ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

ESTA ES SU CASA--FEBRUARY 2011

I’ve Seen the “Light”!

The Beacon, to be precise. “Letters from Honduras” is now a monthly feature in The Beacon (stlbeacon.org), a fresh and friendly alternative to the Post-Dispatch, staffed by some of the Post’s best writers, including Dale Singer, whose wife Merle has long encouraged me to get “published,” ever since we were colleagues at Parkway North High
School.

Two articles have already appeared:

1) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/106723-miguel-dulick-talks-about-how-he- came-to-live-in-hondurs

2) http://www.stlbeacon.org/voices/in-the-news/107674-honduras-at-christmas-2010

The first is a sort of introduction to my life in Honduras; the second is excerpted from the January ESTA ES SU CASA. And now I know why writers thank their editors. Donna Korando has a real heart for Honduras, and I have to say I had tears in my eyes when I saw the latest “Letter,” even though I wrote it, so lovely was the presentation. And there’s another Parkway connection. Brian Marston (class of ‘91) recently joined The Beacon as “Web Developer,” so you know any technical issues are in good hands. And of course Brian came with me to Honduras the summer of ‘94.

If you do click on, go ahead and subscribe to The Beacon. It’s fast, and it’s free!

The Christmas holidays over, Chemo, his brother Marcos, and I headed for Tegucigalpa to renew my Honduran residency visa and to send Marcos back home to Tocoa. We knew the bus out of Victoria would be super crowded, so we got up real early and managed to catch a ride from Las Vegas on a pickup loaded with big coolers of fish caught in the lake up in the mountains of El Zapote. Judging by the smell, I’m not sure how fresh the fish actually were, but we loved the ride because we got to Victoria just as Reyes was pulling his big bus out of the yard. A group had already gathered. “Go ahead and get on, folks, no problem.” So we all got seats, but by the time the bus left 45 minutes later, there were people standing in the aisle. And we stuffed more riders in all along the route.

As crowded as the bus was, nevertheless I kept testing my little Internet modem on my MacBook squeezed on my lap, and it never worked. It had stopped working in Las Vegas, and I assumed the signal had weakened or something. But now I had to conclude, the signal can’t be bad over half the country, it’s gotta be the modem after all. But I had just bought this modem last May--and they’re not cheap!

In Tegucigalpa we had to make three trips to Migración to get my visa, and the office is a long, expensive cab ride away on the outskirts of town. First, it was still closed for the holidays, and then they sent me back twice to the bank to get just the right wording on the “Constancia” that declares I have faithfully “converted” (not “changed,” not “exchanged”) at least one thousand dollars every month into the “moneda nacional,” that is, Lempiras. Of course, I had it easy compared to the long lines of folks trying to get (Honduran) passports. The government had just announced that they were rationing appointments all the way till March or April because they’d run out of the little booklets. Except for “emergencies”--so EVERYBODY has an emergency.

Next was my driver’s license. Now, this is something I get only for use in St. Louis, when Teresa Jorgen lets me borrow her car. It says “International” right on it, but fortunately I’ve never had to actually show it to a cop, who would probably handcuff me on the spot. I mean, to the untrained eye, it doesn’t look “real,” you might say. It’s no fun taking Chemo and Marcos to the big city, only to stand in lines. But for the license, the best advice was, get there early (by 6:00 a.m.), because their materials are rationed, too. They only issue about 200 licenses a day. So I crept out of the hotel before dawn, leaving the boys fast asleep, and I asked Angelica, who was already setting up her candy and snack cart out front, to keep an eye out for them when they came down for breakfast.

First, you get an eye test. “Read the smallest line you can on the chart.” Without my glasses, “What chart?” Things moved pretty quickly after that, especially since I was the first in line! and so I was out of there and back to the hotel before Chemo and Marcos had even waked up.

We had a few other items on the agenda: the new modem, of course, but also to celebrate Mema’s birthday. So we invited her and Elio to lunch at their favorite restaurant, Mirawa. We even got her a little cake at the mall. Nobody said anything, but it was exactly two years ago that Mema celebrated her last really “happy” birthday, just before she and Elio had to abandon their house and livelihood (a little supermarket) to escape death threats from a mafia gang demanding extortion. This little party at Mirawa was one of the happiest times I have seen Mema since then. Most people like to relax after a life of hard work, but Elio and Mema loved keeping busy and have had nothing but health problems since their enforced “retirement.” And I appreciate their counseling Chemo and Marcos on the virtues of school, hard work, and sociability.

