ESTA ES SU CASA--MARCH 2012
Go to the light! https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/11400/dulick_021712
HEARTS ON FIRE
"Honduras is the most murderous country in the world, ravaged by violent street gangs, rampant police corruption, dysfunctional courts and brutal drug cartels." (AP News)
I switched my mode to calm, as I had been taught way back when I had to handle emergencies at Holiday Valley swimming pool, but my fingers were trembling as I got on the Internet to look through the preliminary list of the dead published by the newspaper. It went by cellblock. “He was in Number 6.” According to reports, that’s where the fire started! Over a fight for a mattress. But Julian Dominguez Rodriguez was NOT on the list of 98 dead, the most for any cellblock. Maria was hardly relieved, and by the next morning she couldn’t take it anymore. “I have to go. Everybody’s telling me I have to go.” She asked for a “loan.”
So horrible a story (http://news.yahoo.com/many-300-killed-honduras-prison-fire-221239375.html) broke through the red-carpet gaffes of celebrities on Yahoo News and the posturing of presidential candidates on Drudgereport, and you would think the whole world would catch its breath at the sheer scale of the tragedy--the crime!--bodies melted into each other, fused to cell bars, shot by panicking guards who “couldn’t find” the keys, a young neighbor’s iPhone recording the screams from a hundred yards away, Honduras, the shame of the world. But did you see any of the “comments” left by readers? Check it out:
--”Looks like they were just cleaning house.”
--”Burn the whole country! LOL
--”Too bad some innocents got crisped, but as long as the majority were gang-bangers, I say good riddance to bad rubbish. Clean the vermin by any means necessary! Bravo!”
--”They should do that in every prison!”
--”No pity here. No big loss, the #$%$ of the human race just lost a few. Too bad more didn’t burn to hell. Just think of the money saved not feeding them anymore.”
--”Time for a second fire.”
--”I only wish the entire prison would have burned to the ground. Oh well, good start :)”
That last one came from someone in Aspen, Colorado. Probably runs a film festival. Why do news sources even indulge our narcissism by inviting such comments? The display of depravity is as depressing as the news itself.
On the other hand, the “cleaning house” theory is a likely one, since the same thing has happened twice before, when Honduran prisons have burned off their overcrowded inmates like a farmer burning off last year’s growth for a new planting. Another, more complicated theory, again with the guards’ heftily bribed compliance, is a fire to cover up a general break-out. If so, the guards may have double-crossed the gangs by setting so voracious a blaze that no one could escape. Whatever, I am sick.
You know what? I didn’t even know about the fire, till your emails came pouring in. Sheila Merrell, former librarian at Parkway North, was first: “Condolences for families of prisoners.” What? I was on the bus, coming home from Morazan. I read the email on my little cell phone. Then another, and another. Once back in Las Vegas, I could watch developments on TV, which, unlike U.S. telecasting, does not hide a thing. Everybody (every BODY!) gets their close-up.
But I had been a lot farther away than Morazan. When Christy Tharenos asked me to marry her, in Mexico, I hesitated only a moment or two. OK, I wasn’t the groom! “Marry” meant officiate at her wedding to Ben Gerber! They had already had a “civil ceremony” in about the least romantic setting you can imagine; a magistrate’s office that shared space with a “Breathalyzer Test Center.” So the Mexico wedding, scheduled for February 12, would be the “real” version, the “sacrament,” as Christy herself called it, in one of the loveliest spots on the planet, in fact, a “pueblo magico” called Tepoztlan.
