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