! One night I got there pretty late, and Juana, Doña Julia’s daughter-in-law (actually, granddaughter-in-law, I guess) looked in my direction and said, “She’s been asking for you.” She said it a couple times before I really believed it. I was blown away. After that, Julia became an inevitable presence in every meditation. She was there as God looked at the world with the desire to save us. She was there at Jesus’ birth, his life in Nazareth, his rounds of preaching, his agony and suffering, everything. I had to believe Dave Fleming would have said, “I wish I’d thought of that!” Doña Julia had become my retreat director.

So a death watch became everyone’s Long Retreat. She actually passed away Wednesday afternoon of Holy Week (April 20), as if to help focus our attention on the Paschal Mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection. Indeed, with her daily risings from seemingly impossible depths, she had given us a month of Easter Sundays.

That evening, in the middle of the church service, we heard something we had not heard in five months--thunder. A pale flash or two of lightning, and soon a welcome rain blew in. The temperature dropped, the air freshened, and you could breathe again. Still later, at the wake, when it came my turn to speak, I said the rain was Julia’s sign of her salvation. These are not tears, but kisses. The weather stayed cool the rest of the weekend, through Easter.

The hour of Julia’s burial on Holy Thursday afternoon found our loyalties divided. Or maybe divided is not the right word. Shared, is better. Because another family was burying a tiny preemie who had lived just 8 days, one of a set of twins. HIs brother was hanging on with their very young mom at a hospital in San Pedro Sula. So two cars, one crowd, headed to the cemetery in procession. Once there, little Angel Gabriel was buried with the other babies in a special section, a knoll, right at the cemetery entrance, and Julia was taken to her spot farther in. And then began the novenario, nine days of prayer.

Not all delays are so fruitful. The teacher strike finally ended after three long weeks, and the kids got back to class, but just for a week, before the Holy Week “vacation.” The teachers piled on the work, to make up for the lost time, and every day came another quiz or test. When the government announced not only deductions for any teacher who missed work during the strike, but two-year suspensions for teachers who had actively protested in the chaotic marches in Tegucigalpa, I called my best friend Fermin. “Fermin! Are you on the list?” “Miguel, I’m on every list.” I’ve never heard him so sad. “This is the end.” A lot of people just follow like lemmings, but for Fermin it’s a matter of justice. He did say that his supervisor in Yoro had told him they would protect him, because of his, really, lifelong, commitment to the cause. And subsequent “talks” between the unions and the government are “negotiating” the sanctions.

Another voice for justice, though half Fermin’s age, is the poet Carlos Ordóñez. Just before the strike ended, when the violence had subsided, Chemo and I made a quick trip to Tegus to see Carlos, who is working on an advanced degree in literature in Spain, with side trips to Brazil, where he works on documentary films with his fiancee Ursula. He was in Honduras just for 10 days, so we had to act fast, since we had not seen him in over two years. He’s been a published poet since the age of 16, and Chemo, amazingly enough, just loves the movie Carlos and Ursula made about a legendary Brazilian poet (who died just after the filming), so I very much wanted to encourage Chemo’s cultural enrichment, you know. We used the excuse of Carlos’ recent birthday to invite him to lunch. He was so gracious, and he obviously read my mind (I’m his biggest fan!) when I kept asking him about his latest book that supposedly was scheduled for publication a year ago. “I brought you a copy.” Still unpublished, it was a bound Kinko’s copy, but very elegant. Consisting of 30 prose-poems, it seems a masterpiece. Any attempt of mine to translate anything for you is whimsical, at best, Carlos invents a lot of his vocabulary (you can see little roots of familiar words peeking out), and even ordinary words lose their moorings in so dreamlike a vision. Yet the themes, as I say, are justice, truth, and peace. When I asked him how he followed the news of Honduras abroad, he said, “I just read the newspapers online--and believe the opposite!”

After lunch, Chemo wanted to show Carlos the dodg’em cars. But we discovered, in another corner of the arcade, another fascinating “game,” the self-service Guitar Hero gig. Chemo was a rock god, for fifty cents a tune.

During Holy Week, when there are so many homecomings, I sought out the mother of Manuelito (“Lito” to his friends) to ask for any news. Last I knew, he was still in the U.S., having successfully made it across the border some years ago after eight tries. “He’s back!”
she told me, deported actually, living with his wife and two girls in nearby Sabana del Blanco. So I went to find him.

This re-connect was inspired by my friend Seth Felman, who emailed me out of the blue a couple months ago after we had been out of touch basically since he graduated from high school 30 years ago. We became buddies--along with his family--when I was substituting at Wydown Junior High in Clayton. Then I joined the Jesuits, and we lost touch. But I was so thrilled to find Seth again that when I heard that Lito was back “in town,” I was not about to let the opportunity pass. Turns out Lito spent part of his time in St. Louis, where he admired, among other things, the Gateway Arch--which he called "the rainbow”--without realizing you could go inside it up to the top. In fact, he loved everything about America, and I told him, I’m sorry we kicked you out; you’re exactly the kind of person who belongs in our country. He had even begun the paperwork to attain citizenship, but, no good, good-bye, get out. As much as he longs for “the good life.” and had had his lovely house built with the money he sent down here, we all agreed that he should stay now, since every day brings more news of migrants slaughtered like pigs at the Mexican border by gangs, and his pretty wife is very pregnant with their third child. I asked, “When’s it due?” She says, “Well, today, actually.” But, as of this writing, the little bugger is staying put.

Another reconnection is proceeding apace. Olvin, who got shot in the left elbow last December, has winced and yelped his way through physical therapy and can flex his arm again. His goal is to get strong enough to get a job, he hopes, at one of the big sweatshops in San Pedro Sula. My advice was, “Just don’t tell them.”

They say it’s an ill wind that blows no one any good, and so it seems your tsunami of killer tornadoes stirred up just enough breeze here to send more rain and some nice, cool weather. But I’m sure our own disasters are right around the corner.

Speaking of disasters, I thought I had a sense of humor until I saw the hats at the Royal Wedding. Who was the mad hatter, Tina Fey? Looked like insects caught in their hair. But I have to say all the little tributes to Princess Diana kept things in perspective.

I mean Diana’s heart for the poor.

Eric Greitens, a Parkway North grad, has been steadily building a reputation for a very big heart for the poor. You have to check out the link below to his book “The Heart and the Fist,” and even then you can hardly believe all that he has done, and all he hopes to do. He has even offered to send a member of his associates down here to help Las Vegas. He graciously asked me to help spread the word about the book, but his own accomplishments speak for themselves.

http://www.theheartandthefist.com/

Here’s a brief excerpt from Carlos Ordóñez’ poem “La Fiebre,” The Fever, straight from the heart (with the best I can do, translating it):

Hace frío en el pañuelo de sal
que una madre empapa en el cálix de la esperanza.

Hace frío en la orfandad
de una mano carcomida por el fuego de la penuria.

Hace frío en ese sueño
de profundo carnesí del que ningún inmortal volvió.

(It gets cold where a mother dips a rag of salt in a chalice of hope.

It’s cold when an orphaned hand is shredded by the fires of misery.

It’s cold in that blood-red dream where no spirit has found its way back.)

Love, Miguel