Christy, who had been my student at Parkway North, and dear friend ever since, discovered “Tepoz” during medical brigades that she had joined. She became friends with Helena and David Luhnow, who offered their home for the wedding. The guest list would not be extensive, about 20 family and friends, an intimate affair. Christy would pay for my ticket. The trick, it turned out, was trying to order it! It took me about five tries over three days, an hour each time with my lame dial-up Internet, on the AeroMexico website. By the time I’d finally click “Purchase Ticket,” the message appears, “Your bank has not approved this transaction.” And this after calling the bank repeatedly and being assured, “Yes, sir, I’m putting a note in your file...” Finally, a wonderful man named Giddish (maybe in India, maybe in Indiana) said, “Stay on the line, and I’ll call AeroMexico myself.” Of course, none of the numbers worked, till I got a brilliant flash and gave him a number for the New York City office that I had seen on the website. Immediately, a wonderful woman named Laura, herself from Mexico, answered. “Yes, Mr. Dulick, I see your reservation right here.” Giddish told her to run the charge, which he then approved on the spot; she launched me the e-ticket, and I wished everyone a Good Day! Just like that. So, as I told Christy and Ben, it was meant to be.
But I did have my doubts when I saw the plane.... I watched it land at the San Pedro Sula airport, and from a distance it seemed normal, but as it made its way up to the terminal, it seemed to shrink to the size of a Cracker Jack toy. Not a lot of traffic, I guess, between Honduras and Mexico. From the air, Mexico City, home to 22 million souls, looked like an infinite jigsaw puzzle, every square foot occupied with hardly an open space. It was almost claustrophobic. Christy had told me to text her when I landed, and I had brought my GoPhone that I use in St. Louis because it’s ATT, which supposedly has an arrangement with a carrier in Mexico. Nothing. Dead air. But I left the phone “on,” in case, maybe, possibly, Christy could text me. Suddenly, after about two hours on the bus I had boarded heading south to Tepoztlan, I felt a buzz in my pocket. I grabbed the phone and flipped it open: “TELCEL” glowed on the screen. A connection had been made! I texted Christy, I texted St. Louis, I texted Honduras, I texted everybody!
At the hotel La Buena Vibra, set against a picturesque wall of mountains that jump straight out of the ground, mythically “carved” by native spirits, I met the other wedding guests. The next day was for exploring the town, so I joined Kristy Engle, a nurse missionary working in the Dominican Republic, and Corrine Shannon, a physical therapist from Chicago, for what was billed as a “quick” hike up to a mountain-top pyramid built at least a thousand years ago. Over two hours later, we straggled into the open air at the top.
I had been preparing my “remarks” for the wedding ever since Christy invited me, but I did not fully appreciate what she and Ben were asking of me till the rehearsal Saturday afternoon. Christy and I had been exchanging e-mails for a couple months, refining and designing the service. Each time, she would say how much she valued my input. Turns out she meant it! “And what do you think you will say here?” she gently asked at the run-through, about the exchange of rings, for example. Oh, I get it now, this really is a wedding! She and Ben needed me for the whole ceremony, not just a walk-on. So I searched my heart for the loveliest, most gracious, most prayerful words I could express.
Our host, David Luhnow, is chief Latin America correspondent for the The Wall Street Journal; flying below the radar, as it were, of the Journal’s crazy owner Rupert Murdoch, he reports on the reality of our life “down here.” And if the name Luhnow sounds familiar, David’s brother Jeff Luhnow was Vice President of the St. Louis Cardinals, 2003 through 2011, helping to stock the Redbirds with the winning combination of players for your World Series champions. The photographer that David and wife Helena invited for the wedding is a major artist whose stunning work has been published in National Geographic, Sebastian Belaustegui (www.photosuki.com). His next project just happens to be the Dominican Republic, where he has arranged to consult with Kristy for some prime sites of indigenous culture.
I was nervous about the wedding, but that’s nothing compared to my next assignment, home-schooling Chemo. You see, when I took Chemo to the school in early February to register him for 5th grade, they told me, no, he’s “too big.” Profe Flor, the principal, cited the “new law,” which excludes anyone 18 or over from grade school. Chemo will turn 18 in September. I had been joking that he’d be the only fifth-grader voting for president; now the joke was on me. His fourth-grade teacher Profe Juana Maria was there, too, all sweet and nice, you know, citing the “difficulty” when there’s a student who’s twice as old as everyone else. I felt like crying, so I was not going to cave without some defense: “You know, it’s not Chemo’s fault he didn’t start school till he was 13, and he’s passed every grade; doesn’t he have the right to finish up to sixth grade?” Well, no, blah, blah, blah, like the teacher in the “Peanuts” cartoons. If they don’t want him, how will they treat him if I “force” them to accept him? They’ll make sure he flunks! You know what, Chemo’s not “too big”; you are too small!
