ESTA ES SU CASA--OCTOBER 2012
NOW YOU ARE A MAN, MY (FORMER) SON
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/26880/honduras_letter_class_090512
Chemo’s cardio-cath is now scheduled for some time after October 13, when the Brigada arrives for a two-week visit. I’m still nervous about any “intervention,” so please roll out the prayers and best wishes in advance. When it happens, I will send updates, rather than waiting till the next CASA in November.
Meanwhile, Chemo turned 18 on Sunday, September 9, so on Monday we caught the first bus to Victoria to claim his official I.D. at the local office of the National Registry of Persons. He’s come a long way since I first met him in 2006. I was so proud of him, but wondered at my own status, since Chemo’s “majority” means I lose my parental role as his foster-father. I apparently did a little too much thinking out loud, since he kept asking me if he had to move out. I kept re-assuring him--and myself--that our relationship was the same as ever, even closer, best of friends. But it’s a good thing I don’t have to pass any inspection, since I’m just barely qualified as “responsible.”
We had just made our bi-monthly visit to Morazan, where Fermin and María, and the kids, always look for an excuse to keep us “one more day.” This time they made an offer we could not refuse, a birthday party for Chemo! I helped María with the shopping, four different kinds of meat for barbecuing, including two types of sausages, but no cake, since Chemo said he really doesn’t like cake. Who knew? So we had watermelon.
“The kids” include Eduard, who had “class” with Chemo, to work through some more of his Maestro en Casa homework. Eduard has the magic touch, Chemo never gets bored. And Esly, 17, whose photo still graces the staircase by the Parkway North High library, has her own radio show now, and wished Chemo “Feliz Cumpleaños” every hour on the hour. Arlin, 25, teacher (principal!), wife, and now mother, may not qualify as a “kid,” but Chemo’s party was the perfect opportunity to introduce little Fredi Jr. to us. He’s about the age that I first met Arlin when she was a newborn. Cycle of life!
Back in Las Vegas, Chemo got a little taste of “work” when Elvis invited him to do some woodworking with him. That lasted only a couple days, so I guess we’re not talking a career yet. But we do have to think about the future. It’s scarier than any surgery. And you can’t duck the issue the way the Honduran newspapers are, taking umbrage at the “miscalculation” of the country’s reputation for violence. Seems a United Nations office based their “slander” on a population of 7.8 million when the “real” number is 8.3 million. The U.N. and Honduras agree on the awful number of murders, but, you see, the AVERAGE is more favorable to Honduras’ good name if it’s only 77 per hundred thousand as opposed to 82 per hundred thousand. Enticing, huh? Come on down! The dirty little secret is that Honduras includes the million citizens living in the U.S.A. in its “official” population. Suffice it to say, Chemo’s--and everyone else in Honduras--chances of a violent death increase with each passing day.
But you can’t live like a mope. Life is for the living! Several events marked our faith in a hopeful future.
A convocation of all the Legions of Mary in the area, dedicated to service of the poor, especially elderly and shut-ins, celebrated their annual “open air” event by the river, Padre Manuel offering the Mass, with an abundance of song and socializing and good food and drink.
And Marcos, Chemo’s cousin, finally put a roof on his little house. They’ve had a hard time keeping the rains from melting the adobe walls, but I was waiting till I got a little extra money to help buy the zinc. They only needed 10 panels, and I really never have any “extra” money, but when Marcos finally asked, I couldn’t say no. “I’ll pay you back, Miguel, I promise, when I get some extra money.” Sounds like we’re both in the same boat! Anyway, it was fun to watch them “raising the roof” with their neighbor and expert builder Julio Barahona’s help. Marcos and Dania’s tiny kids--Beatriz, Lindolfito, and Daguito--were actually squealing and dancing around, they were so excited--for a tin roof! I provided refreshments and Natalia, Marcos’s mom, fixed breakfast for the gang.
I don’t know where they got the extra money, but my neighbor’s Jocelyn’s parents went all out for her 15th birthday, the traditional Quinceañera, a girl’s social debut. They invited me to the sit-down dinner and dance in the salón, and asked to borrow my chairs. They even arranged with Padre Jaime for a special Mass, which he graciously celebrated, including having Jocelyn, who is very active in the Youth Group, lead the Psalm reading: “I will walk in the ways of the Lord.” Jocelyn’s violet gown (matching all the decorations at the party) liked like a Rose Bowl float, so elaborate it was. Hope, and beauty.