Speaking of social, I thought a look-see at a new mall would be just a courtesy call. “NovaCentro” is a weird thing, a mostly vertical mall hidden behind an office building; we didn’t even notice it till a cab took us down an alley for a shortcut back to our hotel. So we checked it out, riding the escalators up one level at a time. Just a thicket of boutiques, you know, those gaudy eyesores that cater to the hip and rich who, in a country as poor as Honduras, seem an absurdity, if not an outrage. Up and up we went, just marking time, I thought, till we could get out of there and go to Pizza Hut for supper with some kids from Las Vegas who work in Tegus. Suddenly, at the top, something was different. The escalator drew us into a cave-like darkness broken up by flashing lights, loud noises, carnival music. Oh no! We had reached The Game Level. I would have grabbed the boys and run, but the escalator would not stop; it delivered us right into the middle of it. And there, right there, a spacious rink of Dodge-‘em cars. Chemo and Marcos lit up like Roman candles. Nirvana! They could barely believe their eyes. They even got me in on one round, something I hadn’t done in 50 years. Oh, sure, it was fun and I didn’t begrudge them that, but how long would the money hold out? “Again!” “Another!” “One more time!”

If I spoil Chemo, it’s only because he’s alive! Chemo got his life-saving heart operation in September 2008. And now look at him--ramming dodge-’em cars without a care in the world! So, another “appointment” we had was to check in with Ron Roll and the latest “brigada” of doctors and nurses from the U.S. who had come to perform open-heart surgeries on about 22 little boys and girls. Sponsored by Helping Hands for Honduras (http://handsforhonduras.org/), they come four times a year. Ron moved the brigada this time to San Felipe Hospital, a quiet, park-like facility specializing in recuperation therapies, more serene than the busy, stressful hospital where Chemo was operated on. We wanted to see Dr. Christian Gilbert, too, who helped Chemo’s big sister Rosa last year (fortunately, she could be treated with medication rather than surgery), but he was just starting his fourth operation of the day. Incredible! Just waiting four hours when Chemo was in surgery drained me of every physical, psychological, and spiritual resource I had, unknowing whether he would emerge alive or dead, and here was this wonderful doctor, this Christian, four little lives passing through his skilled and caring hands, in one day! When we spotted a couple pacing and looking anxious in the waiting room, we asked if it was their little girl in there. “Oh, yes.” Chemo immediately whipped up his shirt to show them his scar. “Don’t you worry--she’s gonna be just fine!”

We kept returning to the Dodge-’em cars, and it didn’t help that Wednesday was “double day,” when you get two rides for the price of one. Believe me, I didn’t spend any less, they just “dodged-’em” more. But, you know, it’s probably the last time Chemo and Marcos will be together till next Christmas, so what the heck? Although, they did start complaining about headaches....

Nevertheless, early Thursday morning we dispatched Marcos to Tocoa on the Mirna Bus, a “direct” route, if you can call it that, winding its way through the middle of the country, up to San Pedro, then along the coast to the far north-east, a nine- or ten-hour trip, but all on pavement in a grand, Mercedes Benz-manufactured coach. Meanwhile, Chemo and I climbed aboard our rattletrap old yellow school bus for the trip back to Victoria/Las Vegas, sort of a moto-cross route through the backwoods and mountains, scenic enough but a real shake-down. We kept in constant contact with Marcos via cellphone, in case there would be any problems. Half the time he’d answer the phone with, “I was asleep.” Oops, just being cautious... We got home hours before he did, but Rosa greeted him with a hot meal, so we were all relieved.

It wasn’t till we got back that I finally realized what had really happened a few days before Christmas over in La Catorce, about a mile from Las Vegas. This is one of those rare times, I suppose, when my little horror story pales in comparison to your tragedy, the massacre in Tucson. That violence seemed to come from another world, as the news filtered down here, second-hand, unseen, untorniqueted, as it were, by a brush-fire of commentary fanned by un-facts. But our violence was confusing, too, as snippets about a shooting got pieced together. Two shot. Men? teens? boys?--attempting to rob a soda-delivery truck about 10:30 at night, December 20. Attempting to rob a truck...with machetes? is that possible? when the drivers have guns...? One dead, one badly injured, probably going to lose his arm. For some reason, I couldn’t get the names straight, till I finally heard “Olvin.” It was Beto, the blind boy from La Catorce, who was telling me some of this, and when I anxiously wondered if it was an Olvin I knew, Beto said there were two Olvins in La Catorce. And, being BLIND, he could not identify him from a picture I had in one of my photobooks. Finally, someone came by who could say, yes, that’s Olvin, in the photo, that’s him, the one who was wounded. And a “Marvin” Zelaya was the dead one--at least that’s what I thought I heard. Never heard of him.

Olvin and his best friend Selvin used to come to visit me on Sundays, along with Beto. But I hadn’t seen them recently; in fact, the last photo I had of Olvin was from 2005. But I printed it out, and went to La Catorce the next day. Despite the years, I recognized Olvin right away, but he did look somehow harder now than the little boy I first knew. His arm was bandaged like a mattress. He had almost lost it, his left; the bullet had shattered the bones, but they pieced things back together with a couple nails, or pins, at the Yoro Hospital and dozens of inner and outer stitches. The Hospital is expecting payment of 25,000 Lempiras, which is crazy, isn’t it? It’s a public hospital, half the stuff they see is gun shots. They charge for that?. Nothing was said about the robbery, or whether it was some kind of tragic mistake, wrong place, wrong time kind of thing. Making conversation, I ask, “How’s your pal Selvin?” Olvin looked at me as if I was holding the gun now. “He’s dead, he’s who was killed.” Shot three times in the back, while Olvin played dead. Oh, my God, no! How stupid, stupid am I? SELVIN Zelaya! Not “Marvin.” I instantly saw his broad, earthy face in my mind, because I had a picture of him, too. I turned to Beto, who was accompanying me, “We have to see his mother.”