So I thanked them politely, grabbed Chemo, and flagged down the moto-taxi, now manned by Walter, who is all of 14. “Take us to Victoria!” We would register Chemo for Maestro en Casa, a sort of home-schooling program sponsored by the Catholic Church, specifically for poor teens and adults who still want a high-school education (7th, 8th, 9th grades), a GED, you might say. I’ve always been fascinated by this program, which has done so much good; I always wanted a closer look, and now I’ll get it! And I had just met David Suarez, the young man currently in charge in these parts, when he was in Las Vegas, registering applicants. Even then, I had a sort of intimation I might need him. They offer a pre-high-school course that combines fifth and sixth grades in one year; so if all goes well and Chemo passes, he’ll actually jump ahead of his former classmates. But it’s going to be a lot of work, for Chemo and for me!
That’s why I had stopped in Morazan on the way back from Mexico; I wanted to consult with Fermin and his brother-in-law Javier, who run the best Maestro en Casa program anywhere. Kids even come from Progreso two hours away every Saturday for classes. Chemo lit up--”I’ll just stay in Morazan!” Actually, I’d love that, too, but I did at least assure Fermin and Javier we’d be making frequent visits, especially when a big test is coming up. Everybody, even David Suarez, says the course is really “easy.” I hushed them, “Don’t say that! Don’t tell Chemo that! Tell him he’s really got to concentrate and apply himself!” And for Chemo it will be a challenge, despite the fact that the answers are in the back of the book...except math. (OMG!)
Maricela’s little Mariana Teresa (“Mari-Te”), 2, just got baptized February 3, along with about 10 other children, at an open-air celebration at the soccer field in Paraiso, where they were celebrating their annual feast in honor of the Virgin Mary in her Honduran patronage as Our Lady of Suyapa. Lovely day, which some potential rain clouds did not dare to spoil. But, not long afterwards, Mari-Te was all puffed up like a Cabbage Patch doll, and we feared the worst, since a little girl in Paraiso has been in treatment already for a couple years for the “same thing.” After repeated trips to doctors here in Las Vegas, Victoria, and Yoro, it just became inevitable that Maricela and Mari-Te would have to go to Tegucigalpa for some serious help. So off they went, with as much cash as I could muster. Things were going well, test after test narrowing down the diagnosis. But Maricela always seems to find herself in Tegus at the “wrong” time. This time she was minding the baby daily in the hospital just as the charred, disfigured, putrefying bodies from the Comayagua jail fire began arriving for autopsies, hundreds of them, overwhelming the totally inadequate morgue. They had to pile them up in their body bags outside in the heat, where family members started opening the sacks looking for their loved ones. The penetrating stench was overwhelming. Maricela was alarmed for Mari-Te, who hardly needed any more setbacks. Finally, a kidney problem was diagnosed and they got out of there as fast as they could. Back home now in Las Vegas, Mari-Te is guzzling Prednisone and calcium tablets the size of her thumb three times a day. We just hope medication will stabilize her condition and nothing more drastic will be required. If she ends up needing dialysis...!
It was close, but I made it back from Mexico and Morazan and all my travels in time for Beto’s birthday! Turning 29. Try to describe a birthday cake for a blind person...fortunately, Beto is getting used to our efforts since we started making a big deal of his big day a few years ago. I called in advance to his neighbor Carlota, who makes cakes every bit as good as Lake Forest used to in St. Louis, and we loaded up Walter’s moto-taxi like a clown car and headed to La Catorce. We surprised Beto, because I had warned him I might not be back from my travels. So we waited while he “washed up,” and rounded up kids all around to celebrate. Beto may be blind, but his taste is no doubt enhanced. He ate three big slices of Carlota’s masterpiece.
Celebrate life! In all its wonder! I don’t care if it’s Lent--every day is someone’s birthday!
Love, Miguel
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