Celebrating Honduran Independence Day (September 15, 1821) is nothing but hope! Instead of a parade this year, the school organized a “Noche Cultural,” a sort of “Las Vegas Has Talent.” It was fun, and a big crowd packed the salón, cheering and applauding their favorite acts. And there were plenty of performances to choose from, 55 in all!
Another kind of anniversary celebrated the memory of Teofilo Gutierrez and Isidro Velasquez, who were brutally murdered in the tiny community La Cuatro, just up the road, on September 16, 2003. The little village grew out of nothing, when a group, led by Teofilo and Isidro, quietly “invaded” the plot of ground that had been legally ceded to them by the government, provoking the violent attacks by the former “owners,” some 1-per-centers of Victoria. They hired the killers that tortured and dismembered the victims that the community immediately named “Martyrs.” When I arrived amidst a downpour about 6:00 p.m., I was amazed to find the little church ablaze, with electric lights, I mean! “When did you get electricity here?” I gasped. “Two days ago!” came the answer. But only in the church. This is a poor, I’m talkin’ dirt poor, community, so anyone installing lights in their own house will require some “outside” help, like a cousin or someone slaving away in the United States who can send a few bucks down. But so rich in faith--and hope. Kako recounted the history of the community, up to the most recent milestone, the passing of Paulino on August 8, a champion of the campesino his whole life, arrested, jailed, beaten innumerable times, but never beaten down. I took, I guess, the last picture of Paulino, couched fitfully in a hammock, attended by his father and sister, just before I headed up to the States for my brother John’s death in July. Paulino was 66, pretty young as far as I’m concerned, considering I turn 64 this October.
I guess I would be way too cynical to see Issa’s death as a sign of “hope.” I don’t know how to feel, actually. She owned three “depositos,” or liquor stores, the original one in Victoria, then she branched out to Las Vegas, and ultimately to the town of Altamira, up in the mountains. Morbidly obese, she seemed to embody the excesses she poisoned us with. Leon, Pablito and Chepito’s dad, was a frequent customer, wasting every little wage he might get on a liter of “guaro.” And so many others, including fathers from neighboring villages who brought their little sons along to load up a mule or donkey with cases of the stuff, to sell back home. Sunday was usually the busiest day, the corner park littered with men and teens too drunk to move. How does a woman, and a mother, do this, knowing that the real victims of her profit were the wives and children of the men she was destroying? Our little Alcoholics Anonymous could hardly compete. A man would join the group, and a weekend later, be back in the gutter. Not until her death did I learn Issa was diabetic, so she was fighting her own demons. With the deposito closed, I breathed a deep sigh of relief, till I noticed a brand-new one, just a hole in the wall, you might say, on the same block. Easy come, easy come again. OK, I hope Issa is at peace; I pray that she had some time at the end to turn her heart to the one A.A. calls “Poder Superior,” the Higher Power.
But can God forgive us for “City Mall”? It’s the biggest mall in Central America, just opened in Tegucigalpa. Talk about excesses! You could fit our whole town inside its shiny walls. It’s a money-laundering tribute to our crucial position in the drug transfer from South to North. Reefer madness! A million Issas. But addicts can be confident of their investment--there’s a Popeye’s there, I see from the photos. Maybe Chemo and I will visit, just to say we did, but it’s a long cab ride from our little hotel, practically to the airport, a whole mess of traffic, so just getting there will be expensive.
I’m still hopeful Chemo will make his First Communion. When I accompanied him to his catechism class Wednesday afternoon, his very nice teacher Luisa said it’s the first time he’d come since June! “I even took his name off the list!” Seems that Chemo had taken advantage of my two emergency trips to the States, to drop out. So I just stayed and was as pleasant as possible; Luisa even asked me to do the opening prayer. Chemo, for his part, even answered a question. I didn’t ask Luisa for any favors or special treatment, though if Chemo has to repeat the class next year, he’ll be making his First Communion about the age most people get married! The majority of the kids are 8 or 9 years old. No wonder he’s reluctant. But I would love to bequeath him this legacy of our faith. You know, Catholics consider Communion a miracle; can you really “prepare” yourself for that? And a mystery. A few classes can “explain” it? Most adults can hardly appreciate its magnitude. I’ve known two priests who maybe had a special glimpse of the Real Presence; they would actually cry at Mass. So I’ll know Chemo is a man, when he cries like a baby.
Love, Miguel