But first I read Psalm 20, a prayer full of wishes, for Olvin from a prayerbook I had with me. I asked him what he did all day. Nothing. But you can read, right? So I promised I’d bring him a Bible, to pass the time.

I was surely nervous about visiting Selvin’s mom, Domatila, or Tila for short. What could I possibly say? Psalm 20 wasn’t gonna cut it. I sort of wondered if she blamed Olvin for her son’s death, or was maybe resentful that Olvin escaped and Selvin did not. But she was very gracious and fixed us coffee, though the loss is etched in her face. Hoping in the darkness, I feebly promised her a Bible, too.

Right now, no face is dearer than Petrona’s. Having already lost one leg to diabetes, she is waiting for what she calls her “journey.” It may not be long; she is in constant pain. Folks visit her a lot, first of all, because she has so much family, but even more because she is such a saintly presence. Her daughter Telma takes good care of her, but it’s hard. So we go and give what comfort we can to them both, and in turn draw deep from their wellspring of faith. She is Beto’s aunt, so we go each Sunday, just across the river in Paraíso. Last time, I had my camera. Stung by the “lost years” of any pictures of Selvin and Olvin, I thought, when the time comes, the family will want a remembrance. I aimed the camera right at her face, her eyes now blind. “Petrona, I’m taking your picture.” “Yes, I know.”

My best friend Fermin, who lives in Morazán, had told us, I hope we see you again before school starts. Chemo was all in favor of it, too. So we left one Monday morning, and Chemo was already telling everyone, “We’re not coming back till Saturday.” I was thinking maybe Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. But once we got to Morazán, we were on vacation. We had pizza, we had Chinese, we had loads of Maria’s fabulous foods, and every night Fermin would say, “Miguel, one more day, stay one more day, it’s vacation! Tomorrow we’ll....” ... go to visit his 22-year-old daughter Arlin and husband Freddy in nearby La Cruz, for a sweet evening that included the full moon. Or, we’ll go swimming at the hot springs park near Morazán. So we stayed, and stayed, and didn’t come back till Saturday, just like Chemo said.

Back from vacation, I did take the bibles to Olvin and Tila. Tila was nothing but thanks; she held it like a treasure. “This is good, this is so good.” And she made us sit and stay, she sent off her little girl to fetch some sweet rolls at the store while she made a fresh pot of coffee. Olvin read Psalm 20 for himself, rather haltingly; he quit school after sixth grade--I guess he’ll improve with practice.

Psalm 20

May the Lord answer you in time of trial;
may the name of the God of Jacob protect you.

May the Lord send you help from the holy shrine
and give you support from Zion.
May the Lord remember all your offerings
and receive your sacrifice with favor.

May the Lord grant you your heart’s desire
and fulfill every one of your plans.
May we ring out our joy at your victory
and rejoice in the name of our God.
May the Lord grant all your prayers.

I am sure now, O Lord,
that you will give victory to your anointed one,
and will answer from your holy heaven
with a mighty victory of your arm.

Some trust in chariots or horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord.
Others will collapse and fall,
but we will hold and stand firm.

Give the victory to your servant, O Lord.
Answer us on the day we call!

A contemporary version of the same message can be found in a “speech” by Mark Tychonievich, longtime Latin teacher and coach at St. Louis U. High School. He recently died of the cancer he had been battling for years, but not before he recorded a thank-you to his students. My cousin Tim McKernan hosts a pretty crazy sports talk show on AM 590 in St. Louis, but he got serious one morning in tribute to “Coach T”:

http://www.insidestl.com/insideSTLcom/McKernan/tabid/61/articleType/ArticleView/articleId/5897/Remembering-Mark-Tychonievich.aspx

You know, when I saw that gorgeous full moon in January, I realized what short shrift I had given the last one, in December, the one with the eclipse. I seemed to scorn it in my last CASA, forgetting, I guess, that the moon, since my very first night in Honduras in 1977, has always been the link between me and you, the celestial Internet, as it were. We see it rise and wax and wane and shine together, the same familiar face that beams our affection from here to there and back again. So pardon my ingratitude, and keep us in view. It was particularly appropriate to enjoy the full moon at Arlin’s house. Years ago, when she was about 5 or something, the moon rose high behind Fermin’s house one night while I was sitting out front on the curb. Fermin tells Arlin, “Go tell Miguel the moon is out.” She runs through the house and out the front door. “Miguel! Daddy says look at the--oh! but there’s one on this side, too!”

May the moon’s light be always at your back--and your front.

Love, Miguel