ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2012

ESTA ES SU CASA--DECEMBER 2012

FINISH LINE

Is it possible that, despite everything, including skipping class any time I was in St. Louis--a total of almost 3 months out of the past 6--Chemo might still score a sixth-grade diploma? We should have known by now, since school’s out all over the country, but, graciously, Chemo’s teacher David offered to give Chemo extra classes, basically until he is dragged across the finish line. The classes are in my house, which is quite nice, and the subject is math, which is a deal-breaker. Gives me hives. But for Chemo, I’ll even do long division--with decimals!

At Mass the other day, Padre Manuel lowered the boom on Santa Claus, a “gringo” invention of Coca-Cola advertising, he said. I think that might be the first time I’ve heard someone in his position tell parents, “Don’t tell your children there’s a Santa Claus.” And of course there are kids all over the church. Christmas trees and lights feed the same “myth,” namely, gimme, gimme, gimme. Sorry, Virginia! Now, this is the same Padre Manuel who said, when some poor parishioner asked him why he didn’t talk more about Heaven, “I’ve never been to Heaven, I can’t talk about some place I’ve never seen.” A dash of cold water, just when we’re gearing up for the Posadas, nine nights of visits to homes, like Mary and Joseph looking for lodging in Bethlehem. We sing carols outside till the family flings the door open and turns on the lights and tree to welcome us in, a burst of Christmas as Dickens portrays it in “A Christmas Carol.” But Padre Manuel is simply reminding us of the gospel’s constant theme: the turn to our neighbor, especially the poor, exactly the image of the wretched children Ignorance and Want that the Spirit of Christmas reveals to Scrooge for his conversion.

That’s why Padre Manuel said he wanted to start a holiday tradition here that they have in El Salvador, a big Mass of Thanksgiving. Nothing is abstract for Padre Manuel; by “thanksgiving,” he meant the equivalent of a canned-food drive. Of course, most of our food is not in cans, so folks brought sacks of corn, rice, beans, coffee, flour--I brought 20 pounds of sugar. I guess you could say we played Santa Claus.

The biggest Mass of the year was Confirmation, 52 kids marking their passage to adult faith, including Dionis, Chemo’s cousin, receiving the sacrament from the Bishop of Yoro, Juan Luis. We’re so proud of Dionis (pronounced ‘Johnny,’ in case you forgot!); somehow he has gotten this far against all odds. He’s just 16; Chemo is 18 and he hasn’t even made his First Communion (more classes he missed while I was away).

We were just starting the novenario for Romelia, whose death I noted last month, when tragedy struck again. Romelia’s death was sad enough, at 54, but Carlos Antonio (“Lota”) collapsed and died of a heart attack at only 32! The news spread like a whip, including on FACEBOOK among expatriates in the States, folks grasping for words and reasons. His life touched everyone in town, since he was president of the local soccer club, so the whole team became his pallbearers, taking turns from a gathering in the middle of the soccer field all the way to the cemetery, instead of the usual pick-up truck. Lightning strikes like this chill me to the bone, reminding me of Chemo’s likely fate if he had not gotten his heart surgery.

Irene, Pablito and Chepito’s mother, got an early warning from María, the nurse who works in the local clinic. With all due discretion, María called me to see if I could help follow up some concerns she had about certain “woman problems” Irene was having. Both Pablito and Chepito pled ignorance, but I did take Irene to Dr. Karen Carrión in Victoria, who prescribed some pretty powerful meds--including a dose for Irene’s husband León, the town drunk, who probably infected her in the first place. The results of a pap smear will not come for weeks or even a month, perhaps, since they only send them up to a lab in Yoro when they have accumulated about a dozen tests. But, to tell the truth, cancer is a possibility, the doctor says.

They say the “Latino” vote put Obama over the top in the recent election. Maybe, but I’m not so sure that Jeremías would have endorsed the President. He was rotting in a Texas jail for illegals for the past seven months. Of course, none of us here in Las Vegas had any idea, including his wife, who gave birth to a baby boy while he was away. When I took Irene to Victoria, there was a letter at the post office waiting for me. I check frequently, so it must have just arrived, but it was dated September. It was sent to me, but it was for his parents, a long apology for his stupidities and lack of respect and indifference to his wife and two “girls” and a pledge to do better if he ever gets out. So I trudged to the edge of town where his parents live, to give them the bad news; but, as I approached the house, there sat Jeremías himself, shrunk and defenseless, but smiling. “I just got back yesterday.” He met his son for the first time, and was already planning to get back on his feet. “I’m going to sell firewood, at least for starters.” I guess it’s not official “policy,” but there are some guards in those prison camps who abuse the immigrants, and so I apologized for my country. You know, Jeremías is no innocent; this was the third time he snuck into the States, despite the fact that his brother Marcos was cut in half by a train some years ago when he fell off a boxcar. What you do to survive, let’s not even discuss.

I felt like I was on death row myself, as I waited forever for Chemo to finish his math test the other day. I sat just outside of his view, as his teacher David huddled nearby. I can only assume David was giving him just a little help, or that the power of prayer is really infinite, because CHEMO PASSED WITH 100%! We have two more tests to go. But we  can’t have come this far for nothing; the mere fact that David is actually cutting into his vacation time means, I think, that Chemo will get his ruby slippers.

Of course, Chemo is not the only one who has trouble with math. When I asked little Mariana Teresa how old she was going to be on her birthday, she held up two fingers and said, “Eight.” Her birthday cake said “3,” so that’s what we’re going with. She’s so special because her parents named her for my sister Mary Anne, who died in 2009, and Teresa Jorgen, who has been so good to their family.

Folks are heading to the hills, to “cut” coffee. They’ll be gone for months, most of them. For a lot of people, it’s their major income of the year. Dionis’ family has already taken off, though he stayed behind with his mother Natalia. Chemo and I will be eating supper over there soon, once our usual dinner-date, Santos and Alba and their kids, head out next week. I would love to go, just for the adventure of it--probably for about half a day. I mean, this coffee picking is tedious work, and the pay? A day’s work for what they charge at Starbuck’s for a “grande.”

Have a wonderful Holiday Season! You always convince me that, yes, there is a Santa Claus!

Love, Miguel